Fangoria Remix

Fangoria Remix
by Dea Brynhild Ensomhet Spikess

Fandom: Supernatural
Timeline: February 2007 ^_~
Rating: PG, gen.
Warnings: Jared and Jensen go on a road trip to Fangoria. It's crackalicious, baby.
Disclaimer: This kind of thing would never happen in real life, but that doesn't mean a girl can't dream. I don't own any of the Supernatural cast/crew/characters/plotlines/etc. All hail Kripke. I also don't own any actors, real or imaginary, or any other characters or people that I use in this fic. The Chickenman owns himself, and even if he didn't, dizzycadence has a prior claim to him anyways. Everything is used without permission, but with the utmost curtsey and the best intentions. Huge apologies to Jared and Jensen - they're both awesome guys even though I've never met them in person, and I'm so sorry I wrote this. My muses wouldn't take no for an answer. Please don't sue. Most of the stuff that happens in this fic actually happened, just not to the people that it happened to or in the same order that it happened.
Dedicated to: All the wonderful SPN fangirls who were at Fangoria, both in person and in spirit. Apologies to dizzycadence for ad-libbing the Chickenman's dialogue.
Summary: If I ran the universe, it would be twisted beyond belief. But at least there would be no cancellations at my cons.
Author's note: Princess gave me a plotbunny, I went to my job, and three hours later this was written and now I'm scrambling to finish the work that I'm actually paid to do. If you look close, Princess Jen and I both make appearances. Thanks to Princess and Rain-chan for correcting a few errors and adding a few suggestions to make it better.


"Merge! Merge!" Jared yelped, gripping the dashboard so hard his knuckles were turning white. Normally he was naturally an easy-going guy, but he was going on damn near thirty-one hours without sleep and watching his life flash before his eyes - including that time he'd been trying to forget in seventh grade when he'd laughed so hard he'd peed his pants in the cafeteria and he'd had to wait for everybody else to leave and then run to the bathroom and hide until his pants had dried - had a way of making him panic when collision was imminent.

"I'm trying!" Jensen insisted, his voice echoing the note of hysteria in Jared's voice. He glanced over his shoulder, checking the traffic; the moment the neighboring car was clear he yanked the wheel hard, sliding smoothly into the other lane just in time to keep from running into the parked cars that marked where his lane had ended.

The panic turned into amusement and Jared cracked up laughing, hours of being in cramped quarters taking its toll and making him slap-happy. If he'd stayed in Vancouver he'd be asleep by now, but no, his dumb ass had decided that since filming had wrapped earlier than they'd thought it would, he'd try to make it to the convention near Chicago that he'd had to cancel last-minute. Jen had oh-so-helpfully driven him to the airport and decided to come with, if only to sit at the autograph table and keep Jared company since all of his fans had probably cashed in their tickets when they found out he cancelled. Things would have been fine and dandy, except that the last-minute flight to the O'Hare airport was redirected and ended up in Indianapolis because of the oncoming blizzard. At which point Jensen had come up with the brilliant idea of renting a car and driving the rest of the way, "C'mon man. We've come this far, after all, and it's only a few more hours." So, armed with several maps, a print-out of Yahoo and Mapquest directions that an airport employee had been more than willing to exchange for an autograph, and an armload of snacks and soda from the first gas station leaving the airport, Jared and Jensen hit the open road.

Since then they'd only gotten lost twice, spilled one bag of peanut M&Ms on the floor, and played every road-trip game they could think of, and now Jensen was singing along to the radio and Jared was pondering the merits of killing Jen, burying him along the side of the road in whatever town they were passing through, and trying to carry season three by himself. Because Jensen was singing country. Loudly. Off-key. With more throaty vibrato than you could shake a stick at. And he was totally doing it on purpose, 'cause Jared had heard him sing before and he wasn't half bad. But this was torture, pure and utter, 'cause Chris Kane was pretty good, but Kane set on Ultra Warble made you want to gouge your eyes out and stuff them in your ears just to muffle the noise a little.

"Mary, won't you come outside and take a walk in the sunshine, maybe then you could tell me whYYyyYYyyYYyy-hey!" Jensen exclaimed when a long pointy finger jabbed the scan button. The next station had already started Styx's "Renegade" and Jen stopped the scan, swatting away Jared's hand when he tried to change the station again. "The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me," Jen's head nodded to the beat as he jammed to the song. "What's wrong, Sammy? You don't like my singing?"

Jared rolled his eyes, "I like your singing fine, Dean, but that wasn't what you were doing. What you were doing was an impression of the sound the bastard child of a mauled cat and a beluga whale makes as it's being stabbed to death."

"Really?" Jensen looked intrigued, "I've never seen a beluga. What do they sound like?"

Jared stared at him, not about to admit that he'd never seen a beluga either and didn't have the first idea what they actually sounded like, "That's not the point."

Jensen just shrugged and turned the knob to find another country station. Another hour-or-so later they'd somehow missed their exit and wound up in the arrivals lane of the O'Hare airport. Amid Jared's sudden merge freak-out and Jensen's silent mantra of donthitmedonthitmepleasedonthitme, they'd managed to get out of the airport traffic and off of the correct exit, and survived to make it to the hotel the convention was at.

Jared adjusted the baseball cap as he walked into the lobby and considered shedding the shades now that he was indoors, but then thought better of it. It might be the cliché actor disguise, but it tended to be surprisingly effective.

