Danko was methodical. So he dealt with it the only way he knew how. He made alist and weighed his options:

Cons: (Pessimists always do cons first)

1. It wasn't work. Yes, he would learn more about Sylar, but it wasn't technically work. Anything that takes time from work gets an automaticpoint for the con side.

2. He had nothing to wear. He would have to stop at the mall on the way home. He hated the mall. He hated any confined space full of annoying people whom he wasn't allowed to threaten. And the orange smoothies always looked so tempting but later they made him sick.

3. This might be a devious plan for Sylar to kill him. Definite con.

Okay, Danko, thought, now the Pro side:

1. To be fair, Sylar wouldn't really need a devious plan if he wanted to kill somebody.

2. Sylar would probably be a very good dancer. Hell, he had probably killed someone with special ass-shaking powers. Seriously, how many useless powers does this guy have?

3. He could use this opportunity to study Sylar, which might be to his advantage later.

4. Danko's favorite celebrity crushes were Lady Gaga and Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Sylar had transformed himself into the most exquisite mix of them both. Danko looked up and down the thigh-high white boots, the avant-garde structured bodice in colors that you never see together, the gorgeous hair, the perfect body, the body language that screamed 'sexy but ironic.' Who could resist that?

"Fine, let's go. But I choose the club," said Danko finally. Four is more than three, he thought to himself, you can't argue with cold hard numbers.

I have never written these two before:


“Do you have Eye of the Tiger?”

“No, Bret, no.” Jermaine shoves Bret out of the way and grabs the microphone. “I want ‘Let’s Dance’—do you have that on your record player?” The DJ looks distinctly unimpressed, and begins flicking through a rack of cds.

Bret leans over, taking the microphone back from Jermaine’s hands and holding it tightly. “No Jermaine,” he hisses, “You said we could do the Eye of the Tiger this time.”

“I want to do Let’s Dance.”

“But it’s my turn to pick the song. You said I could pick the song.”

“But I don’t want to do the Eye of the Tiger; it’s a very violent song, Bret.”

“It’s not violent. It’s just about a tiger. And his eye. It’s the eye of the tiger.”

“It’s violent.” Jermaine grabs the microphone from Bret, and switches it on. There is the harsh sound of feedback coming through the speakers, followed by heavy breathing as Jermaine tries desperately to hang on to the microphone. “Bret, you’re hitting me. Stop hitting me, Bret.” Jermaine’s voice booms out of the speakers. “You see, it’s a violent song. Look what it’s doing to you.”

There is a scuffle, and the microphone is pulled from Jermaine’s hands. “It’s NOT violent.” Bret breathes into the microphone, “I just want to sing Eye of the Tiger. You said we could. You always do this. You’re just trying to show off. It’s so embarrassing!”

“You’re the one who’s showing off. Give me the microphone!” Jermaine rushes at Bret, toppling him. They crash onto the floor and start writhing around, desperately trying to wrestle the mic out of each other’s hands. Suddenly there is a strange crashing sound, and then everything goes quiet. Bret looks up, and sees the DJ has pulled the power. He and Bret stay on the floor, breathing heavily, the now-silent microphone rolling away from them across the small stage.

Suddenly a voice starts speaking behind them.

“Well guys, you seem to have lost the biggest audience you’ve had in months. Well done.”

“I told you a karaoke bar isn’t a gig, Murray.” Bret says petulantly.

“Murray, I want to go home,” Jermaine whines, rubbing a cut on his forehead.

“Well you’re performing. You’re performing in front of people. Well you were, until he walked off. Professionalism guys. Something you’re lacking it seems…actually, I’ll write that on the list for tomorrow’s meeting. Pro-fess-ional-ism. Now Jermaine, get that cut cleaned up; it’s not a good look. We’re not ‘in the hood’ you know. The only thing you’ve both succeeded in doing this evening is embarrassing yourselves. Now say sorry.”

“Sorry,” Bret shrugs, looking in the opposite direction.

“Sorry,” Jermaine says quietly.

“Still want to do Eye of the Tiger,” Bret mutters under his breath as they exit the bar.

Carmina Burana (sorry it's 4 months late :P)

"Th-That iss not really fair!" slurred Misha with sureness.

"What is?" giggled Jensen.

