How The Fort Became Dean's Favorite Store [Slash, PG-13]
Title: How The Fort Became Dean’s Favorite Store
Author: bluegemeyes
Beta: Unbeta’d, because I wanted to get it up while I could, so I scanned it again a few times, even though I’d already sent it off, and it’s going up now. Sorry, hun! *wraps up Dean and gives him to thehighwaywoman to make up for it*
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Uhm…PG-13ish? Sounds about right
Word Count: 2,518
Spoilers: None, completely AU
Author’s Notes/Disclaimer: Written for the fluffandfold Challenge: Why Dean Winchester would make the best Boy Scout troop leader ever.
I do not own Sam or Dean (If I did, why would I need to write fanfic? I could make my own! *cackles*). They belong to Kripke, the CW, etc. Mr. Davison, Theresa, Joseph, and all the Scouts are my own creation. I make no money from the writing of this fic, nor do I intend any insult in the writing thereof. Any and all questions may be directed to my non-existent lawyer. ^_^
I blame thehighwaywoman…she pimped the community, curiosity got the better of me…and now here we are. *facepalm* AU, bordering on crack, but not so cracky that it’s unbelievable. But humor, definitely. And Wincest. Oh my God, I’m SO going to the special hell when I die. But I’ll go with a big fat smile on my face, just like Casey said. Plus, thehighwaywoman’s coming with me. *tries to look menacing* *fails* *headdesk* Enough of my rambling, and remember-comments are crack and much better for me!
“So…let me get this straight,” Sam said, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to keep his brain from leaking out of his ears. “You’re going to be…”
“A Boy Scout troop leader, yeah!” Dean said, looking far more enthusiastic than anyone in their right mind ought to be about that. At least Sam thought so, anyway.
“Dean…you realize that means you’re going to have to spend time with children. Prolonged amounts of time. You sure you’re up for that?”
Dean shrugged his shoulders, his signature cocky smirk on his face. “How hard could it be?”
Sam sighed in the way that only he could-deeply, from the absolute bottom of his diaphragm. “I just wanna know…why?”
“Look, we’re stuck in town for a few weeks hunting these wind spirits, right?”
“Right…”
“So…I figured, we’d, ya know, just try to blend in with the locals. Maybe we’ll pick up some information we wouldn’t hear otherwise.”
“At a Boy Scout meeting.”
Dean rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “No, dude! But they needed someone to fill in cuz the original leader’s sick…and hey, Dad taught us more than enough about how to survive in the wilderness, ya know? I figured I could help ‘em out.”
Sam laughed and shook his head. “All right, man. I just hope you know what you’re getting in to.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“How do I look?” Dean asked several hours later, standing in the middle of the apartment they were renting.
Sam looked up from his laptop and raised an eyebrow. “Like the poster subject for ‘Don’t talk to strangers’. Seriously, man, where’d you even get all that stuff?”
“At that store, The Fort” Dean said, striking what he obviously thought was a ‘leaderly’ pose. Sam thought it made him look a statue a pigeon might poop on, and told him so.
Dean scowled. “Thanks for all your support, Sammy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the meeting starts in 20 minutes and I don’t want to be late.” And he stalked out in a huff, leaving Sam shaking with silent laughter behind him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dean looked up from the piece of paper he’d jotted the directions to the lodge on. The Temple of the Scottish Rite was an old brick-and-stone building, and looked slightly foreboding. Dean swallowed (not nervously, no way) to clear his throat, and went inside.
The meeting was fairly easy to find, since the Temple seemed to consist mainly of two large rooms, and there were already five screaming kids running around in the first one.
Dean winced internally and wondered, for the first time (and definitely not the last time) that day, what exactly he’d gotten himself into.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“OK, guys!” Dean shouted, trying in vain to be heard over the combined noise made by what looked like an army (twelve) of ten-year-old boys. They, however, paid him absolutely no attention and continued to run around, jumping all over the furniture and yelling like possessed things.
Actually, it wouldn’t surprise Dean at all if they were. After all, when you lived the life he did, the phrases “I’ve seen it all” or “You can’t surprise/shock me” pretty much dropped out of your vocabulary.
“Christo!” he shouted, since no one could hear him anyway. When nothing hissed in response, he breathed a sigh of relief, pulled the whistle he’d gotten at The Fort out of his pocket, and blew sharply into it three times.
