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Wendy, or Magic Fingers Loves Dean (Illustrated)
Title: Wendy, or Magic Fingers Loves Dean (Illustrated)
Author: naughty
Rating: PG13
Genre: Gen / Humor
Summary: Dean gets WAY more than he bargained for with Magic Fingers. One quarter sure can buy ALOT of trouble.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Pairing: none
Spoilers: none
Warning: language
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no rights to Supernatural, John, Dean or Sam...damn it. I only worship them from afar.
Author's note: All trademarks and copyrights belong to their owners. This story is total crack fic and was written strictly for fun. I intend no harm or disrespect to the Magic Fingers company in any way.

[Click on photo thumbnails for larger views.]

A huge thank you to gekizetsu for allowing me to reference and link to one of her insanely wonderful works! And hugs and kisses to my beta jdsgirlbev for her great feedback, sense of humor and awesome ideas!

They had just driven 12 hard, long hours...to THIS...the Blue Nirvana Motel and Pancake House. Their boots crunch in synch on the gravel as they walk from the manager’s office, past the restaurant, to their room. Oh...this was even better. In the restaurant’s front door hung a large sign...“Closed by Health Department.” Just freakin great.

Great, they got the last craptastic room available in the last craptastic motel on the outskirts of this God-forsaken craptastic little town...awesome, just fuckin awesome. NO cable. No PPV. They walk in weary silence along the row of outdated, stand-alone motel units to the front door of their room, which is the last one at the end...set apart from the others, within a stand of shadowy pines.

Room #13 1/2. How the hell do you have a room number like that? Sam scans the other doors...nope, theirs is the only oddball one...it figures. Sam unlocks the door, walks in and throws his backpack on the bed.

For a motel with the name Blue Nirvana, it has a very strange color scheme...orange. Mainly burnt orange. Various shades and hues of burnt orange. With nice accents of electric neon orange crush. It hurts Sam’s eyes and his brain...not to mention the magic theme. Oh, come on...MAGIC? They’d been in some mighty weird ass motels...but bunny, top hat and magic wand wallpaper? Although...Sam does have to give the motel a bit of credit...the bunnies ARE blue.

He sticks his head in the bathroom. In keeping with the theme, the gold shower curtain is plastered with wizards’ hats...burnt orange and blue. Oh, God. Sam’s head hurts. If this is nirvana, Sam will gladly settle for purgatory. Dean, of course, is pretty much oblivious.

“Hey, all’s not lost, Sammy! Look...Magic Fingers!” Dean is positively gleeful. Exhausted from the marathon drive, Dean flings himself on his bed. Dean is a happy man.

“That’s great, Dean...just great.” Sam remarks with less than enthusiasm. Although, to be honest, he could stand a bit of Magic Fingers himself...not that he’d ever admit that to Dean.

Since it’s only early afternoon, Sam decides to head for the library in town to research their latest case...Cannibal Pixies. OK...maybe it’s just an excuse to get away from the burnt orange and little blue bunnies. Whatever. Dean is already settled in for a nice long Magic Fingers session...his iPod all cranked up.

“Back in a few hours, Dean.” Sam calls over his shoulder, but Dean is already somewhere on the path to nirvana...his eyes closed and an angelic smile plastered on his face. Sam just rolls his eyes, shakes his head and shuts the door behind him.

Dean melts into the bed...becomes one with it...all his cares and worries are no more. He relaxes totally...he revels in the glorious, intense, gentle vibrations...the bed is alive with the hum. The bed caresses him from head to foot, like a lover. Dean is in his element. Blue Nirvana. Well...nirvana, anyway. Sweet...so freakin sweet...does life get any better? The answer is clearly no. Magic Fingers...the soothing sounds of Led Zeppelin's Kashmir and Metallica's Enter Sandman . Now, all he needs is the magic fingers of some long-legged beauty...and a cold beer. Or a smooth Blue Nirvana...close cousin to those freakin awesome Purple Nurples.


Magic Fingers STOPS. Shit. Just when he was getting to the oh-God-yes part of his fantasy. Dean bleakly looks at the outdated Magic Fingers machine, then jams both hands into his pockets and fishes for more quarters. None. Just freakin dimes, nickels, pennies and a half-dollar. Not to mention a wad of bills from his last pool hustle, four Zippos, a small bag of peanut M&Ms, six slips of paper with phone numbers...hey, there’s Starla’s number... and assorted paper clips. SHIT. He’ll have to walk down to the office to get change.

