Something else I shan't be writing

[nny]

A woman met them at the door, plump and worried and wearing the sort of Christmas sweater that'd always made Dean a little trigger happy - even before the whole yule gods thing. She was wringing her hands, too; any pseudo swearing and the stakes were coming out.

"Are you boys the psychic detectives?" she asked, and Dean didn't even have to look to know that Sam's mouth had fallen open.

"We sure are." He shouldered his way in front, wearing his biggest of grins. "I'm Dean Van Halen and this is my associate, Sparkles Calhoun."

"I guess you'd better come in then." She turned and walked back towards the living room, Dean at her heels and cheerfully ignoring the indignantly hissed 'Sparkles?' behind him.


***

[SOME TIME LATER]

"Don't be a mysterious and worryingly surly man, Gus."

"Dean," he grunted.

"For the remainder of this programming," Shaun told him, "your name will be Gus."

"Don't think so," and wow, just like that, the piece of metal he'd been systematically cleaning - which could have been said to have, if you squinted, certain gun-like properties - was pressed against Shaun's forehead.

It looked a darn sight more gun-like from this angle.

"Have you considered alternative anger management techniques? Basket weaving, perhaps?"

Dean shrugged. "This always works for me." He grinned, one of the big ones with teeth, and shoved his gun back into the waistband of his jeans. "Got any beer in this place?" He wandered, apparently instinctually, in the direction of the fridge.

"Still gonna call you Gus in my head," Shaun called after him, half-heartedly.

"You don't wanna know what I'm calling you back," Dean said.