He always got giggly when he was drunk or when he was around Misha for too long. Obviously those two factors combined made him now a giggling mess, sitting on the floor between the legs of two other men sprawled on the couch.

"He's bigger... So he needs to get more alcohol to get drunk!"

"Yeah," agreed Jensen with a sad sigh. "And he's so big there's so much more space on him to lick, when we're get to doing body shots."

Misha frowned at it and then looked back at Jared's body, shaking his head.

"We're sooo screwed," he stated sadly.

"If I'm not gonna get too drunk," said Jared with a happy smile, his chins slighlty flushed, "you just may be."

Jensen giggled and Misha licked his lips, deep in thought. Finally he moved the bottle away from Jared.

Sylar never liked going to the bathroom while he was out with Mohinder. Besides the usual feeling of his right-hand side being that little bit colder when it didn't have Mohinder sitting beside him, no matter how fast he was, there were always at least a couple of men or women checking him out by the time he returned. It wasn't the competition he worried about - Suresh had voiced enough complaints while Sylar was still pursuing him to know that he must be with him for a reason - but it got rather tiresome knowing that, while Mohinder was his, his beauty could still be enjoyed by anyone who cared to glance his way.

However, four bars in as many hours had taken its toll, and Sylar had had to quickly excuse himself upon their arrival. The sooner he found someone with a power to counteract this highly inconvenient call of nature, the better.

As he pushed his way back through the crowds, he was relieved to see Mohinder was still alone. Though, as he got closer, he could understand - he was looking a little worse for wear. Those novelty shots in the other bar had probably been a bad idea, but Mohinder always got so competitive when Nathan challenged him...

He slid onto the stool next to him and gingerly put a hand on his shoulder. "Mohinder? Are you all right?"

Curly hair in complete disarray, Mohinder blearily looked up from his drink to Sylar. "Hellooo?"

"Mohinder, it's me, Sylar."

"Oh, I know." Mohinder beamed, but then frowned. "You disappeared briefly. I was mildly disconcerted."

Oh dear. Unlike most people who got slurred, Mohinder always became more articulate when drunk. Sylar presumed it was because he was having to concentrate more on what he was saying, and the thesaurus-powered vocabulary of his research was the first thing that came to mind.

"Bathroom," said Sylar, gesturing behind him. As Mohinder span round to see what he was pointing at (and nearly fell off his stool in the process) Sylar quickly TK'ed Mohinder's drink away from him and put it on the stool behind him. Mohinder turned back, and stared in bafflement at the space where his drink had just been. After staring intently for a few seconds, he shrugged, and just gazed into the space ahead of him, smiling dreamily.

"Mohinder?" repeated Sylar.

"That is me?" said Mohinder, swinging his head round to face Sylar again.

"... yes. I think we'd better be getting you home, don't you?"

Mohinder thought for a second. "YES," he said finally, "Yes, I think that would be excellent. I can do research. My father's research! Research research research," he babbled on as Sylar put Mohinder's arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet off the stool, "Researchee searchee smirchee eeeee...."

Mohinder fell into indistinct mumbling as Sylar tried to negotiate their way out of the crowded bar. Suddenly, he called, "SYLAR?"

"Still here," said Sylar.

"I know." Mohinder was beaming dreamily again. "You're always there. You always were, in your mildly creepy stalker way... You know, I don't say it enough, but I love you, man."

"You've actually never said it," pointed out Sylar.

"Wow," mused Mohinder, "I must be wasted. But it's TRUE! I should tell you more. I should tell everyone that... that..."

For a moment, Sylar actually believed Mohinder was too overcome with emotion to speak. But a look at the doctor's rapidly-greenifying face warned him that he was being overcome by something else entirely. Sylar just about managed to TK over a garbage can in time before Mohinder crumpled at the waist and clung onto the rim of the can for dear life.

"Thank you, Mohinder," said Sylar, patting the man's shaking back as he heaved the entire contents of the night into the garbage can, "I love you too."

It was Luke's idea to come to this drive-in movie theater. He'd never been to one, since all of the ones near him closed long before he was even a baby. Sylar couldn't remember ever going to one either-- that is until they actually got there, then the flashbacks started.