A few minutes later, he trudges back. Goddamn office was CLOSED early for the rest of the day. Dean immediately starts a quest for any stray and errant quarters, starting with his duffel bag. Nothing on the bottom or in the corners...except mostly lint and some rock salt. He can’t check the Impala’s ashtray, because Sammy drove her to the library. Yanking open the night stand drawer, he finds a Mexican peso under the Gideon’s Bible. Next, he searches the cushions of the two hideous, mismatched burnt orange chairs and comes up with a Canadian quarter. Finally, using his flashlight, he searches under both beds. His body halfway under Sam’s bed, he sneezes three times from dust bunnies, then spots something shiny glinting in the light. He grabs it.

A token...a slot machine token.

Goddamn it...a peso, a Canadian quarter and a slot machine token.

Hey...it’s worth a shot. How pathetic is he? This is clearly desperation bordering on addiction. Not that he gives a damn.

Dean lays back down on the bed. He reaches over to the ancient Magic Fingers machine and inserts the Canadian quarter. Hey, it’s a quarter and the same size as an American quarter.


“Crap.” Dean sighs. OK...the peso is roughly the size of a quarter. He rolls it in.


“Damn it.” Dean lets out an exasperated sigh. Fuck...all he has left is the shiny slot machine token. Ah, what the hell. He punches it in.


“Son of a bitch!” he yells in frustration. Just then, the machine makes a loud CLINK and Dean swears he sees a tiny, wispy poof of smoke come from the machine.

Oh, screw it, Dean thinks. Piss on the damn thing. He punches his pillow, closes his eyes and is asleep within minutes.

Sam returns at dusk, laden with two big bags of Arby’s and a six-pack, as he kicks the door closed with his foot.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, wake your ass up...chow time.” Sam chunks a bag towards Dean’s bed...it bounces and hits the floor. Sam goes over, picks the bag up and puts it on the night stand.

“Dean, wake up. Food.”

Dean, bleary eyed, grunts...then slowly rolls over, sits up and swings his feet over the...OUCH!!!

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yells, rubbing his toes vigorously. “What the hell.”

Sam looks up from opening his Arby’s bag. “Dean?”

Dean tries again, a bit more gingerly this time, to put his legs over the side of the bed, but hits something solid. Except there is nothing THERE.

He pats THERE. Same solidness. Okaaay. Now he’s officially freaked out. Time for plan B. Dean scoots to the foot of the bed, but once again, his toes meet with THERE. “Shit!” he yells again.

“Dean, what the hell’s the matter with you?” Sam asks, as he bites into his roast beef sandwich.

“Uh...a little help here, Sammy?” Dean implores, his voice full of confusion.

Sam, taking another big bite of his sandwich, walks over to Dean’s bed. “What?”

“Sam, try and put your hand on my shoulder.” Dean instructs.

“Huh?” Sam queries.

“Just do it, Sam.” Dean says.

Sam shrugs, looks at his clearly crazy brother and puts out his hand to touch his shoulder. OUCH.

“Damn!” Sam pulls his hand back and rubs his knuckles. “What the fuck?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Dean says.

“DAMN it, I knew something was up when we got Room #13 1/2.” Sam exclaims.

“Way to go, Psychic Wonder Boy! Lotta good your premonition did us this time.” Dean remarks snidely.

“Piss off.” Sam counters.

Clearly stumped, Dean flops back down on the bed and Sam makes his way back to his chair, where he plops down with a look of consternation on his face.

“Ok. Ok. Psychic energy field. Force field. Electromagnetic field.” Sam thinks aloud.

“Sam, I’m hungry. And thirsty.” Dean states, smelling the luscious roast beef and eyeing the six-pack on the table. Force fields are clearly no match for a grumbling Winchester stomach.

Sam looks up at his brother. Ok, first things first. Sam gets up, goes back to Dean’s bed and begins placing his hands all over THERE...looking for any openings or weak spots. He goes all around the bed. None. Not even a pin hole.