The effect was immediate. Each of the dozen boys froze where he was, like some huge game of Statues. Only their heads were still moving, turning in every direction, searching for the source of the noise.
Dean looked at the whistle in profound thanks before focusing his attention back on the boys. They, in turn, were studying him like he was a butterfly with a pin through its abdomen.
Dean had opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, one of the boys interrupted him. “Where’s Mr. Davison?!” he asked in that tone of righteous indignation all children seemed to possess.
“He’s got mono” Dean replied, pushing away thoughts of the small knife strapped to his ankle. The kid couldn’t be that bad.
“When’s he coming back?” the boy continued.
“I don’t know” Dean said, resorting to an old method from his childhood-saying the 23rd Psalm under his breath-to try to have patience.
“Why don’t you know?” the kid asked obnoxiously.
“Because I don’t read minds” Dean ground out.
“Why not? That’d be really cool!” the boy exclaimed.
“Because I’m not a freak of nature” Dean said, wishing with all his heart that Sam were here. But he couldn’t back out now, or Sam would never let him hear the end of it.
Just as Dean was debating whether to strangle the kid or…something else (he didn’t quite know what), an amused female voice called out, “Joseph, stop tormenting the new leader. A Scout is always helpful and courteous, you know that.”
Dean turned around to locate the source of the voice. A young woman, maybe 22 or 23, with jet-black hair and thunder-grey eyes, was coming towards him, something like a smirk playing on her lips.
“Theresa Gold” she said, shaking his hand. “The ‘20 Questions’ child is, most unfortunately, my younger brother.”
Joseph was trying to glare at her, however, it wasn’t working since she wasn’t looking at him.
“Much as I appreciate the rescue, uhm…can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“These guys are Cub Scouts, and I’m the…’Den Mother’” she replied, making air quotes around the last two words. “More and more uncommon nowadays, but not unheard of. I’m mostly there to try to keep them in line. Since I can yell louder than Mr. Davison.” She gave a small smile, and Dean joined her.
“What did you mean when you said a Scout is helpful and courteous?” Dean asked. “Is that a…uhm…Den rule, or…what?”
“It’s a Scout thing” Theresa replied. “It’s part of the Scout law, which I memorized mainly to use against the boys. Mr. Davison thinks it’s absolutely wonderful that I’ve done so, and the boys hate me for it.” She grinned, a little more widely this time. “Hey, I never caught your name.”
“Oh, it’s, uhm, Dean. Dean Winchester.”
“I will resist the urge to ask ‘Like the rifle?’, since I’m sure you get that all the time.” She looked up at the clock. “Time to call the hooligans to order. While we’ve been talking, they’ve been running amok.” She took a deep breath, put her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “OY! MUNCHKINS! SIT DOWN!”
Immediately, they froze, then came stampeding over, throwing themselves down haphazardly into a pile at Dean’s feet.
“Stupid waste of $6.50…” Dean grumbled, glaring at his whistle.
Theresa just laughed.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Somewhere between teaching the Scouts an overhand half-hitch and showing them how he could throw knives, Dean gained the undying adoration of every single boy in the troop.
Somewhere around that same point, Dean had also discovered that the kids (even Theresa’s obnoxious little brother) were starting to grow on him.
“Just remember, guys, knives are really freakin’ sharp. Just because I make it look really easy, doesn’t mean they aren’t really dangerous. So I don’t want to hear about any of you playing with one, or cutting off a finger, or crap like that. If you come across one, get your parents to pick it up or handle it, OK?”
“OK!” came the chorus back.
“Promise?” Dean asked teasingly.
“We promise, Dean!” they yelled back, dog-piling on him. They’d been doing that all meeting, and while Dean didn’t really mind (he did…*ahem*…”wrestle” with Sam a lot), it took a bit of getting used to. It was kind of like having twelve eight-year-old versions of Sam (because Sam at 10 was the size of most 15-year-olds) crawling around on top of him. And this was when Dean learned something else: In tickle fights, little boys don’t fight fair. At all.
As they were climbing off of him, one rather enthusiastic redhead accidentally elbowed him in the stomach. Winded, Dean lay on his side, clutching his abdomen, yelping, “Oooh, I’m dying! Owwww!” Mainly for the boy’s benefit, which they found hilarious.
Theresa ambled over, leisurely as you please, and offered him a hand up, quipping, “Big baby.” But she was fighting a grin.
