Author: Regala Electra
Spoilers: Set Post-S2 All Hell Breaks Loose
Pairing: dash of implied Sam/Dean
Warnings: Dean dancing, an Evil Kimono, tighty-whities, allegations of hot gay assthumping wincest (that may or may not be true)
Summary: The Winchester boys find themselves in a doozy of a situation thanks to a clever (and very dead) water-witch, a previous encounter with underpants gnomes, and the Evil Curse of Kimono.
Word Count: 5,034
Author’s Notes: Written for the spn_50states challenge, my state was Texas. I’d like to thank the random decision of either the director, scriptwriter, and of course Jensen Ackles, to have him do a random dance in a robe in the miniseries Blonde. Oddly enough, this is a story I’ve been wanting to tell for ages and all it took was some crazy ass weather in Texas to give me a plausible reason to get Dean in a kimono. Because I need logic to have Dean in nothing but a robe and Sam in just his underwear. Oh yeah, there’s that too. ignited sorted through my insanity and the crackish nature of this story and for that, I will love her.
Additonal Note: This story is not technicially a sequel to The Jean Genie, but I did leave an opening in The Jean Genie refering to Dean dealing with a kimono, and uh, this is the kimono story. ;-)
Feedback is adored.
Ignore that there were witches and never-ending rains and a stroke of luck in the nick of time and all those other pithy ways of saying that once again, the Winchester boys saved the day by the skin of their teeth.
(There’s no skin on teeth anyway, and if you didn’t know that, well, now you do.)
Instead, here’s the part of the story where it gets interesting, where, after they’ve ransacked the witch’s lair (because there’s always a backup hex just lying around and you have the wrong person pick up the wrong cursed object, then you’re just leaving a heap of trouble, and no, you can’t just burn the house down, Sam has to explain that one to Dean several times and there’s no way he’s doing it again), Dean picks up a kimono, black with silly, frilly flowers all over the sleeves and back and he says to Sam, “Hey, this is weird, isn’t it?”
And before Sam can say, don’t pick it up, don’t put it to your nose to take a whiff of it, don’t, in the name of your unhealthy love of your car, put it on, Dean’s sliding a sleeve up over his shirt (jacket shucked off before, he’d gotten a heaping of exploded witch on ‘im and who knew water-witches were as green as the Wicked Witch inside? What matters is that Dean and Sam knew it took dry, dry heat to burn her out, nasty acid and fire do a witch all kinds of bad) and then there was dancing.
Oh yes, there’s dancing.
Before we get to the part where Dean’s in the full thrall of the curse (nasty things, curses, they don’t like to be broken and often ain’t gonna be solved with a neat little bow), maybe a little backstory on the whole water-witch deal is necessary.
Unless you’re just here to hear about poor Dean Winchester trapped inside a malevolent kimono that forces him to dance until there’s no life left in his bones, and that would be shallow and kind of sadistic. What with all the indirect nudity that occurs. It doesn’t start off that dull anyway, Sam features heavily, as he’s the one who realizes the weather in Texas is supernaturally linked.
Hmm, naked Dean forced to dance nonstop, do you think there will be some bump-and-grind action going on?
Personally, the problem of Dean being caught in this nasty witch’s curse is that fact that his prior dancing experience is the white man’s if I move side-to-side and nod a lot, I am totally dancing.
Sam will later rue the day (or rather, the misfortune) that the memory on his phone had been busted thanks to the damn flash flood they barely got through in chasing down the damn witch.
‘Course he wouldn’t know that until later when he tried to retrieve all the glorious pictures he took of Dean’s impromptu audition tape for So You Think You Can Dance?
Not like Sam would ever watch that kind of show. Really.
Here's how it goes. They're not looking to stop the floods, weather's weather, can't fight it with guns and cars and judicious use of firepower. No, what they're looking for is a water-witch, someone who doesn't start the torrential rain, but feeds off of it, gains in destruction, get it? She traffics in the leftover energy when the rain comes down, feasts off of it, and no, she doesn't have hairy ice-cold nipples, they're breasts, not teats, and she doesn't dance with Satan under a blood red moon.
Maybe there are moles, but they’ve been removed. Surgically. We do live in the 21st century and everything, who’s to say that a witch can’t visit a good doctor and have telltale signs of witchery removed?
And if she deals with demons, well, there's loads of wicked people out there that do the same, witches have no specific allegiance to one demon or another.