He stands silent for a second, thoughtful. He then grabs an Arby’s, stands on his own bed, takes aim and tries to lob the roast beef sandwich OVER the...Invisible Wall...like a basketball. THUNK. It bounces and hits the floor. Okie dokie. No openings at the top, either. Shit.

Sam goes back to his chair and sits. Well, THIS is a new fucking wrinkle. And he is fucking TIRED. He’s been up to his eyebrows all afternoon in researching goddamn Cannibal Pixies...the devious, slimy little bastards...and he is NOT in the mood and doesn’t have the energy for this crap. And he is hungry.

“Dean, I’m sorry...we’re just gonna have to tackle this in the morning...I’m just too freakin ass tired right now. I can’t even think straight. Besides, you don’t seem to be in any immediate danger.” Sam offers tiredly. He grabs his Arby’s, takes a huge bite, then takes a long pull on his beer. Then burps loudly.

“Oh...no immediate danger. Glad you clarified that. Freakin asshole.” Dean comments, glaring.

Sam shrugs apologetically. Clearly, Dean is not gonna be eating tonight. It isn’t so much the roast beef sandwiches...it’s the BEER that’s killing Dean. Out of pity for poor Dean...and because he can’t stand to be glared at by an angry, hungry man, Sam goes outside, sits on the steps and eats his Arby’s there. Hey, one of them has to keep up their strength to fight this...this...whatever.

“Son of a bitch!!!” Dean yells and flops back on his bed.

12:38 a.m.

“Sam, I can’t sleep.” Dean forlornly speaks into the darkness.



More silence.


“WHAT???” Sam yells and bolts upright, dazed and confused.

“I can’t sleep, Sam.” Dean repeats.

“Now, I can’t either...thanks to you...JERK.” Sam complains.

Suddenly, the silence is broken by the clock radio coming on...by itself...it’s soft reddish lights a beacon in the darkness. Both Sam and Dean snap their attention to it. Clearly a WTF moment. Then the radio begins playing Rock-a-Bye Baby, in soft, lulling tones. Within a couple minutes, both boys are fast asleep.

Next morning, just as dawn breaks in rosy burnt orange pastel colors, Sam returns from Alma’s Roadside Café with two large coffees and cheese Danish. As he puts them on the table, he calls out, “Hey, Dean, wake up...coffee.” before remembering that Dean will not be getting coffee...or Danish...unless they figure out what the Invisible Wall is. Oops. Shit.

At the sound of his brother’s voice and the word COFFEE, Dean’s head rises from his pillow and he rolls from his stomach to prop himself up on one elbow. He blinks and rubs at his eyes. Damn, that coffee smells fuckin fine.

Sam just stares at him, very sheepishly, as he takes another drink of coffee. As the sleepy fog clears from Dean’s head, he suddenly remembers the Invisible Wall ...and slowly reaches out. Maybe...just maybe...

His fingers touch solidness. FUCK. Dean is suddenly on his knees, hands flat against the IW. “Son of a BITCH!” Dean bangs his head twice against the IW. CLUNK. CLUNK.

At the sight of his brother hitting his head against NOTHING, his hands held up in mime fashion, it is all Sam can do to suppress a laugh. Thank God he can hide it behind his coffee cup. But Sam’s amusement doesn’t escape his devilish, merry eyes, which Dean catches out of the side of his eye. “Asshole.” Dean grunts in pissed off frustration. And hits his head one more time. CLUNK.

Sam just loses it. He loudly spews coffee all over his jeans and the carpet. “Sorry, Dude.” as he mops up coffee.

“Yeah... Ha-Ha, you freakin jerk.” Dean collapses back down on the bed, crosses his arms over his chest, stares at the ceiling and fumes.

As Sam is finishing the last of Dean’s Danish, Dean eyes him with disgust and states, “OK, Stanford Sam...time to put that impressive college intellect and mad research skills to work. Break me out of here.”

“Coming right up.” Sam wipes the last crumbs from his mouth and flips open the laptop.

The room is silent except for the tap-tap of Sam’s fingers on the keyboard.

The motel’s prior history turns up nothing strange or paranormal...except for a huge purchase of burnt orange paint in 1975, after a local paint store went bankrupt and had a massive going-bankrupt sale.

Oh, and a local preacher, Bert Boggs, had died at the Blue Nirvana six months ago from a massive heart attack while having sex with a prostitute. In room #13 1/2.