“Hey, you’d be surprised how bony little boy’s elbows are” Dean said, mock-defensively. “It’s kinda like being jabbed with a blunt throwing star.”
She raised one eyebrow at him, then shook her head, saying, “Not even gonna ask…”
Now it was Dean’s turn to laugh.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
With ten minutes left to go in the meeting, Dean’s phone rang. He wasn’t expecting any calls, so there was a faint note of surprise coloring his voice as he said, “Hello?”
“Having fun?” Sam asked.
“Sammy?” Dean asked, the surprise even more pronounced now.
“No, it’s the Publisher’s Clearing House. Of course it’s me, you idiot. How many people have your number? Maybe all of…seven?”
“Bitch” Dean muttered.
“Jerk.”
Dean grinned-no matter how times they did that particular back-and-forth, it never got old. “How are things on the home front?”
“Uhm…,” Sam trailed off. “Actually, I’m not there anymore.”
Dean raised his eyebrow, completely disregarding the fact that Sam couldn’t see it over the phone. “So, then…where are you?”
“Turn around.”
Dean did. There was Sam, standing at the top of the stairs, looking like the proverbial cat that had just swallowed the canary. Dean punched the OFF button, sticking his phone back in his pocket as he crossed the room. He also couldn’t help but grin back-Sam just looked so damn pleased with himself, and that usually ended very well for them both, or it made Dean look stupid. But right now, Dean was willing to bet on the former.
As he did almost every time they met up, Sam went to pull Dean in for a kiss. But Dean, who wanted the entire meeting to go well and not scar any little kids at the very end, hissed, “Dude! Not in front of the munchkins!”
Sam just grinned and said, “Let ‘em watch. It’ll expose them to something outside life in Middle America.”
“It’ll expose ‘em to something“ Dean muttered. “And what about Theresa?”
“What about her? She’d probably want to watch.”
Dean shook his head, a bemused grin on his face. “Just…hold on a few more minutes, OK, Sammy? Then I promise-I’m yours for the rest of the day.”
Dean was pretty sure if Sam grinned any wider, his face would split open.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When it was time for the meeting to be over, Dean elbowed Theresa and jerked his head at the boys. She nodded once, lifted her hands to her mouth again, and shouted, “MUNCHKINS! FRONT AND CENTER!”
“Out of curiosity, what’s your lung capacity?” Dean asked out of the corner of his mouth. She just grinned.
“OK guys, we’re out of time for today. I had a lot of fun, I hope you guys did too. From what I’ve been told, Mr. Davison is gonna be home sick for at least a month or so, so it looks like you’re stuck with me for at least that long.” He looked around at the assembled Scouts. “That OK with you guys?”
In response, they tackled him again, knocking him to the floor, yelling, screaming, and cheering at the top of their lungs like hyenas. And in spite of all his protesting, Dean couldn’t help but feel like he was riding an awesome high. These kids trusted him, even liked him.
And Sammy had thought he couldn’t do it. Ha!
Once he’d managed to right himself again, he helped the kids collect their coats, then left them with Theresa, who’d volunteered to take them outside to wait for their parents.
Once they’d all disappeared through the doors, Dean sank into the nearest chair and closed his eyes. This gig might’ve been fun, but he was exhausted.
He would’ve slipped into sleep as he sat there, but the next moment, he felt strong hands massaging his shoulders. He arched into the touch, groaning, and he heard Sam chuckle above him. “You always did love my hands” he murmured.
“Damn right” Dean growled, relaxing even further into Sam’s touch.
Sam laughed again, his hands moving to Dean’s neck and upper back. “So how’d the first part of the meeting go? I only saw the last 15 minutes or so.”
“Dude…I don’t think I’ve enjoyed myself this much for a long time” Dean said, melting a little more under Sam’s hands. “The kids took a little time to come around, but they like me, and I think Theresa does, too.”
“I’ll bet she does” Sam growled, the possessiveness in his voice sending arousal down Dean’s spine. He got up and turned to face Sam.
“Naw, man, I didn’t mean like that! I mean, we get along, she’s a funny person, I mean, they could’ve saddled me with a real killjoy-” His words were cut off as Sam kissed him.
Dean moaned, blocking out everything but the kiss. He’d been waiting for this the whole meeting, his time to just be alone with Sam.
When they cam up for air, Sam said (in a rather ragged voice), “Dude, we either leave now, or I’m gonna end up screwing you in a Freemason’s Temple.”
