By Minim Calibre
Notes: Spoilers for episode 2×15, Tall Tales. Dean/Starla. Another beta job by F7, another late night motivation. The person who inspired this knows who they are. All names have been left off to protect the innocent.
Starla’s her real name.
It’s on her birth certificate and everything. She used to carry a copy of it in her purse along side her Social Security card, until this one time when she’d left her purse at Derek’s, only she thought she’d left it at that dive over on 12th, or maybe in class, and anyhow, she’d spent a whole day canceling her credit cards and freaking out about identity theft and the whole notion of some other Starla Kristine Jones running around committing all sorts of horrible crimes and getting parking tickets. By the time Derek sobered up enough to notice that there was a pink furry handbag on his dresser half-hidden under a pair of boxer briefs, she’d resolved to turn over a new leaf and never, ever, ever do anything that stupid again, because as annoying as it is to have to explain for, like, the millionth time that her mother wanted to name her Stephanie and her Dad wanted to name her Carla, so they compromised, which was the last thing they agreed on until they agreed on a divorce when she was five, it’s way less annoying than having some freak running around ruining her good name and so-so credit rating.
Starla’s her real name, and yes, she is a natural blonde, even if she does let Clairol perk things up from time to time. Sure, it’s dishwater at the roots, but that still counts.
Purple Nurples? Are so totally awesome. Plus it’s Happy Hour Returns, so they’re totally cheap, which means she can drink enough of them to totally forget about stupid Derek, stupid undergrads, stupid profs, and this whole stupid week, which has her totally wishing she’d picked a different field of study. Anthropology and folklore? What the hell was she thinking? God, she should have just stuck with French, even if her accent totally stank.
Stupid grad school.
Then she hears a guy at the bar asking about local urban legends, and it might be the four Purple Nurples, but he’s totally hot, and suddenly, all is forgiven as far as anthropology and folklore are concerned.
Oh, it is so not the Purple Nurples.
He really is that hot.
Funny, too. Okay, that might be the Purple Nurples.
“To us,” he says, and slams one down.
She giggles, belching a little, which so freaking embarrassing, and thank god he doesn’t notice, and slams down her fifth Purple Nurple of the night. “To us.”