Of course.

“Says here that the Magic Fingers was still going full blast when paramedics and police arrived...and never stopped, despite being unplugged, till Boggs’ body was removed and the authorities left.” Sam reads aloud.

Sam googles “possession...inanimate objects...exorcism”.


“Oh, you’ve GOT to be kidding...” Sam mutters under his breath, as he rolls his eyes in disbelief and laughs. Oh, PLEASE.

Sam clicks on the link.

Crap. Just some spammy site to a get-rich-quick multi-level pyramid scheme. Fuckers.

Sam briefly considers contacting Stephen King for advice...you know...Christine, and all...but quickly decides against it. Steve is probably still not over the drunken letters Sam had mailed to him last year...especially the one about Christine.

Crap. And double crap. He should never be allowed near pen and paper when he’s drunk.

“What else you got, Sam? ” Dean asks hopefully.

“Nothing yet.”

“Come on, Sammy, give me something!” Dean begs.

“You know, Dean...there’s not a whole helluva lot out there on freakin possessed beds!”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed...I haven’t had a shit load of experience dealing with pissed off beds either!” Dean counters.

Silence again. Tap-tap.

“Hey, Dean...did you piss off some bed in a previous incarnation?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Sam smiles to himself.

“Hey, I’m used to keeping a bed’s OCCUPANT happy...not the freakin BED!” Dean defends himself.

Sam grins again.

Dean catches the grin. “Bitch.”



“OK, Dean, tell me exactly what happened after I left for the library.”

Dean recounts the events in minute detail.

Sam thoughtfully considers the whole scenario.

“Dean, it was the slot machine token that did it...at least the Canadian quarter and the peso were REAL money...I think you insulted it.”

“How the hell do you INSULT a freakin BED?” Dean asks incredulously.

“Dean, you finally sent it over the edge...between that token and your dirty thoughts.”

“They were only vaguely dirty, Sam.” Dean retorts.

“Yeah, right. Whatever. I know damn well you were on the super fast track to FULL-ON DIRTY.”

Dean shrugs.

Sam gets up, goes to the wall near Dean’s bed and unplugs the Magic Fingers...then goes to unplug his own. Not that it will do a damn bit of good. But just in case. Then he grabs his jacket and heads for the door.

“Hey, where you going?” Dean asks.

“To the bank.” Sam replies as he shuts the door.

“Sam! What the fuck? SAMMY!” Dean yells.

Sam returns with two Wendy’s double bacon cheeseburgers and two giant Frosties. Just in case his fix works. Cause hungry Dean is getting to be a grumpy, pain-in-the-ass Dean.

Oh, yeah. And two rolls of brand new minted, very shiny quarters. He’d driven thirty-five miles back into town and waited two and half fucking hours for that bank to open.

“OK, let’s see what happens.” Sam states, hoping his initial theory is correct. Dean stares at him in amazed wonderment. Sam crosses the room to the Magic Fingers, plugs it in, unwraps the first roll of quarters, takes a deep breath and deposits the first coin.


He puts in a second quarter.


Always the optimist, Sam continues depositing quarters, in the hope that one will magically connect...till he’s out of quarters.

Still nothing.

Fuck. Sam sighs a huge pained sigh. As does Dean. They stare at each other.

Sam sits on his bed. “OK, that went well.” Shit, no sense in throwing good money after bad, as he pockets the other roll of quarters.

Suddenly, there’s a loud sputtering, clanking noise coming from Magic Fingers. Dean and Sam both jump as all the bright, new, shiny quarters Sam just deposited come flying out in a huge, non-stop stream...CLINK-CLINK-CLINK...CLINK-CLINK. Every last one. The boys just stare at the pile of glittering quarters on the carpet, then each other. Kinda like hitting the Vegas slots jackpot. Kinda.

Then a small wispy plume of smoke appears from the back of Magic Fingers. POOF. And one last new quarter spits out. CLINK.

Suddenly the bed starts lurching and the clock radio comes alive...BLARING the Captain and Tennille’s Muskrat Love. Sam jumps up and unplugs Magic Fingers and the radio. Not that either one stops. But, he had to try.

“OK, Wonder Boy, what next!?” Dean, who’s shaking back and forth like wild jello, yells over Tennille.