“The final frontier” Dean said, laughing.
Sam cocked his head, trying to figure out if he was serious. Apparently, the conclusion he came to was ‘Yes’, because he smiled. He grabbed the collar of Dean’s Scout shirt and dragged him over to the bathroom. Dean unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off. He was just about to take off the scarf when Sam caught his wrist and said, “Leave it.”
Dean grinned. “Kinky.”
Dude, I'm posting this from BELIZE! How awesome is THAT?! Merry belated Christmas, and all that jazz. Feedback is my crack, as y'all know! *grins*
Author: bluegemeyes
Beta: Unbeta’d, because I wanted to get it up while I could, so I scanned it again a few times, even though I’d already sent it off, and it’s going up now. Sorry, hun! *wraps up Dean and gives him to thehighwaywoman to make up for it*
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Uhm…PG-13ish? Sounds about right
Word Count: 2,518
Spoilers: None, completely AU
Author’s Notes/Disclaimer: Written for the fluffandfold Challenge: Why Dean Winchester would make the best Boy Scout troop leader ever.
I do not own Sam or Dean (If I did, why would I need to write fanfic? I could make my own! *cackles*). They belong to Kripke, the CW, etc. Mr. Davison, Theresa, Joseph, and all the Scouts are my own creation. I make no money from the writing of this fic, nor do I intend any insult in the writing thereof. Any and all questions may be directed to my non-existent lawyer. ^_^
I blame thehighwaywoman…she pimped the community, curiosity got the better of me…and now here we are. *facepalm* AU, bordering on crack, but not so cracky that it’s unbelievable. But humor, definitely. And Wincest. Oh my God, I’m SO going to the special hell when I die. But I’ll go with a big fat smile on my face, just like Casey said. Plus, thehighwaywoman’s coming with me. *tries to look menacing* *fails* *headdesk* Enough of my rambling, and remember-comments are crack and much better for me!
“So…let me get this straight,” Sam said, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to keep his brain from leaking out of his ears. “You’re going to be…”
“A Boy Scout troop leader, yeah!” Dean said, looking far more enthusiastic than anyone in their right mind ought to be about that. At least Sam thought so, anyway.
“Dean…you realize that means you’re going to have to spend time with children. Prolonged amounts of time. You sure you’re up for that?”
Dean shrugged his shoulders, his signature cocky smirk on his face. “How hard could it be?”
Sam sighed in the way that only he could-deeply, from the absolute bottom of his diaphragm. “I just wanna know…why?”
“Look, we’re stuck in town for a few weeks hunting these wind spirits, right?”
“Right…”
“So…I figured, we’d, ya know, just try to blend in with the locals. Maybe we’ll pick up some information we wouldn’t hear otherwise.”
“At a Boy Scout meeting.”
Dean rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “No, dude! But they needed someone to fill in cuz the original leader’s sick…and hey, Dad taught us more than enough about how to survive in the wilderness, ya know? I figured I could help ‘em out.”
Sam laughed and shook his head. “All right, man. I just hope you know what you’re getting in to.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“How do I look?” Dean asked several hours later, standing in the middle of the apartment they were renting.
Sam looked up from his laptop and raised an eyebrow. “Like the poster subject for ‘Don’t talk to strangers’. Seriously, man, where’d you even get all that stuff?”
“At that store, The Fort” Dean said, striking what he obviously thought was a ‘leaderly’ pose. Sam thought it made him look a statue a pigeon might poop on, and told him so.
Dean scowled. “Thanks for all your support, Sammy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the meeting starts in 20 minutes and I don’t want to be late.” And he stalked out in a huff, leaving Sam shaking with silent laughter behind him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dean looked up from the piece of paper he’d jotted the directions to the lodge on. The Temple of the Scottish Rite was an old brick-and-stone building, and looked slightly foreboding. Dean swallowed (not nervously, no way) to clear his throat, and went inside.
The meeting was fairly easy to find, since the Temple seemed to consist mainly of two large rooms, and there were already five screaming kids running around in the first one.
Dean winced internally and wondered, for the first time (and definitely not the last time) that day, what exactly he’d gotten himself into.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“OK, guys!” Dean shouted, trying in vain to be heard over the combined noise made by what looked like an army (twelve) of ten-year-old boys. They, however, paid him absolutely no attention and continued to run around, jumping all over the furniture and yelling like possessed things.