This one, she's fond of a particular chaos demon by the name of Pourobus ("Poor Bus?" "No, Dean, that's…sure. It's called Poor Bus."), nasty critter that found itself free thanks to a gateway opened in a graveyard, so the boys, yeah, they’re a bit dedicated and hauling ass before this situation gets worse. Sam thinks that he and Dean really need a new way of saying they’re so screwed, because Christ man, they’re, “Yeah,” Dean says, ”royally fucking screwed without even a courtesy finger-fuck.”
Dean does like to infuse colorful new additions to clichéd phrases.
Back to the witch, to the job, their new colossal fuckup: it's a matter of getting to her, stopping her from getting the necessary binding spells in place. ‘Cause if she locks the demon in place, forces it to become rooted deep in Texas, it’s like a bad wine stain on delicate white fabric (“Lace or somethin’?” Dean asks, because he figures lace and silk are the epitome of classy and hey, there’s a reason why girly sexy panties and thongs must be made out of that crazy stuff, right? That part, he doesn’t say out loud to Sam).
Because Sam remembers the Piano Bar Incident back when they had finished the case in Richardson last year, how they’d swung by Addison on Dean’s lame reasoning that they needed to see some dueling pianos, he agrees, saying, “Yes, it’s like getting a bad stain on lace. Speaking of lace, you remember when you’d dropped, that, what was it? Red-Headed, uh, drink, down that girl’s lacy shirt when you were trying to charm her other friend?”
Friend, sister, enemy, it could’ve been anyone and it had been an amazing sight, to see Dean thinking he was in the middle of a catfight and he’d been dreadfully, dreadfully wrong.
He still got laid that night though. But that’s Dean for you.
“Man, that was awesome. I got scratches down my chest and my back, y’know, later on that night. So yeah, we don’t want the demon to roost, so we’ve gotta kill the witch before she gets him locked and loaded.”
Yeah, the boys have themselves a mission, work to do and they’re ready, ‘cause once you get a demon rooted to the land, those fuckers are hard to get out.
Dean's words, not mine.
Oh, and it’s apparently very important to note that Sam’s hesitance over saying Red-Headed Sluts would lead to a lot of lovely ribbing up to and almost past Dean’s spectacularly idiotic decision to wriggle on a cursed kimono.
Next time they’re at a bar though, Dean knows exactly what drink he’s ordering for Sammy.
Look, there are two stories to be told here, one involves a water-witch, and the rains of Austin (may they ever break but not forever, amen, for think of droughts, the other spectrum of malevolent weather, which is sometimes, but not always, supernaturally wrought) and the other is a silly tale of a dancing man in a kimono, wearing naught but the kimono on his flesh.
I did mention that the kimono's powers, such as they are, rendered Dean with a compulsion to tear off his other layers of clothing until he wore nothing except for his birthday suit (a pity, the reveal of skin isn’t that naughty because Dean eventually manages to knot it around his waist, however there’s a blessed few seconds of irrefutable proof that he really doesn't have a tattoo).
Yes, there’s the kimono, he’s certainly wearing that, so he wasn’t completely naked. There is no gratuitous nudity in this tale. Not even Sam. Well, another digression is necessary to explain that little issue of what Sam’s wearing when Dean’s doing his dance of the flowing robe.
Perhaps I should begin at another point, the burning of the witch (yes, another BURN THE WITCH story, but if you've got another way to destroy a witch who, despite the green innards, is not at all like the Wicked Witch as she has no allergy to water, I'd like to hear it), which sadly led to the death of Sam's last clean pair of jeans.
(Thank you, Dean, for wisely choosing to spritz lighter fluid on your brother as well as the witch, but I'm afraid Sam isn't fireproof - nor, would Sam like to mention bulletproof, gas-proof, and other -proofs that involve bodily and/or mental harm).
This is a tragedy on Sam’s behalf as he’s sadly missing the necessary boxers (or boxer-briefs) that would have made it a trifle less embarrassing, instead he is pathetically revealed to have employed the choice selection of a pair of tighty-whities.
What’s worst is that they’re the cheap kind that do not flatter an ass that is surprisingly nice considering most of the time the Winchester clan spend sitting on their keesters, either in the Impala or out eating the best (and by best, I mean “questionable” of course) of roadside cuisine or embroiled in extreme investigating. Really, the best workout available to the working class seems to be fighting ghosts and monsters, you keep it up and you could bounce quarters off of everything.