“You got any better ideas, Sherlock?” Sam yells back, annoyed.

Just then the radio launches into a stirring rendition of Jimmy Sturr’s German Polka Medley.

“Christo!” both boys yell at once.

“Hey, Wendy! Give us a break here, sweetheart!” Dean pleads loudly.

Immediately the music stops and the bed is still.

The boys stare at each other once again, eyes wide.

Wendy?” Sam asks.

“Well...yeah...” Dean trails off, staring at the small table behind Sam.

Sam turns to look. The Wendy’s bag sits proudly on the table.

“Wendy.” Sam says flatly.

Great. Now their misery had a name.

Sam sits at the table, after eating his cheeseburger and slurping his Frosty outside on the trunk of the Impala. Time for plan B. He searches Dad’s journal, consults their cache of tried-and-true exorcisms and even calls Bobby for ideas.

“OK, Dean, since exorcisms for beds are apparently nowhere to be found, I’m going to formulate a brand new one...just for...Wendy.” he states, as he scribbles some Latin on a notepad.

The bed suddenly lurches again violently, throwing Dean around like a wild bull rider, just as the radio SCREAMS alive with the Bee Gees’ Saturday Night Fever, then quickly followed up with Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire.

“Wendy, Wendy, sweetheart...he was just KIDDING!!! Weren’t you, Sam?” Dean offers in a loud, but soothing voice, as he desperately eyes Sam and strokes the bed.

“Uh, yeah...just some, uh...bed humor.” Sam quickly chimes in, giving a loud, throaty, if not completely sincere, Winchester laugh.

The music stops as suddenly as it started.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Dean whispers, as he pats the bed, pleased with himself. He wonders if he got credit for the full eight second ride.

Unfreakinbelievable. Dean Winchester, always the consummate ladies’ man. Now it appears that his special brand of magic apparently works wonders on possessed beds, too. Sam just shakes his head.

Sam has had enough of Wendy’s little outbursts and histrionics and decides to continue drafting his exorcism outside. Besides, he needs peace and quiet to devise a workable exorcism. He grabs the journal and notepad, closes the door behind him and saunters towards a large, hospitable looking pine tree a little ways off.

He looks back at their room. Just their freakin Winchester luck...they had to get the Amityville Horror unit. Sam halfway keeps expecting the two windows to start glowing orange-eyes any second...the door to shake and huff off its hinges. Right about now, he’d gladly trade Ms. Wendy Magic Fingers and her emo, schmaltzy-ass tunes for a freakin screaming Wendigo or pissed off poltergeist. He knows how to deal with them.

He sits on the blanket of pine needles, his back against the tree and begins to write. ...Regno terrae cantate Deo, soli te Domino...Vade santana inventor et magister omnis...libertate servire te rogamus audi nos...CRAP.

Freakin pen just ran out of ink. Halfway back to the room to get another pen, he hears muffled music coming from there. Not the ususal Wendy-tunes...this is something much slower, something altogether different, a whole different genre, something new on Wendy’s playlist. As he gets closer, he hears another muffled sound...Dean singing. Low and crooning. What the hell IS that song? When he finally opens the door, he is greeted by a sight to behold.

Dean is getting the full Magic Fingers treatment...the bed is fairly humming with vibration...and Dean’s body with it. Sam swears the bed is...purring. With contentment. Dean’s eyes are closed and in his deepest, smoothest voice, he’s singing in perfect unison to...Barry White’s rich, resonant, sexy Never, Never Gonna Give You Up.

...I've got to keep you pleased in every way I can
Gonna give you all of me
As much as you can stand

Make love to you right now
That's all I want to do
I know you need it, girl,
and you know I need it, too...

BARRY WHITE??? Oh, this is a whole other side of Dean that Sam has never witnessed. Who knew? This is too freakin good. Sam cannot contain himself one second longer.

“Ms. Magic Fingers is hitting on Dean Winchester!!!” He howls with laughter.

Dean’s eyes fly open at the sound of his brother’s snorts of laughter and he jerks out of his golden reverie.

“What the FUCK, Sammy? You scared the holy crap out of me! Freakin ASSHOLE!” Barry doesn’t miss a beat and continues his sensual, smoking hot love song.