Actually, it wouldn’t surprise Dean at all if they were. After all, when you lived the life he did, the phrases “I’ve seen it all” or “You can’t surprise/shock me” pretty much dropped out of your vocabulary.
“Christo!” he shouted, since no one could hear him anyway. When nothing hissed in response, he breathed a sigh of relief, pulled the whistle he’d gotten at The Fort out of his pocket, and blew sharply into it three times.
The effect was immediate. Each of the dozen boys froze where he was, like some huge game of Statues. Only their heads were still moving, turning in every direction, searching for the source of the noise.
Dean looked at the whistle in profound thanks before focusing his attention back on the boys. They, in turn, were studying him like he was a butterfly with a pin through its abdomen.
Dean had opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, one of the boys interrupted him. “Where’s Mr. Davison?!” he asked in that tone of righteous indignation all children seemed to possess.
“He’s got mono” Dean replied, pushing away thoughts of the small knife strapped to his ankle. The kid couldn’t be that bad.
“When’s he coming back?” the boy continued.
“I don’t know” Dean said, resorting to an old method from his childhood-saying the 23rd Psalm under his breath-to try to have patience.
“Why don’t you know?” the kid asked obnoxiously.
“Because I don’t read minds” Dean ground out.
“Why not? That’d be really cool!” the boy exclaimed.
“Because I’m not a freak of nature” Dean said, wishing with all his heart that Sam were here. But he couldn’t back out now, or Sam would never let him hear the end of it.
Just as Dean was debating whether to strangle the kid or…something else (he didn’t quite know what), an amused female voice called out, “Joseph, stop tormenting the new leader. A Scout is always helpful and courteous, you know that.”
Dean turned around to locate the source of the voice. A young woman, maybe 22 or 23, with jet-black hair and thunder-grey eyes, was coming towards him, something like a smirk playing on her lips.
“Theresa Gold” she said, shaking his hand. “The ‘20 Questions’ child is, most unfortunately, my younger brother.”
Joseph was trying to glare at her, however, it wasn’t working since she wasn’t looking at him.
“Much as I appreciate the rescue, uhm…can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“These guys are Cub Scouts, and I’m the…’Den Mother’” she replied, making air quotes around the last two words. “More and more uncommon nowadays, but not unheard of. I’m mostly there to try to keep them in line. Since I can yell louder than Mr. Davison.” She gave a small smile, and Dean joined her.
“What did you mean when you said a Scout is helpful and courteous?” Dean asked. “Is that a…uhm…Den rule, or…what?”
“It’s a Scout thing” Theresa replied. “It’s part of the Scout law, which I memorized mainly to use against the boys. Mr. Davison thinks it’s absolutely wonderful that I’ve done so, and the boys hate me for it.” She grinned, a little more widely this time. “Hey, I never caught your name.”
“Oh, it’s, uhm, Dean. Dean Winchester.”
“I will resist the urge to ask ‘Like the rifle?’, since I’m sure you get that all the time.” She looked up at the clock. “Time to call the hooligans to order. While we’ve been talking, they’ve been running amok.” She took a deep breath, put her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “OY! MUNCHKINS! SIT DOWN!”
Immediately, they froze, then came stampeding over, throwing themselves down haphazardly into a pile at Dean’s feet.
“Stupid waste of $6.50…” Dean grumbled, glaring at his whistle.
Theresa just laughed.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Somewhere between teaching the Scouts an overhand half-hitch and showing them how he could throw knives, Dean gained the undying adoration of every single boy in the troop.
Somewhere around that same point, Dean had also discovered that the kids (even Theresa’s obnoxious little brother) were starting to grow on him.
“Just remember, guys, knives are really freakin’ sharp. Just because I make it look really easy, doesn’t mean they aren’t really dangerous. So I don’t want to hear about any of you playing with one, or cutting off a finger, or crap like that. If you come across one, get your parents to pick it up or handle it, OK?”
“OK!” came the chorus back.
“Promise?” Dean asked teasingly.
“We promise, Dean!” they yelled back, dog-piling on him. They’d been doing that all meeting, and while Dean didn’t really mind (he did…*ahem*…”wrestle” with Sam a lot), it took a bit of getting used to. It was kind of like having twelve eight-year-old versions of Sam (because Sam at 10 was the size of most 15-year-olds) crawling around on top of him. And this was when Dean learned something else: In tickle fights, little boys don’t fight fair. At all.