(Dear me, perhaps the earlier beginnings of the story are necessary to recount: the thrilling adventure in Oklahoma and the Underpants Gnomes should be discussed. Ah, it is a most heroic tale of mischievous wee creatures who believed in Capitalism quite fiercely, but their tiny brains do not process that underpants cannot and will not ever equal profit. Hey, what do you mean I saw that in South Park?)
I’ve been derailed by the Underpants Gnomes; they do that sometimes.
All the time. Better check my dresser to make sure all my underwear’s still tossed about in messy rows – okay, fine, you want a story of a cursed kimono and an annoyed Sam in his skivvies? Yes, yes, I get it, I won’t stray (too far).
But don’t you dare disbelieve what I’m about to tell you, it’s all true, expect where it’s not.
It started with a fire, as most tales featuring Winchesters tend to begin, tragedy marked them with it. Oh, and fires tend to begin or end a Winchester tale due to their usual recourse of action when the boys are faced with a nasty beastie or spirit: set it on fire. The pyromaniac streak in Dean is most obvious, yet, when it comes the younger gianter (Ginormouser?) of the band of Winchester Brothers, it is not as clear if there’s a certain hidden delight in that first hot lick of flames to matter. For Sam’s had his life marked by two distinct tragedies ending in fire.
Still, his eyes do light up quite a bit when he strikes that match (yes, Dean, you were right in noticing it). It is said that when one is marked by fire, that person can never escape that deadly dance of flames. Woven into the devil’s dance of evil, you can fight it all you want, but you’re still drawn back onto the dance floor, following the ancient routines that have been there since before time got a notion in its head to start dawning.
Honestly, don’t call me pretentious or you’ll never get to hear about Dean dancing in that damnable kimono.
She doesn’t scream I’m melting mostly because she explodes in a nice grisly boom and really, the experience of that water-witch going marshmallow-in-a-microwave is quite succinctly stated by Dean. Ugh. Because witch goo is fucking hard to wash out, worse than blood, no doubt about that.
"Ugh," say Dean again, remembering that he’s on laundry duty this time around, thanks to the highly complicated scheduling that Sam had insisted after Dean had so generously volunteered Sam as Laundry Bitch some months ago after a nasty battle with some smelly-ass trolls.
Trolls, by definition, embrace a lack of hygiene, but I’m sure you already knew that one.
Dean’s brilliant estimation of what it feels like to be splattered in witch must be ignored as Sam has an important revelation that he would like to tell Dean most immediately.
He is gay. And then they had sex.
Sorry, sorry, just making sure I had your attention. No, no, it wasn’t an excuse to get out of an action sequence, this is all action, all the time, there will be dancing and a kimono in the heart of Austin, I swear.
Please, let me get back to the fact that Dean almost set his brother on fire. It’s kind of important.
Sam shouts, “Shit!” and then curses some more before saying, “Dammit, Dean.”
Being set on fire is never pleasant, especially when you don’t deserve it.
Turns out Dean got a little too happy with the lighter fluid.
So now our Heroes of the story, those wonderful Winchester boys, are forced to focus on something going awry with their simple let the motherfucker burn plan, making quick work of stopping a fire that Dean started (and really, Sam should know standard safety procedures). Brother Flambé is not on the menu tonight.
The Winchesters are not pieces of meat. It is important to remember this sometimes, even during a story of the boys in various states of undress. Now, let’s get back to getting Sam out of his fiery pants.
Sam stop-drop-roll out the flames on his jeans, lucky (which is the way a Winchester rolls, even if the only thing they got goin’ for them is bad luck) that he stops it in time before the heat gets a chance to burn his skin.
Don’t believe it, huh? That the story’s lost the plot, that there’s no way these boys could get a handle on a fire before that sick charred smell of skin hit the air, before Sam got some first-second-third degree burns as a consequence of recklessness?
(Sam can never forget that sick smell of burning flesh, human flesh, sometimes roils his stomach something fierce when he’s situated in a BBQ-type place, all meat all the time, sizzle of flesh making contact with heat, but it’s lessened by now, it’ll lessen every day, that’s how time rolls, bitch that she is. No problem feasting on it, doesn’t even register as dead flesh, just sometimes, he takes in a whiff of burning remains and he’s brought back to Stanford and that fire, because yeah, life’s a fucking rollercoaster, twisting on itself loop-de-loop, pivotal moments always keep on twisting right back on up.)