“Uh...should I leave you and Ms. Magic Fingers...er, Wendy...alone?” Sam asks, slapping his thigh as he snorts again.

“Shut up, jerk.” Dean spits out in annoyance. “It’s not like I have a freakin choice...I am a somewhat captive audience.”

“Oh, that ain’t gonna work with me...you obviously know ALL the lyrics and were singing in perfect tune! Mr. Hardcore Metallica is also Mr. Hardcore Barry White! HAH...just when I thought I knew all there is to know about my big brother!”

“Bite me.” Dean could cheerfully launch something at Sam’s head...if only he had something. The miserable Sasquatch.

“Hey, I just came back for a pen to finish drafting the exorcism.” Sam states, before he can catch himself, as he wipes away a tear of laughter and reaches inside his backpack.

Oops.” Sam says under his breath.

Well, that’s all it took.

As soon as Sam says the word EXORCISM, Wendy launches Dean into round two of the Blue Nirvana Bull Riding Competition, complete with Barry Manilow’s Mandy blaring at top volume.

“Goddamn it, Sammy! Now you’ve upset and pissed her off again! And I STILL haven’t gotten a full Magic Fingers session since we got here...thanks to your freakin ass!” Dean yells, as he slams the IW with the side of his fist. Then howls in pain.

Sam just grins and cackles in brotherly glee, grabs his pen and makes a beeline for the door.

“Hey, Dean...keep Wendy happy!” Sam yells over his shoulder, as he retreats out the front door.

“Freakin BITCH!” Dean yells.

“Love you, too, dude!” Sam laughs and shuts the door behind him. Sam grins wide. Knowing Dean’s guilty little pleasure could come in handy down the road.

“Man, I need to take a freakin LEAK!” Dean suddenly rolls over in sheer frustration and body slams the IW...and promptly launches himself on the floor with a dull THUD...the wind knocked out of him. Dazed, his eyes huge with surprise and confusion, he cautiously raises his head and peers up between the beds. Nothing. Quiet.

He suddenly makes a mad dash for the bathroom. He skids to a stop in front of the toilet. AH...sweet freakin RELIEF! He never knew how much he could miss a toilet.

“Hey, SAM...possession OVER!!!” he yells triumphantly from the bathroom.

Dean happily plops himself into a burnt orange chair, twists open a cold beer, downs half of it in one gulp and starts voraciously eating his Arby’s, after quickly squeezing three packets of Horsey sauce on the cold roast beef sandwich. He practically inhales it with orgasmic delight. With a huge mouthful, he stares at the bed...shakes his head, laughs and mumbles under his breath, “Freakin bitch.”

Just as he takes another bite, he is instantly propelled...as if on a rocket sled...from his chair back square into the middle of his bed...SPLAT. He lands face down...a bit of roast beef trailing out of his mouth onto the bedspread. REO Speedwagon’s Can’t Fight This Feeling, at full blast, sets the mood.

“Son of a BITCH!!! SAMMY!!!”

Just as Sam is finishing the last spiritus sanctus to his one-of-a-kind, newly-hobbled-together exorcism (of which he is rather proud) for bitchy beds named Wendy...if the freakin thing works...he hears Dean’s loud, muffled yell from the room. Scrambling to his feet and grabbing his notepad and the journal, he races full tilt to the room.

He throws open the door and sees a half-eaten Arby’s and wrapper strewn all over the carpet and Dean, laying face down on his rumpled bed, his legs and arms all askew, a sullen expression on his face. Wendy is playing ELO’s Evil Woman.

“Uh, Sammy...you about ready with the...uh, special order hoodoo?” he asks forlornly.

“Yeah, Dean, got it right here. Just give me a minute. Hang on, dude!” Sam answers and quickly goes outside.

Sam rummages through the Impala’s trunk...grabs the Bible, a rosary, his special flip-top plastic bottle of holy water and a twenty-five pound bag of rock salt.

He quickly returns, sets the supplies on his bed and proceeds to generously pour rock salt around the perimeter of Dean’s bed. Then, to insure success, he pours it all over the bed, including Dean.

“Goddamn it, Sammy...what the fuck you doing?!!!” Dean yells, spitting out rock salt, as he desperately whisks salt out of his hair and shakes it from the inside of his shirt.