He was nine-years-old when his new parents brought him to see a reshowing of Star Wars. Darth Vader had scared him so much though, that he'd started sobbing and eventually his father'd smacked him across the face, forced him to watch and refused to let him cry. He wasn't only a watchmaker; he was a bastard too.

He shivered as he recalled this moment in his past, but then Luke cuddled up next to him, laughing at whatever was playing on the screen. Sylar hadn't been paying attention; he'd missed the joke and he'd missed the fact that Luke was warm and comfortable, the first thing in his life that he could call his own, that wouldn't walk out of his life, or abuse him, or tell him he wasn't good enough.

He needed to start paying more attention to what was in front of him instead of what was behind.

"So what's the job?" Sam asked. He buttoned up his shirt and reached for a tie. Dean reached over and loosed the top buttons and batted away his hands.

"No tie."

"Ooookay." Sam's forehead furrowed as Dean helped him with coat. Dean, his brother Dean, helping him to dress.

"Dean?"

His brother's sigh was full of exasperation as he shoved his feet into shoes. His jacket was next followed by his keys and wallet. Sam opened his mouth to prod his brother more but Dean was opening the door to their room. "Hurry up, Sammy. We can't be late."

Late?

Sam wisely kept his mouth shut even though his mind was busy on who was sitting beside him and where was his brother. Shapeshifter, evil spirit, demon....

Dean pulled in front of a nice Italian restaurant and killed the Impala. "Not too fancy, don't need ties. Move your ass, Sam."

Sam trailed behind his brother, ignored the knowing smiles of the wait staff only to pull up short at the secluded booth. Dimly lit and was that candles?

"Everything is prepared, Mr. Winchester."

Winchester?!? Sam sat cautiously and noticed the faint pink about Dean's ridiculously high cheekbones and the tips of his ears.

"Dinner reservations?"

Dean's eyes bounced around before meeting Sam's. His brother's hand shot out and covered Sam's with a brief squeeze. Then he was clearing his throat and reaching for the wine goblet.

"Yeah, well," Dean's swigged the wine as if it were beer, his green eyes soft. "Happy Birthday, Sammy."

hah THANK YOU

The prompt ate my brain and the response is too long to fit in the box. So here's the first bit:

“Dean, this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Sammy. I have a plan.” Dean decisively put his beer bottle on the table as he got up and walked to the front of the bar.

Sam sighed as Dean walked away. He should’ve been paying more attention when they pulled into the parking lot, but if you’ve seen one bar you’ve seen them all. Why would this one be any different? But the big “KAREOKE CONTEST” sign should’ve been a warning to Sam, particularly since they were dangerously low on cash and between credit cards.

Dean came back to the table looking far too pleased with himself. “This’ll be great Sammy. Since we signed up so late we won’t perform until close to the end. It’ll give us a chance to size up the competition.”

Sam didn’t care much about the competition. “We? WE? I’m not signing with you Dean.”

Dean looked affronted, “Of course not!” He took a swig of his beer and turned his gaze toward the stage. “I’m a solo act.” Sam began to sputter in protest, but Dean ignored him. “All part of the plan, Sammy.”

Sam sighed deeply again. There was no point in arguing. When it came right down to it, the need for cash outweighed Sam’s dislike of singing in front of a crowd. He knew it and so did Dean. The best he could hope for would be that Dean hadn’t signed him up to sing “I Touch Myself” or “I Enjoy Being a Girl”.


Here's the rest of it - Can You Even Spell Gershwin?

Yes, I realize that this is probably far more alcohol being consumed in a short time period than could legally be served. Handwave it for the love of fiction, yes?


Chris and Steve have just finished performing (well, not accounting for the blow job Chris gave Steve backstage) when they belly up to the bar. They're wound up and feeling crazy, and it doesn't once occur to them that they shouldn't be ordering shots when it's Mikey that's mixing drinks. Especially not once Chris makes the implication that there's no way in hell Steve can keep up with his drinking.

They start with the easy stuff. A shot of vodka, a Purple Nurple, a Buttery Nipple and a Fuzzy Navel, followed quickly by Sex with an Alligator and a Red Headed Slut. At which point Mike refuses to let them choose their own shots, and every shot they get has a dirty, dirty implication. There's the 1-900-FUK-MEUP, a Southern Screw (just because it gave Mike the giggles), an Alley Shooter, the Screaming Multiple Climax, and a Cum in a Hot Tub. There's a brief pause for a glass of water and a piss, and the next shot Mike gives them is a Cornhole's Revenge. They're all snickering at that. Then Chris and Steve nearly make a mess of themselves trying to give each other Blow Jobs.