Well, it did happen, Sam’s left unblemished, and now let’s return to Sam standing up, inspecting his legs. Bare legs a long ways up, be-socked feet and then it’s naked skin, up until the place where thigh meets the pelvis, ass. Nothing’s left to the imagination, because as noted, Sam is in his tighty-whities thanks to the work of some Underpants Gnomes.
Thank you, Underpants Gnomes.
Dude, not even Dad wore those, Dean informs Sam, chuckling when Sam has to pull down his shirt as though that’ll give him his dignity back.
Dean’s probably got a random quote running through his head, old Simpsons episode, thinking of Homer Simpson opening the door in nothing but a grocery bag and explaining, his voice full of dignity, always dignity (and no, Dean’ll never admit that he’s seen Singin’ in the Rain or that he kind of thinks Gene Kelly’s got a Steve McQueen doing ballet kind of thing about him, dude, Dean doesn’t watch musicals, he’s a guy), “I have misplaced my pants.”
He says as much to Sam but Sam, staring down at the ruined remains of his last good blue jeans, the material covered in witch guts, the slightly burnt right leg cuff, only sniffs out, “Too bad I don’t fit into midget pants.”
Eyes narrow and perhaps a brotherly tussle breaks out (or something more, if you’re so inclined) but one of them does end up crying uncle and realization sets in, they have a plan and only half of it involved witch flambé.
“She would’ve had a booby trap, some sort of cursed object,” Sam reminds Dean, “We have to find where she stashed it and get rid of it.”
See? They know what they’re doing. Honestly. And people say sometimes they’re a little dim.
Then Dean gets the bright idea of putting on the strange kimono and well, this is what’s happening: Dean, dancing, in nothing but a kimono, unable to stop thanks to a wicked witch’s curse.
He’s lucky he’s the handsome one, because he certainly doesn’t have the brains of this operation.
Okay, it’s a bit more than just Dean’s compulsion to taste and/or touch everything he can get his tongue and hands on, because you gotta understand, any witch worth her salt (as witches don’t have an allergy to salt unlike other things that go bump in the night), is going to make sure to hex the hell out of the cursed object. Call it a compulsion hex – that way the moment a sucker comes across the trap lying in wait, they can’t help but just, touch, take it for themselves and that’s the way you hook ‘em.
This water-witch, when she wasn’t scrying into murky water looking, did have a sense of humor and she’d seen this episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that always made her giggle. Dance until you die. Or set yourself on fire. Either way, it’s another black mark on where her soul would be if she had one, so she was all for it.
Hey, witches can watch shows like Buffy. Keep an open mind, think of a coven setting down for their own rendition of MST3K-ing the show, and maybe you’ll get it. So, she had a plan thanks to a musical episode of a TV show of how to get her revenge.
Huh, dance until you die. Maybe she’d also seen Hocus Pocus, too, not that she’d ever admit that.
Anyway, she’s dead now and what’s left of her will be washed away the next time the Winchesters do their damn laundry.
Some believe that if you want to know if someone’s good in bed, you see if they can dance. That dancing and screwing are linked in a harmonic way that involves thrusting and flexibility and control of one’s limbs when engaged in sweaty activities.
Dean does not dance because he knows that some women believe this and he would not want his shot of getting laid tarnished by dancing White Boy style, which often involves dancing in the Box, that dreaded 1-2-3-4 configuration that leads nowhere and often involves lame finger pointing to show how yeah I am totally grooving with the music, I got rhythm.
Despite Dean’s secret enjoyment of Gene Kelly, he doesn’t dance, doesn’t boogie, does not get down with it. Speaking of Gene Kelly, honestly, if a demon ever wants to torment Dean, they really should just drop Sam some knowledge about Dean’s hidden love of musicals, because while a demon might never be able to match Dean’s own inner-angst, they can always rely on the eerie abilities of a younger sibling to keep up with eternal, if not torment, then annoyance.
Not that it matters, seeing as Dean’s got less than a year to live, but it’s always a good idea to have a backup plan with those two. They’re tricksy and they might find wiggle room and wind up twisting out of the Crossroad Demon’s seemingly ironclad contract and Dean’ll be able to continue to hunt, maybe retiring one day as an old grey man with a hell of a lot of war stories tucked under his belt.
Watching old school MGM musicals in his creaky old rocker.