“Shut up, dude. It won’t hurt you...hell, it might even do you some good...I’m just covering all bases.” Sam confidently replies. Evil Woman continues to accompany the ceremony.



The salting complete, Sam quickly continues to the next step. He grabs his bottle of holy water, flips open the end, and starts squirting it all over the bed... and Dean.

“DUDE!” Dean exclaims.

“Hey, you’ll drip dry. Quit bitching.” Sam says drily, as he accidently squirts Dean in the eye.

“Oops, sorry.” Sam offers contritely.


OK, moment of truth. Sam quickly takes up the open Bible, places the rosary down the center with the end hanging down and starts to read from his newly formulated exorcism.

His voice is rich, deep, practiced, as he begins, “...Regno terrae cantate Deo, soli te Domino...”

Evil Woman suddenly turns into Santana's Black Magic Woman with a SCREAMING, jet-engine-decibel, ear shattering vengeance. At least Wendy has some great taste in music.

At this point, Wendy again launches an unwilling and supremely unhappy Dean into a third round of Blue Nirvana bull riding...this time with the meanest, most ornery bull in the corral.

“Oh, NOT AGAIN!” Dean yells, as he flails helplessly and wildly, hanging on desperately with one hand to the side of the bed. The bed is bucking violently, lurching up and down, backwards and forwards, from one foot to the other, the bedspread flying with each jump and roll.

Sam circles the bed and calmly continues, “Vade santana inventor et magister omnis...”

Sam finally comes to the end of his incantation, “...libertate servire te rogamus audi nos...spiritus sanctus.”

He stops, looks up at Dean, who, with wild and beseeching eyes, continues to valiantly ride the bucking Blue Nirvana monster. This one’s gone way beyond eight seconds. Hey, Dean is certainly improving.

Dean’s wild ride continues all the way to the very end of Black Magic Woman. He collapses in a stone still heap, as he heaves loudly for breath.

“Wendy, you’re a freakin BITCH!” Dean gasps in a pissed off and exhausted voice.

Wendy does not retaliate at this insult, but, apparently having made her point loud and clear, merely hits the repeat button on her playlist and starts playing Black Magic Woman again...although, this time, much softer.

Sam drops to his bed and sits, the salt bag at his feet, the empty holy water bottle and Bible in hand. He stares at his brother, now covered with glistening, pristine white, slushy rock salt and holy water. Hell, if nothing else...if that doesn’t purify Dean, nothing will.

“Well, apparently I don’t have all the kinks worked out of my...eviction notice.”

“Apparently not.” Dean states sullenly, a dejected look on his face.

Wendy...2 Winchesters...0

Sam puts down his beer and continues typing on his laptop. Dean stares covetously at Sam’s beer, as he idly picks rock salt out of his hair.

“Hey, Dean, we’ll just let the rock salt and holy water dry, then we’ll vacuum you and the bed.” Sam tries to placate his brother. He has the DustBuster charging up nearby.

“You’re all heart, Sammy.”

Sam is making yet another effort to get to the bottom of the Wendy phenomenon. Clearly a different approach is needed.



Hell, why didn’t I think of this before, Sam asks himself. He continues to read.

“Helping you experience a relaxing, soothing sleep environment.”


“Promotes sound relaxing sleep environment!”
“Helps reduce stress!”

Lying bastards.

“Enhances total relaxation!”


“the clock timer activates the massage unit!”
“Specially designed on/off touch buttons!”

Obviously a massively defective product.

Lies. All freakin lies. Lying, scum-sucking dogs.

Clearly looks like an excellent case for deceptive trade practices and false advertising.

Oh...wait. What’s this?

Magic Fingers Instruction Manual.

Sam quickly scans the manual, downs the last of his beer and heads for the Impala.

Minutes later, Sam returns with their tool kit. As he opens the tool kit and kneels in front of the Magic Fingers machine, he softly says, “Uh, Wendy...I have an idea and need to ask you a favor.”

Black Magic Woman immediately lowers in volume and fades to background noise.

Dean and Sam exchange glances, each with raised eyebrows.

Encouraged, Sam continues softly, “Wendy, I’ll bet in all the years you’ve been hard at work here at the Blue Nirvana, you’ve rarely, if ever, have had any special attention paid to you. Am I right?”

