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I Dean of Genie	By : rae_roberts Category: Supernatural > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2233 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Supernatural, nor do I own any rights to either Disney's Aladdin or I Dream of Genie, which I have heavily ripped off for this fic. No money is being made from this silly little fic.

Chapter List
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Dean sauntered into the dingy motel room with even more than his usual cocky swagger. It was close to dawn; he’d lost track hours ago of how many shots of whiskey he’d knocked back, but as a demon he wasn’t feeling any pain from the aftereffects of cheap liquor. He’d sung karaoke, getting the usual boos and taunts from the crowd. Best of all, a couple of tough, grizzled bikers, members of some local outlaw club, had taken such offense to his singing they’d picked a fight. Chuckling as he replayed the resulting carnage in his mind, Dean brushed a few flecks of dried blood off the front of his shirt. With his free hand, he reached down to turn on the bedside lamp.
Green eyes flicked to solid, gleaming black as he took in the sight of Charlie Bradbury standing silent and tense in the bathroom doorway. The hacker-turned-hunter’s red hair was shorter than when he’d last seen her--back before the Mark of Cain, back when he’d still been human--but the denim jacket, blue jeans, and t-shirt printed with some geek catchphrase was classic Charlie. Tomboy clothes, but the demon that had once been Dean Winchester noted how the tight denim clung to the curves of her hips, the way her shirt couldn’t completely hide the full swell of her breasts, and he licked his lips in anticipation as he stalked closer.
“Well look at you. Little Charlie, back from Oz. Tell me, kiddo,” Dean purred, “you still a skirt-chaser?”
“Always and forever,” Charlie retorted with a smirk.
She had a gun, Dean noted, almost as an afterthought, and her eyes were wide with anxiety in spite of the studied casualness of her tone. Nervousness bordering on fear. His cock went instantly hard at the thought. Of making her afraid. Of making her hurt.
“Bullets can’t hurt me, Charlie.” He took another step toward her, and then another, crowding close as she raised the gun. White teeth gleamed in the dim light as the demon grinned, reaching for her. “Bet I can convert you--
Son of a bitch!” Dean growled as Charlie scampered out of his reach. He’d hit the invisible wall of a devil’s trap.
“It’s over, Dean,” Sam said from the doorway. Long strides carried him into the room, where he nudged at a tear in the grungy carpet with the toe of his shoe, revealing the edge of the trap painted on the concrete beneath.
“Oh, I’m going to enjoy killing you, Sammy. No second chances this time.” Dean’s eyes were cold, fathomless black pits. They flicked back to heated green as he turned back to Charlie.   “And you. I’m going to be sure and take my sweet time with you.    Make you scream.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Charlie advanced, right up to the edge of the trap, rising up on tiptoe to look the demon straight in the eye. “We’re going to get the real Dean back, you evil piece of crap! Come on, Sam,” she urged. “I’ve heard enough.”
Sam Winchester began to chant, but instead of the familiar Latin of an exorcism, it was a language Dean had rarely heard other than the occasional snippet on the evening news, before the voice-over of a translator kicked in. And instead of the usual bowl of blood or herbs or other spell components, Sam was holding an ornate glass bottle.
Dean felt something cold touch his wrists, heard the faint but distinct clink of metal against metal. The sound was evocative, immediately bringing to mind the shackles and chains Sam had kept him bound in while he’d tried and failed to turn him human again, but when Dean looked down all he saw were two plain but highly polished metal cuffs. No sigils or enchantments, just a sturdy, masculine bracelet ringing each forearm.
“What the hell?” Even as he spoke, he dissolved into smoke, but it wasn’t the inky black of a demon. This smoke was purple, and it streamed out of the devil’s trap and toward the confines of the bottle, swirling and shifting in a cloud in front of the tall hunter as if trying to resist.
“It’s working!” Charlie said. “Keep it up, Sam!”
Dean struggled against the insistent, inexorable pull of the chant. Dimly, he could hear his brother’s voice grow louder.   Try as he might, Dean couldn’t fight it. The cloud of smoke narrowed and flowed down the neck of the bottle. Once the last purple wisp was safely inside, Sam pushed in the stopper.