"Will you calm down?" Jensen wasn't wearing his own baseball cap, but his sunglasses and scruffy appearance made him look generic enough to not be immediately recognizable. "Even if you do happen to have any fans who still showed up, they aren't going to mob you because they think you're not going to be here. You're safe, man."

"You know, they're going to mob you too once they see you." Jared replied. Jensen's path abruptly altered away from the sign-in desk. "Where're you going?"

"I still say that none of 'em are going to show up and you're going to be left at the signing table twiddling your thumbs, but if there's a chance we're going to have to fend off your adoring fans," Jensen said, walking into Maxie's, "I'm going to need a drink first."

"I should let the con know I'm here." Jared said, but Jensen didn't even pause. A girl walked past them and Jared almost took a step away, the make-up on her face making it look as if her eyes had been ripped out and fake blood stained her white blouse. The effect was so striking that he almost didn't notice the werewolf on a leash behind her. Some people really got into the horror spirit, Jared thought, shaking his head.

"One drink first," Jensen shot back over his shoulder, "and see if you can fool someone into thinking you're just a celebrity look-alike." Jen grinned. "C'mon. It'll be fun."

Jared sighed and followed him into the restaurant. The lights were dimmed enough that they both had to take off their sunglasses or risk bumping into people blindly, and there were plenty of people to walk into. Every table in the restaurant was full, the bar was standing-room-only, and the far back of the restaurant where the pool tables were was packed with people sitting, standing, and just hanging out and getting drunk. Jensen shouldered his way to the bar and tried to catch the attention of the overworked barkeep. Next to him, a guy in a furry yellow chicken outfit leaned against the bar.

"Life is good," said the Chickenman, who was quite obviously three sheets to the wind and looking to get the fourth airborne. "Like, really good. Really really good."

"Good for it," Jensen tried and failed to get the bartender's attention. The Chickenman slapped Jensen's back in enthusiasm, and Jen noticed that there was a nametag stuck to the front of the Chickenman's suit that proudly proclaimed "I am NOT Jared".

"You know what else is good?" The Chickenman paused for dramatic effect, and then waved his empty glass for emphasis. "Girls."

Jensen barely covered a snort. Either the guy wasn't a fan and had gotten the nametag from a fangirl, or he was so drunk that he didn't recognize them. "Yeah. Girls are good."

The Chickenman nodded seriously. "'Specially girls who give you M&Ms and Purple Nurples."

"What?" Jensen was startled for a moment.

"Purple Nurples," repeated the girl at the bar on the other side of Jensen. Her brown hair was streaked with green, and she had two mini green sharpies hanging around her neck, clanking against a miniature '67 Chevy Impala strung on a piece of green string. Jensen looked at the car with apprehension, wondering if she was a fan, but luckily she didn't look up. All of her attention was focused on the scrapbook on the bar that she was scribbling in. "Awesome drink. Hey, how do you spell "graffiti"?"

"Um, I think it only has one T," Jensen said, starting to rethink the wisdom of accompanying Jay to this con. He'd only been there two minutes and he was already surrounded by crazies. The girl nodded and continued to write intensely, otherwise completely ignoring her surroundings.

"You've never had one either?" The Chickenman incorrectly assumed from Jensen's outburst and suddenly shouted, "Bartender! Another Purple Nurple and one for my friend here too!"

"Purple Nurples, huh?" Jensen said, feigning ignorance and ignoring Jared's snickering behind him. "Never heard of that drink."

"Me neither, until I met my blue-haired muse," the Chickenman gestured vaguely towards the throng of people clustered around the pool tables.

"It's the special for the night," the bartender said, setting down two glasses of something that only vaguely resembled the grape-juice shots Jensen had gulped on-camera. The Chickenman fished out cash from somewhere inside his costume and slapped it onto the bar. "Due to all the Supernatural fans."

Jared was standing right behind Jensen, and Jen could hear him gulp. "Those girls are all Supernatural fans?" Jared said, casting a look towards the pool tables. Now that he looked closer, he could see that some of the girls were wearing t-shirts with various Impala and Winchester designs. Even the girl flipping her hair before lining up her next pool shot was wearing an AC/DC shirt, which could have been an innocent coincidence but probably wasn't. Jared's survival instinct immediately started begging him to run the other way.

"Oh no," the bartender corrected him, giving the Chickenman his change. Jared relaxed, and then tensed again when the bartender continued, "All those girls are probably only about half of the Supernatural fans that are here today, and I heard some of them say that even more will be arriving tomorrow since they had Sunday-only tickets." Someone else ordered a drink and the bartender left to make it. Jared and Jensen exchanged nervous glances.

The opening notes of AC/DC's "Back in Black" played out of the restaurant's speakers. Like the roar of an unstoppable deadly tsunami about to wipe out a major city, the dozens of fangirls that had taken over the pool tables began to yell and cheer, belting out the lyrics at the top of their lungs as they jostled each other in fangirl ecstasy. Jared and Jensen, along with every patron of the restaurant who wasn't an avid fan of Supernatural, turned to stare at the screaming section of the room in shock and not a little bit of fright.

Jared shot a worried look at Jensen, "You know, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."

Jensen, the bastard, just grinned. "Aw, poor Jay, about to be attacked by rabid fangirls. Look on the bright side," he said, sipping his Purple Nurple. "At least you won't be bored signing autographs tomorrow."


The end, thank GOD *slams a Purple Nurple, though only in spirit, 'cause still at work, but will post this as soon as off work* I am way too sober to be writing this. Hope you guys enjoyed it.


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