C’mon, if Sam ever finds out about Dean’s secret affinity for the golden era of musicals, how he kind of shacked up with a one-night stand for an extra week just so they could marathon her ample DVD collection (though Dean would point out, she was ample in other ways as well so it wasn’t like he was in it just to burn through Kelly’s oeuvre), oh, he’ll never let Dean live it down.
No need to fret though, what with what Dean does when he picks up the kimono, Sam’s got plenty of ammunition of Dean’s weirdass foibles.
Such as picking up things that are cursed.
It’s one of those moments that has to be wound-down, only seconds ticked by, maybe a couple of minutes at the most. Here’s Sam, turning to Dean, seeing Dean actually put on the robe and then, the stripping begins. Dean just tears his shirts off, kicking off boots and dropping trou like he doesn’t care that Sam can see Dean’s little Winchester (okay, not-so-little) for an uncomfortably long, long time before the sash is tied ‘round Dean’s waist.
Picture Dean’s eyes wide, kind of scared Bambi look that might have someone say “aww” if taken out of context, but let’s get back to context, big ol’ green doe eyes (aww) focus sharp on Sam, his hands flailing around and, it’s Sam that speaks, only thing to say in this situation: “Oh My God.”
“Are you sashaying?”
“No”, Dean says, lies, because he’s wriggling his ass as he struts forward to Sam, then steps-steps backwards, flourishing of bare wrists as he flings his hands out for emphasis. “Uh, I think I found what we were looking for.”
“Too bad we’re out of lighter fluid, genius, because maybe I could’ve burnt that off of your body,” Sam snarks, then, confusedly, he sidesteps Dean as Dean attempts to like grab Sam and invite him into Dean’s doomed dance of the kimono.
“Don’t beat on a man when he’s, fuck, Sam, I’m dancing.”
That much is obvious. Sam, even though he is without pants, has the moral authority to look very smug about it.
For .02 seconds. Then he bursts out laughing and leaves for a quick moment, saying he has something that’ll help.
Returns and it’s too bad for Dean that he’s currently invested in doing a few twirls, long sleeves of his robe twisting in the air, because he doesn’t realize Sam’s version of help involves taking pictures.
Many, many pictures.
“This is a precious moment, Dean”, Sam says before Dean can lay into his brother the only way he can now, busting out with some good old cussing. “Don’t ruin it.”
Don’t worry, Dean doesn’t ruin it, doesn’t burst Sam’s bubble, Sam pops it just fine on his own, realizing that in all their research about the cursed objects of witches, the survival of someone who gets the full brunt of a witch’s booby trap isn’t exactly, oh, fuck it, let’s spit it out, people who get hit with the curse, they ain’t long for this world.
Witches leave their curses lying in wait and when they’re found, whoever touches ‘em dies, just like that.
Sam’ll just have to hope that the witch has a real long sense of humor and they can figure out how to get the damn kimono off before Dean figures into that perfect morality rate.
Most witches do have their broomsticks shoved up their asses, couldn’t crack a grin even if they were told there’s a sale on eye-of-newt. Sure, it’s probably ‘cause they feel that they’ve being oppressed by popular culture, but this particular water-witch, she was a little different. As bloody vicious as she pleased, so that meant a hell of a lot, she did make a point of high-tailing it to New York (a pity, missed out on a bad thunderstorm that hit just the night before she flew, by way of American Airlines, into town) just to take in the Buffy Sing-Along at the IFC, although she rolled her eyes I’m Under Your Spell.
Look, witches just don’t dress like they’re aiming to take the role of Lusty Serving Wench at a low-scale Ren-Fair.
So witches are not our friends and feed off of mayhem, but this one, she did leave a booby trap of a kimono, so not to worry, she does have a sense of humor. Still, it might be a good idea to get that kimono off before Dean gets hit with a sudden case of deadness.
Sad to say that pouncing on Dean doesn’t work, Dean just keeps on, uh, moving and Sam got off of his brother right quick when Dean’s hips hit a little too close to home. A little being a lot, when you think about it, ‘cause there’s not much clothing to go between them and oh hell, yeah, picture that.
Right. But Sam’s jumped off, freaking quick because check that off the list, pouncing isn’t going to work and back to square one.
At one, Sam requests that Dean do the samba and shockingly, he’s kind of good at it. Sam narrows his eyes and makes a series of ridiculous requests: the Charleston, Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, the Robot (which oddly doesn’t work, there is no proper way of Roboting in a kimono), and finally, the Macarena.