“We did it.”   Sam and Charlie stared at the bottle in Sam’s hands.
Inside, the smoke coiled around and around, swirling over every nook and cranny of the fluted glass. It streamed up the neck of the bottle to probe futilely at the cork wedged snug in the opening, then back down to spin in furious circles around the interior. Gradually the frantic pace slowed as Dean came to his senses. The smoke coalesced, taking on shape and form, and he found himself standing in the center of a circular room.
Dean turned, taking in the opulent decor. Banquettes upholstered in lush purple velvet lined the entire perimeter, scattered with an amazing profusion of pastel satin pillows. The gilded walls glimmered with jewels. They seemed to be made of glass, but when Dean peered closer, the surface was frosted. Opaque. He couldn’t see outside. No windows, then, and no door, either. The glass ceiling rose steep and slick, impossible to climb.
He set aside thoughts of escaping and began an instinctive mental inventory, checking for the weapons he always carried.
“Son of a bitch.”   Dean looked down at himself, bemused. He was shirtless, the lower portion of his body swathed in low-slung baggy trousers that gathered at the knee and draped in poofs of fabric to his ankles.   He cursed; it was instantly apparent that there weren’t any pistols concealed in the folds of purple silk. Nor any of the usual things Dean carried. No wallet, no lighter, no lockpicks…
“Damn it, I feel naked,” Dean groused. In more ways than one.   Whoever had dressed him in this get-up had decided to have him go commando. The fabric against his skin was sinfully sheer. Silky.
…He kind of liked it.
Dean put the thought aside and continued his survey, letting out a low groan of dismay at his feet, clad in shiny gold slippers with turned-up toes. He crossed his arms, scowling, muscles tensed, his posture fairly radiating his disgust with the whole situation. Dean was too annoyed to even notice the turban perched on his head.
A blink, and in an instant the genie costume was gone, replaced by Dean’s usual flannel and worn denim. He wiggled his toes gratefully.
“Huh,” he murmured consideringly.    No stranger to dealing with bizarre situations, Dean blinked again, conjuring himself a sledgehammer. Two strides took him to the glass wall. Booted feet braced against the banquette, he took a mighty swing at the fluted glass wall. And again. And again.
Each time, the hammer rebounded harmlessly. Not so much as a scratch in the gilded filigree. Dean briefly considered conjuring a ladder, but then rolled his eyes at his own idiocy and levitated up the chimney of the strange, round chamber. Feet and shoulders wedged against the narrow cylinder, he pushed against the manhole cover blocking the exit, straining with all his strength to raise it, but it wouldn’t budge.
He let himself drift back down to the carpeted floor. Escape clearly wasn’t an option. That left confrontation with who or whatever had imprisoned him here. Dean shook his head. Why make him a prisoner, and give him powers even beyond those of a Knight of Hell? It made no sense. Well, whoever had done this to him would find out their mistake. A blink, and he was fully armed, equipped with his usual personal arsenal.
...All except the First Blade. Another blink at that, this one of confusion. Had he been stripped of the Mark of Cain? Dean pushed up his sleeve. No, there was the Mark, just above the strange metal cuff circling his forearm. Another thing he had no control over, Dean realized. The cuffs didn’t respond to his newfound powers, and there were no clasps, no mechanism for removing them. Too many questions racing through his mind, and no way just now to get any answers.
He cursed again, but quietly, resigned, and sat down on the purple sectional, steeling himself to endure what might turn out to be a long wait.   The banquette was comfortable, he decided, but it could use a little more lumbar support. Dean fluffed a throw pillow or two, arranging them to his satisfaction behind the small of his back. And while he was at it…
A blink, and a perfectly chilled beer bottle materialized in his hand, sweating fat drops of condensation.   A cherry pie, fresh from the oven, balanced on his knee. The soothing strains of heavy metal began to blast from an unseen surround sound system; Some Kind of Monster always helped calm him down. As far as being a prisoner went, Dean had to admit, this wasn’t half bad.
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I Dean of Genie