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Fifteen Minutes (More or Less)

Title: Fifteen Minutes (More or Less)
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: John Winchester had always trained his boys to stay under the radar. For a very good reason. (H)

Inspired, more or less, by this shirt. Blame apocalypsos. (Okay, you can also blame the crack-laced carrots my plot bunnies seem to be eating right now.)

John Winchester had always trained them to stay under the radar. There was a trick to not being noticed; several tricks, actually, and he taught his sons some, and they learned some on their own, because the last thing a hunter wanted to do was get noticed.

Sam had always assumed that it was because they were doing some damn sketchy things. By necessity, sometimes, and by choice, other times. (Whether or not credit card fraud counted as a necessity or a choice was something that he and Dean never did agree on.) They existed outside the law by virtue of the fact that the law had no way of dealing with the supernatural; but the law wouldn't see it that way, and so they had to stay as unnoticed as possible so they wouldn't get arrested.

That was, probably, one very good reason.

As it turned out, there were others.

"Are they still outside?" he whispered to Dean, who just gave him a Look that said more that words could. Sam sighed. "Fuck. Okay, what options do we have?"

"We could shoot our way out," Dean said hopefully.

"I don't think we have enough bullets. And anyway, no."

Dean said, deadpan, "But it would be fun."

"Shut up," Sam said. "Can we sneak out the back?"

"Of the room, maybe, but we couldn't go two steps without being seen."

Sam sighed. "Times like this," he mused, "are when I wish I could turn invisible."

"Yeah, but you probably wouldn't be able to turn your clothes invisible too, so you'd have to walk out there naked. And, uh, not carrying anything."

"Invisibility applies to what you're wearing, and carrying. That's how things *work*."

"Yeah, but this is real life. And we can't turn invisible. And we're fucking trapped here, in case you hadn't noticed. And we don't have much food-- hey," he added, making a halfhearted grab for the lone Twinkie that Sam had lunged for. "--and I don't think we could call in a pizza."

"We could," Sam said, "but it wouldn't be able to get through."

"Yeah." Dean sighed and sat slumping in the understuffed armchair. "You know, this motel sucked even before we got trapped."

Sam snorted and made his way to the window, as though looking another time would change the situation. Pulling back the drapes a bit allowed a shaft of sunlight to seem the room a bit less dingy, but it also triggered a volley of shrieks from outside. He backed away hastily, and flopped down onto the bed, one arm over his eyes. "If we wait long enough, will they get bored and go away?"

"Doubt it. I think they're persistent."

"We're persistenter."

"Yeah, but, food," Dean reminded him. On cue, Sam's stomach growled, and Dean rolled his eyes. "You don't have any right to be hungry, you ate the last damn Twinkie."

Sam just stuck his tongue out at Dean. The noise from outside had quieted some, but that didn't mean any of them had left; they were just waiting. Like a predator waiting for its prey to come out. "This sucks," Sam said needlessly, and not for the first time.

"We could always call 911," Dean said, in a yeah-right tone of voice.

Sam perked up. "Hey," he said, and snapped his fingers. "Cell phone."

"Don't tell me you lost yours," Dean said, tossing his over. "And you're /not/ calling 911."

"No." Sam dialed rapidly. "Hey, Ellen? We've got a bit of a problem. Uh, an infestation."

"Is this like a termite sort of infestation, or a demonic sort of infestation?"

(Dean, listening in, muttered, "Pretty close to demonic.")

"Um." Sam glared at Dean, trying not to laugh. "I think it's a combination of paparazzi and, er, fangirls? And they seem to think we're heroes, or celebrities, or something like that? Not sure why."

("We /did/ save that one kid," Dean pointed out, and Sam said, "Shut up.")

"I see," Ellen said, and her voice was quite controlled, in an I'm-not-laughing sort of way. "Well, boys, I'm not exactly sure what I can do to help you."

"Well, no--" (they were several states away, for one thing, and she was a hunter, and Sam found himself wondering exactly why he'd called her, aside from moral support, which didn't do a hell of a lot of good) "-- but, uh, have you heard of anything like this ever happening before, from any of the hunters? Mass attention of the, er, not-wanting-to-arrest-or-kill-us kind?"

"Huh. Now that you mention it, yeah, actually." She still sounded like she was about to laugh.

"How'd he get out of it? I mean, what ended up happening?"