Mike says he's giving them a break when he slides over a drink. It's kind of a kick in the ass, and then he tells them it's his Cymbal Wileding Monkey.

Then, of course, things get serious. Steve's been keeping up with Chris shot for shot, and as far as Chris is concerned? That just won't do. There's another break for water, because Jeff has absolutely no intention of taking anyone to the hospital to get their stomach pumped.

They start with the Rattlesnake, and Steve punches Chris in the arm for not warning him that his tongue would go numb. He glares at Christian when he orders the Scorpion, makes him swear there's no funny business about it. Not that he doesn't make a face once he's swallowed it down.

It finally occurs to them that this game might not have been such a brilliant idea when Mike is staring at them, looking utterly wicked. "I know how to end this," Mike says. They both blink and swallow hard. "Satan's Rainbow."

By silent, mutual agreement, the contest is declared a draw and they back away swiftly before Mike can make the drink.

"So, chosen something yet?" asked Dean, putting his empty glass down on the table, "Because I could really use that free pitcher right about now."

Castiel was still frowning at the long list of songs in the folder they'd been given, squinting occasionally as though the letters were going in and out of focus. "People really do this for entertainment?"

"Well, not really," said Dean, wincing as the person currently on the karaoke machine completely failed to hit a high note, "You sing, you get a free pitcher, so people come for that. Also, the heckling." The angel still looked uncertain. "C'mon, Cas, don't you have all those heavenly choirs and crap up there?"

"We have been known to sing songs of celebration occasionally," Castiel allowed. He put down the folder open on the table a little more forcefully than he had intended, and frowned. "Dean, what was in that drink you gave me?"

"Same thing that's in every other drink in this place." Castiel looked alarmed. "Just makes you loosen up a bit, you know? Your vessel's probably used to it. So, you going to sing?"

"Must I?"

Dean shrugged. "It'd be awesome?"

"Then I shall." Castiel stood up, straightened his shoulders, and marched towards the karaoke machine as though walking into combat with Lucifer himself. Stifling a laugh, Dean took what was left of Castiel's drink and started to flick through the folder himself.

He had just hit 'M' when suddenly a terrible high-pitched noise filled the bar. Ear-splitting didn't come close - patrons screamed and dived from their chairs, hands clamped over their ears, as glasses shattered around them and the TVs over the bar exploded in showers of sparks.

Dean had followed the rest of the bar under the tables, but was the only one to look up towards Castiel, hands still over his ears. The angel was standing there, looking as though he was singing softly, swaying gently from side to side - but Dean understood.

"He's singing in his true voice," he muttered, "Goddammit, the angel's drunk!"

Everyone remained down for about three minutes as Castiel finished the song. As soon as he was done, the noise disappeared. People looked up at Castiel, who looked back, mildly embarrassed. Behind him, the karaoke machine let out a small *phut* and a puff of smoke.

Castiel slowly, with dignity, returned to his seat, where Dean was just scrambling out from under the table. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as everyone else ventured out, giving them odd looks, and conversation gradually returned to the bar.

"I don't think they appreciated it very much," said Castiel finally.

Dean shrugged. "They don't make any demands as to quality. Let's go get that pitcher, shall we?"

Waaaaay too long to fit in a comment...

Title: Where does Tony DiNozzo go for fun?
Rated: R
Excerpt: I love out of town cases. Always have, always will. I love the seedy hotel rooms, the ones where you can hear everything going on in the room next door. (I love getting the room next to Ziva - half the time, I'm not sure if she's getting herself off or trying to kill someone.) I love watching McGee pull out the GPS only to be forced to hold the large paper map. I love being trapped in the car with the same three people for hours on end, only to be trapped at a crime scene and, later, a hotel with the very same people. Most of all, though, I love being able to stay for an extra day in a new place once the case is closed; Gibbs thinks that if my report ends up on his desk somehow (usually by way of McGeek's email), I can be wherever I want to be.