Mink (minkmix) wrote,

SPN Fic: Starlog PG

Title: Starlog
Author: Mink
Rated: PG - Gen
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: You should never judge a dude by his porn...

Not for the first time, Dean wondered what the hell exactly was it with libraries and their need to cause him pain.

He was convinced that all libraries were in some national wide conspiracy to really not want anyone to stick around long enough to read anything. Between the horrible stark florescent lighting, disenchanted dewy decimal nazis and that smell, he wondered how anyone with an internet connection even brought themselves to walk through the damn door.

He shifted in the hard upright wooden thing that purported to be a chair and tried to stretch his stiff back. The gigantic book in front of him smelled extra specially library-like. Old. Dusty. The cracked leather cover slightly sickeningly sweet with age. His brother had instructed him to carefully comb through its near illegible pages for a local cemetery's most famous family tree. Apparently the last living descendent that was in town was being plagued by their ancestors. Dean supposed that by bulldozing half the ancestral bone yard to make way for a in ground pool might give the old guys something to complain about. It was a real nice one too, heated and everything.

But some ruffled spirits were causing problems poolside.


Dean had a sneaking suspicion that the living descendant's substantially older husband that ended up floating face down in the perfect pH blue waters was not exactly the work of a ghost. He had a pretty good idea that it had a lot less to do with pissed off spooks and a lot more to do with that Italian pool boy guy he saw hanging out in a chaise lounge. But what did he know. Like any good investigator you never put your own personal conclusions ahead of hard evidence.

Even if he was so sure it wasn't their scene that he would have bet his car on it.

"That's my shirt."

Sam's voice distracted Dean from the magazine he had neatly fitted in the large dusty tome balanced between his lap and the table.

He flipped another thin page of magazine in a vague annoyed frustration. Sam had insisted they check it out anyway. Slow hunt week to say the least. But work was work he supposed. Even when he could be doing something better. Like burning down libraries.

The images the thought invoked were comforting.

"Did you hear me?"

"Huh?" Dean flipped a page on an article about Quasidimensional Modeling of Direct Injection Diesel Nitric Engines. Every other word was giving him a headache but he was intrigued nonetheless by the photos of complex engine schematics. As soon as he was done with a few more pages he'd be right on top of that haunted pool stuff. Oh yeah. Well, maybe at least after he finished the Swimsuit Sports Illustrated that he had stashed under his torture chair.

"I said that's my shirt."

"Hey, what's a se-semiempirical Z-Zeldovich mechanism?" Dean asked, tracing the words with a finger tip as he pronounced them. "I bet it's awesome."

"My shirt Dean. You are wearing it."

Dean glanced up. "What?"

Sam was staring at him hard. It kind of reminded him of the various times Dad had ever caught him using his power tools without permission. Or that palatable sideways look Dad gave him in his own version of passenger seat driving. It figured that out of everything that he could have learned, that Sam would have picked up this from the old man. Dean wondered if Sam even realized that what Sam had grown up loathing was once now just as much a part of him as anything else.

Dean's chest hitched in a short laugh as he flipped another page.

"When you take my shit and wear it, it ends up wadded in some disgusting ball at the bottom of your bag and I never see it again until your next biannual Laundromat visit."

"How do you even know its yours?" Dean demanded offhandedly, studying an interesting graphic of multi-air fuel combustion.

"Gee, I don't know, maybe because you could pitch it up and sleep in it?"

Eyes still on his magazine, Dean had to smile. Good one Sammy. "What the fuck do you want me to do, take it off?"


"Hey, it might give the old girl behind the counter a thrill." Dean admitted while he wet a finger to leaf past a Viagra ad. "Do you think a 'Time-resolved laser-induced incandescence fuel mixer' would fit in the car....?"

Sam sighed. "What the hell are you reading?"

Dean looked up guiltily and pulled the large book up closer to himself. "Um, you know, city records. Good stuff."

Sam was looking him evenly.

It was Dean's turn to sigh. "Look crank master, why don't you take a break because yer being a real drag. And being a bigger drag than sittin in this dump looking for some dead guy from 1889 that doesn't like chlorine is sayin' something--"

"Yeah, right, whatever..."

Sam shifted and gasped as his own book slipped, something falling out from it. He tried to grab it and succeeded from letting it hit the floor. Unfortunately his reflexes weren't fast enough to keep his older brother from seeing what it was.

A magazine.


The shiny glossy cover held a large picture. It was of a girl with blue skin, white hair, a decidedly huge rack and a really short star trek uniform. The title proudly stated in a jaunty font:


Dean's eye brow raised.

"Shut up."

Dean whistled under his breath.

"Seriously Dean, shut up."

"Haven't said a thing."


Dean shrugged, settling back into the wooden chair of doom and going back to diesel combustion. "Whatever gets you there man..."

Sam tiredly shoved his stack of books aside and rubbed a hand through his hair.

"Can-Can we just go get a beer?"

Dean promptly tossed his book aside and was yanking his jacket on with enough haste to make several people in the periodicals look over at him in offense.

"I thought you'd never freakin' ask."

Tags: dean pov, gen, spn one shot
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