"Far's I know, he went outside and sang to the crowd."

"/Sang/?" Sam echoed, in disbelief. Dean made a spluttering noise.

"Yeah, and he got a record contract out of it. At least one. Kept singing, too, at least until he lost popularity. Quit hunting entirely; he was too visible."

Sam muted the phone, swore for a while, and then unmuted it again. "Right, thanks. Any other ideas?"

"I'll call you if I think of any," Ellen said, and hung up.

"Oh man," Dean said. "Singing. That'd work so well for us."

Sam threw the phone at his head; Dean ducked and caught it one-handed. "You can barely hold a tune," Sam griped, more for the form of it than for truth.

"Hey, market to the right crowd and it don't matter if you can sing, just matters if you look good doing what you're doing." Dean grinned broadly. "And I look damn good doing anything at all."

"Except when you look like a complete idiot," Sam said.


"Which is always."

Outside, there was garbled shouting that, as far as they could tell, mainly amounted to demands for them to come out. Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "I've got a pack of cards," Dean suggested brightly.

"You cheat."

"Do not."

"Do so."

"Do not. I'm just that good."

"You wish."

That avenue of conversation expended, they fell into a brief silence again. The shouting outside got louder, and it seemed less unified. Curiosity overcame caution; Sam went to the window again, peeking out, and then started laughing. "Oh, man, Dean, you gotta see this."

Warily, Dean came up behind his brother and looked, and then stared. The group that had been holding the sparkly glitter-covered signs (with lots of hearts and will-u-marry-me type sentiments) had been joined -- or, rather, surrounded -- by a group holding what looked to be hastily-crafted signs, basic black pen on white posterboard, that were mainly directed towards the other crowd. The ones that Sam and Dean could see were along the lines of "GO HOME" and "LEAVE THEM ALONE" and "CELEBRITIES ARE PEOPLE TOO".

With a significant look at Dean, Sam retreated, but Dean stayed watching, mesmerized. Members of the two groups were yelling at each other, unintelligible from inside the hotel room. A few were even turning it physical, sort of; they fought like stereotypical girls, grappling and hair-pulling and all. "Cool," Dean said in admiration, watching; then, "Ow, hey," as Sam whapped him on the back of the head. He turned and glared. "What was that for?"

"To get your attention." Sam's expression was unrepentant. "Dean, don't you see, this is our chance. They're causing their own distraction-- we can sneak out."

"I'd rather watch," Dean said, but he threw his things haphazardly together. "What's the plan?"

"Hats." Sam handed a baseball cap to Dean; he was already wearing one himself.

"Hats aren't a plan!"

"They are now." Sam sighed, took the baseball cap out of Dean's hands and put it on his head instead, tugging the brim down to shade most of Dean's face. "I don't think most of the people out there know what we look like."

"Hats aren't a fucking plan," Dean grumbled.

"You got a better idea?"

"I /always/ have a better idea. ...but, uh. Lead the way."

Sam smirked, and did so. It involved climbing out the bathroom window, hoping like hell that everyone there was distracted by the growing disruption out front, and then coming around the corner and no one saw them.

Plans that hinged on no one seeing them, of course, rarely worked; there was a squeal, and the sound of multiple cameras firing, and Sam and Dean swore and ran for the crowd out front, hoping for safety in numbers. Dean hastily grabbed a sign that had been discarded by some of the fighters and -- in one of the more paradoxical techniques he'd learned for staying invisible, that making an ass of yourself in a crowd was less noticeable than skulking around the edges -- pushed his way into the middle of the group and started waving the sign and yelling in falsetto, "Yeah! You tell them!"

Sam stepped on his foot, not accidentally. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Being a protester," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed the sign out of Dean's hands, turning it around so that Dean could actually see it, and giving him an exasperated look as he did so. The sign was one of the sparkly pink heart-filled ones that said "We love you!!!!!", with hearts as the dots in the exclamation marks.

"Oh," Dean said.

"Yeah," Sam said. The rival groups were still yelling at each other, but it was only a matter of time before they figured out what was going on -- and time was not on their side, Sam figured, with the two of them standing near the middle of it all. "Can we fucking go now?"

"Yeah. Oh, hey, Sammy," Dean said, as they made their escape. "If some of the, uh, glitter girls catch us? Especially the ones that want to marry us? You're so my boyfriend."

"Shut up," Sam said.



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