UPDATE NOTE: This story is already complete, but I've changed the rating from 'M' down to 'T' as I did for my other story 'Can We Keep Him?', after having had a bit more of a look at what that rating involves on this site. In hindsight, it's really not terribly naughty, and doesn't contain anything that would make an average 13-year-old bat an eyelid. Put it down to newbiedom, and wanting to err on the side of caution.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, which is just as well, because I suspect they'd cost quite a lot to feed, to say nothing of hair product expenses.

RATING: T, for language (Hunters are just foul-mouthed creatures), Deans Rules About Having Sex and a rather naughty acronym.

SUMMARY: Sam's never seen Dean this happy: his big brother is cheerful, he's sleeping well, he's willingly eating whatever Sam puts in front of him - even if it looks suspiciously healthy. There's just one teensy weensy hitch with this happy state of affairs...

BLAME: This story is entirely the fault of the people who said such kind things about my first attempt at a fic - blame them. That's my line, and I'm sticking to it.

Chapter 1: Sam Remembers The Rules and Dean Shares Too Much Information.

"Well, this is new," mused Sam, as they returned to the Impala.

"Nothing new about women wanting to throw themselves at me, Sam," replied Dean, turning back to give Angeline Barrows a curtly professional FBI-On-The-Job nod as he got into the car. She lounged against the front door, looking at Dean with an expression that Sam had last seen three days ago – then, the expression had been lurking disreputably on Dean's face as he spotted a particularly delicious-looking piece of lemon meringue pie orphaned in the window of a cafe.

"That wasn't exactly what I was getting at," said Sam, watching a little bemusedly as Ms Barrows smiled at his brother in an uncomfortably predatory way, thinking idly that he'd be happier having a silver knife close to hand, "Although I was kinda surprised at your Serious Professional routine – since when do you refuse a woman's phone number?"

"Since she's on the rebound, Sam," sighed Dean, pulling the car away from the kerb, "Rule Number One: Never have sex with a woman who's rebounding like a squash ball off a cheerleader's ass."

"I thought Rule Number One was 'Never have sex with a woman who is married, engaged, de facto, or otherwise romantically attached to someone else', " queried Sam, loosening his tie.

"Okay, it's Rule Number Two, then…"

"No, Rule Number Two is: 'Never have sex with a woman who's drunk, unless she already agreed to it earlier when you were both sober'," corrected Sam.

"Right, yeah, that's important too, so it's…"

"Rule Number Three is: If there's any doubt about her age, ask to see ID – if she is of age, she'll be flattered'," recited Sam, his expression suggesting that he was reading from an internal autocue. "Rule Number Four: Never have sex with a woman and assume she's on the Pill – no glove, no love. Rule Number Five: Never have sex with a woman if she looks like she's been crying. Rule Number Six: Never have sex with a woman if there are kids in the house. Rule Number Seven: Always ask NICELY before you try to…"

"All right! Jesus, Sam," exclaimed Dean, "I had no idea you actually paid any attention to what I was trying to teach you about the niceties of Boy Meets Girl… the point is, you just don't take advantage of a woman on the rebound, okay? You just don't." He subsided into a glowering silence.

"Even if she's metaphorically waving a banner reading 'Come And Get It While It's Hot, Big Boy!'?"

"Especially if she's waving that banner," grumbled Dean.

Sam smiled fondly at his brother. "If I didn't know better, Dean, I'd think that beneath that roguish exterior beats the heart of a gentleman."

"I can play nice and still get laid plenty," said Dean, perhaps a trifle defensively, "That's just how awesome I am."

"Okay, okay, let's just agree that you're one of the best-behaved man-whores an unattached, sober, old-enough, contraceptive-using, childless, undistressed, possibly slightly kinky woman could ever hope to meet," conceded Sam, "What I was getting at, before I was distracted by a suspicion that Ms Barrows was going to jump on you with or without your informed consent, was that the 'I don't give a damn about him if anything I'm celebrating his disappearance' thing was, well, unexpected." He humphed. "Usually, when someone disappears, their nearest and dearest is worried, even if they had a huge argument beforehand; by the time we show up, when the police have drawn a blank, they're bordering on frantic. I don't call looking at you like she's a starving wolf and you're a prime rib steak exactly 'worried sick' behaviour."

"Yeah, you're right," agreed Dean, "But we've got seven more to go yet." He glanced over at his brother slyly. "At least I didn't get my shirt ruined, unlike somebody else…"

"It's not ruined, it'll wash out," mumbled Sam, his cheeks flushing and his expression indicating that the incident at the previous interview, in which their first interviewee had actually managed to get the drop on Sam and leave lipstick on his shirt, was NOT open for discussion at this time.

"And just how would you know about getting lipstick marks off shirts, Sammy?" asked Dean casually, smirking when his question was rewarded with a deepening of both scowl and blush.

"Basic chemistry," Sam growled, "It's a hydrophobic base, wax and oil, so treating it as a grease stain will get rid of it. Rub soap into the back of it, then heavy duty pre-wash spray, and warm water wash."

"Wow, I wish I'd consulted you months ago, Martha Stewart," remarked Dean, "Because I had this favorite pair of boxers, and they got Maybelline Very Berry on the waistband, and…"

"Dean! Too! Much! INFORMATION!" Sam yelped. Dean flashed his most winning 'Gotcha!' smile, and patted his brother's shoulder.

"I've taught you everything I know – well, everything you can bear to hear, anyway – and I trust you to be a big boy. You need to get laid, Sam." Sam sighed, and put his head in his hands. Dean's expression softened. "You okay, bro?"

"I'm fine. Just a headache," replied Sam.

"Well, not tonight, then, although maybe if you did go and get laid, you could give your upstairs brain the vacation it so desperately needs, and…"

Sam gave Dean a shot of Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk). "Well, one of us is going to have to think with the upstairs brain – we need to figure out what we're dealing with on this Hunt. Any time you feel like joining the adults at the big table, just say so."

Dean subsided. "Okay, okay, sorry, upstairs brain gets to drive tonight." His stomach rumbled. "How does dinner sound? I'm buying."

Sam sighed, closing his eyes. "Food sounds good."

"Right. We get out of the monkey suits, you do you pre-wash routine, and we go get dinner." Dean paused. "Just dinner, you understand, no strings attached, I don't expect you to sleep with me afterwards…"

"Jerk."