Sparkly Pretty Things

[dizzojay]

I like sparkly pretty things.  Well, I'm a girl, I suppose it kind of goes with the territory; but I like to share ... so, for your entertainment (well, that's the plan anyway), here's a couple of sparkly, pretty Dean scenarios ...

Disclaimers: I think it's pretty obvious by now who owns them, and the tragedy is, it ain't me ...

MANICURE
Rating: K+
Genre: Humour
Word count: approx 200

 

Sam regarded his brother's surly mood with a barely concealed smirk playing on his face.

"Hey dude, it's the middle of May - why are you wearing gloves?" He made the question sound as casual as possible.

Dean looked up from the table and slammed his coffee mug down; "why am I wearing gloves?" He glared at Sam, "I think you know why I'm wearing gloves …"

Sam shook his head innocently, hiding his blossoming grin behind his coffee mug.

"I'm wearing gloves," snarled Dean, "until I can get to a pharmacy and buy some acetone!"

Sam shrugged, "what d'y need that for?"

"What for?" yelled Dean angrily, "what for?" He glared at Sam, "I'll tell you what for; because last night while I was sleeping peacefully in my bed, SOME MORON PAINTED MY FINGERNAILS SPARKLY PINK!"

Sam's crumbling composure collapsed spectacularly.

There were tears, there was snot, there was undignified chest clutching and gasping for breath between snorting guffaws.

His laughter wasn't because of the sparkly pink fingernails, or the gloves, or even the hugely entertaining arm waving, foot stomping outburst.

But mainly because Dean clearly hadn't noticed his toenails yet …

xxxxx

end

 

WHAT A DRAG
Rating: K+
Genre: Humour
Word Count: approx 200
 

Stumbling around on four inch heels, Dean glared out from under false eyelashes and a long blonde wig.

"It's stupid enough that we're huntin' a drag queen's ghost, but why'm I the one that's gotta dress up to lure it out?"

"'Cos you're shorter than me and you're the pretty one;" Sam grinned, "dude, your eyes are just made for mascara!"

"Yeah, well your eyes were just made for my knuckles," snorted Dean.

He mumbled irritably, hitching his miniskirt and rearranging himself in a manner that made Sam highly uncomfortable; he tugged at his belt, "this ain't my waist - it's practically in my freakin' armpits.

Sitting on the bed, he stared at his scarlet shoes, "how do women wear all this junk? He winced, "It's like a damn torture device; I've got straps an' buckles in places I didn't even know I had".

Sam grimaced, "So I see; uh, dude, there's a reason why women keep their knees together when they sit".

Dean flushed, snapping his stockinged legs together, and flinched as a loud ping sounded across the room.

He stared up at Sam through bulging, watering eyes.

"Sammy," he squeaked, "I hope you don't ever wan' be an uncle …"

xxxxx

end