Which Dean ignores in favor of rolling his eyes and doing a move that reminds Sam suspiciously of something that he might have seen in this movie called Strictly Ballroom.
Hey, Jess had control of picking the movies they’d watch on Saturday night. Can’t fault Sam for having a good memory.
Two hours pass on by and Sam, still stuck in his underwear, unable to get Dean out of the witch’s lair (a modest nondescript house that most certainly did not look like the home of an evil doer), finally steps in, takes Dean’s hands, takes the lead.
“Sammy, what the hell are you doing?”
A noble effort but Dean stomps on Sam’s foot and rumbas away, saying, “Dude, I lead.”
So the next hour, Sam follows Dean’s lead.
Sam is almost as bad as dancing as Dean is.
“Yeah, I don’t think this is working and goddamn, Sammy, never dip me ever again.”
It takes a village to raise a child and sometimes it takes a Bobby to save Sam and Dean from their own, uh, ability to get into a hairy situation. Often. Usually, there’s more clothing involved, but they’re a little ways into bad luck territory tonight.
“Did you try taking it off of him? Once a curse objects gotten itself a victim, laying hands on it won’t be any trouble. Just gotta tear it off and then burn it after applying phosphorus.”
“What he’d say?” Dean pants out, the dancing taking its toll.
“We have to set it on fire. After we find a place that has phosphorus in stock.”
Dean’s arms cartwheel like crazy, and he gives the stink-eye to Sam, saying, “Okay, what else?"
“...Apparently I can just take it off?”
“We’re a pair of fucking Einsteins.”
Easier said that done. Like I said, this witch had a sense of a humor. She figured whoever laid claim to the booby trap wouldn’t be crazy enough to score a lot of phosphorus to end her curse, so she’d allowed a little fake leeway, let them think a person could be saved by someone else tugging off the kimono.
So, thanks to calling in a few contacts, because you see, not everyone the Winchesters know wind up getting’ killed off, Sam got, no questions asked, white phosphorous.
Delivered to the door of the witch’s home in an hour’s time (fucking Austin traffic).
Dean waits until there’s nothing left of that fucking kimono, sits naked a long ways away from the fire, lets Sam take care of the fire, guiding it, keeping it from taking over. Then the fire’s dead, the kimono’s gone and Dean would like to take off and get very drunk and forget this madness.
“Never again,” Dean urges Sam, when Dean’s made a makeshift toga-style outfit out of a few clean white sheets he’d snatched, Sam also following suit in the Rome-for-Day costume. “We’re not talking about that.”
Sam’s quiet until they get back to the motel, wash off, rest up, say how one of them should go get the food and neither make a motion to leave, settling on their beds. Sam’s got on a torn pair of jeans that maybe have a few weeks’ life in them and Dean’s wearing his boxer-briefs and a T-shirt, muscles aching in every party humanly known, working a mood that would be pissy ‘cept Dean doesn’t do pissy.
Just like he doesn’t watch musicals.
Sam’s very considerate, he gives Dean enough time to think it’s safe, and then he says it, the next morning, when they’re heading out to anyplace with some good old-fashioned atery-clogging breakfast, the food of champions.
“You know, you combined the athleticism of Gene Kelly with the spastic movements of a ventriloquist’s dummy, I was really impressed. Oh, and Dean? You looked really fetching in that kimono.”
Naturally, Dean proceeds to—nah, it’s too easy. Insert one Dean comeback here, and make sure it’s replete with cussing or smacking or something that is so very Dean.
Only you know, not dancing a kimono. There will be no more of that.
That’s not the end of it, of course, but now you’ve had your Dean in a kimono, Sam undressing him (and how slowly, unknotting that belt as Dean swayed from side-to-side, not slow-dancing, but could you blame him if he was?), and an informative look at how to destroy the death-hexes of witches.
There’s no need to get into the slap-fest in the car, who gives who a noogie, how pranks wars may or may not be resurrected, or how a basketful of kittens wind up releasing Dean from his deal with the Crossroads Demon.
That’s not what you came for.
By the way, those Underpants Gnomes? They weren’t defeated back in Oklahoma, but that’s another story worth telling when the time comes.
As for this little adventure, Dean enjoys pretending that it never happened and Sam grows to be awful fond of pointing out attractive robes that Dean should try on in case one of them has a wicked dancing curse sewed up in the fine threadwork.