The bed creaks...almost like a moan.

“Thought so.” Sam says. “Well, then, if you’ll allow me, I intend to fix that.”

Black Magic Woman ceases altogether.

Taking that as a yes, Sam sets about to work. He disassembles the machine, vacuums out the dust, lint and one dead cockroach, oils all the parts, replaces a fraying wire and retrieves Dean’s Canadian quarter, Mexican peso and shiny slot machine token, not to mention a hardened piece of bubble gum...all of which he promptly tosses into the wastebasket. He then turns his attention to the motor and completes the same maintenance process. He reassembles everything and closes the tool kit, wiping his hands with a towel.

“OK, Wendy, you’re looking real good now.” Sam offers expectantly, as he even cleans the face of the machine with sweet smelling orange cleaner.


Dean, mesmerized by the whole process, cocks an eyebrow and says, “OK, Sammy, let’s see what’s on Ms. Wendy’s playlist now.”

Sam reaches into his pocket, then tentatively places a quarter into Magic Fingers.

Both boys hold their breath.

Almost immediately, Wendy offers up the sweet, clear, triumphant melody of Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Not only that, she offers up smooth, soothing, gentle Magic Fingers to Dean, who sighs with huge relief. “I knew you were a sweetheart, Wendy.” he smiles.

Sam grins wide and proclaims a victorious, “Yes!!!”

After dustbusting Dean of dried rock salt, Sam grabs two cold beers, hands one to Dean, who gulps it down with abandon, burping loudly.

“Here’s to Wendy!” Dean toasts, as he and Sam clink bottles.

Sam throws Dean the unopened roll of quarters, then flops down on his own bed. Dean exuberantly tears into the roll, leans over and deposits a quarter into the machine at the same time Sam deposits a quarter into his machine.

As Sam closes his eyes and succumbs to the tender ministrations of Magic Fingers, he lazily smiles and says, “Yeah, Dean...Ms. Wendy wasn’t evil... all she needed was a little TLC...a little respect...and a good lube job.”

“Well, that sounds vaguely dirty.” Dean quips, as he places another quarter into his machine.

This time, he is determined to get to the oh-God-yes part.

Magic Fingers and Winchesters. Clearly made for each other.

A week later and 1207 miles away...they pull into town in front of the county library to research their next case...Mutant Dayglo Orange/Kiwi Green Flesh-Eating Trolls. Dean expertly parallel parks the Impala on a dime...they both roll out. Sam stands at the parking meter, pulls some change from his pocket and searches the coins in his hand.

“Hey, Dean, you got a quarter?”

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Hee! That was very entertaining! Thanks for the fun read! *snerks at stuck!Dean and cold Arby's*

Thanks, pyrebi! You're welcome...happy you enjoyed it.

And Dean is SO entertaining to write. Dean, the big, bad hunter...brought down by a bed and his beloved Magic Fingers!!!

Nice job! :D

Hey there Naughty,

This was very funny and fun to read! Although at first I loved the pics and links I found they became a distraction from your writing. Very creative and humourous writing. You really pegged the characters too.

Thanks for the nice compliments, cameragrl!

You know, I debated about using pics and links. I wondered how an illustrated fic would work compared to a regular fic...if it would be a distraction...and if so, how much of one? But, I thought, I'll give it a shot just for fun and see what happens. I don't know if I'll do any more illustrated stories...the jury's still out on that one.

I just found this and really enjoyed it alot. Poor Dean, I'd feel sorry for him if it hadn't been so funny. I just have one question, nothing can get through the invisible wall, dean can't have a beer, but sam was able to toss salt and holy water on him. Why was he able to do the one and not the other. or am I being to picky over some seriously fun crack? no matter what, I had a great time with the read. And also, I love when people go interactive. I hope you decide to do it again, just don't make it have so many links. i can't pick which picture I like best. they're all so great and silly.

Simply awesome!!!

I loved the pics punctuating the random thoughts that went through the Winchester's mind. The mundaneness of such items only increased the hilarity and realness of the telling. Great characterization and I loved how the IW was defeated and the story ultimately ended.

Also I absolutely adored the drunken Sam letter. *heart*

Great job! Seriously impressive! I chuckled more than a few times - Barry Manilow?! Priceless lol.

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