As they were climbing off of him, one rather enthusiastic redhead accidentally elbowed him in the stomach. Winded, Dean lay on his side, clutching his abdomen, yelping, “Oooh, I’m dying! Owwww!” Mainly for the boy’s benefit, which they found hilarious.
Theresa ambled over, leisurely as you please, and offered him a hand up, quipping, “Big baby.” But she was fighting a grin.
“Hey, you’d be surprised how bony little boy’s elbows are” Dean said, mock-defensively. “It’s kinda like being jabbed with a blunt throwing star.”
She raised one eyebrow at him, then shook her head, saying, “Not even gonna ask…”
Now it was Dean’s turn to laugh.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
With ten minutes left to go in the meeting, Dean’s phone rang. He wasn’t expecting any calls, so there was a faint note of surprise coloring his voice as he said, “Hello?”
“Having fun?” Sam asked.
“Sammy?” Dean asked, the surprise even more pronounced now.
“No, it’s the Publisher’s Clearing House. Of course it’s me, you idiot. How many people have your number? Maybe all of…seven?”
“Bitch” Dean muttered.
“Jerk.”
Dean grinned-no matter how times they did that particular back-and-forth, it never got old. “How are things on the home front?”
“Uhm…,” Sam trailed off. “Actually, I’m not there anymore.”
Dean raised his eyebrow, completely disregarding the fact that Sam couldn’t see it over the phone. “So, then…where are you?”
“Turn around.”
Dean did. There was Sam, standing at the top of the stairs, looking like the proverbial cat that had just swallowed the canary. Dean punched the OFF button, sticking his phone back in his pocket as he crossed the room. He also couldn’t help but grin back-Sam just looked so damn pleased with himself, and that usually ended very well for them both, or it made Dean look stupid. But right now, Dean was willing to bet on the former.
As he did almost every time they met up, Sam went to pull Dean in for a kiss. But Dean, who wanted the entire meeting to go well and not scar any little kids at the very end, hissed, “Dude! Not in front of the munchkins!”
Sam just grinned and said, “Let ‘em watch. It’ll expose them to something outside life in Middle America.”
“It’ll expose ‘em to something“ Dean muttered. “And what about Theresa?”
“What about her? She’d probably want to watch.”
Dean shook his head, a bemused grin on his face. “Just…hold on a few more minutes, OK, Sammy? Then I promise-I’m yours for the rest of the day.”
Dean was pretty sure if Sam grinned any wider, his face would split open.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When it was time for the meeting to be over, Dean elbowed Theresa and jerked his head at the boys. She nodded once, lifted her hands to her mouth again, and shouted, “MUNCHKINS! FRONT AND CENTER!”
“Out of curiosity, what’s your lung capacity?” Dean asked out of the corner of his mouth. She just grinned.
“OK guys, we’re out of time for today. I had a lot of fun, I hope you guys did too. From what I’ve been told, Mr. Davison is gonna be home sick for at least a month or so, so it looks like you’re stuck with me for at least that long.” He looked around at the assembled Scouts. “That OK with you guys?”
In response, they tackled him again, knocking him to the floor, yelling, screaming, and cheering at the top of their lungs like hyenas. And in spite of all his protesting, Dean couldn’t help but feel like he was riding an awesome high. These kids trusted him, even liked him.
And Sammy had thought he couldn’t do it. Ha!
Once he’d managed to right himself again, he helped the kids collect their coats, then left them with Theresa, who’d volunteered to take them outside to wait for their parents.
Once they’d all disappeared through the doors, Dean sank into the nearest chair and closed his eyes. This gig might’ve been fun, but he was exhausted.
He would’ve slipped into sleep as he sat there, but the next moment, he felt strong hands massaging his shoulders. He arched into the touch, groaning, and he heard Sam chuckle above him. “You always did love my hands” he murmured.
“Damn right” Dean growled, relaxing even further into Sam’s touch.
Sam laughed again, his hands moving to Dean’s neck and upper back. “So how’d the first part of the meeting go? I only saw the last 15 minutes or so.”
“Dude…I don’t think I’ve enjoyed myself this much for a long time” Dean said, melting a little more under Sam’s hands. “The kids took a little time to come around, but they like me, and I think Theresa does, too.”
“I’ll bet she does” Sam growled, the possessiveness in his voice sending arousal down Dean’s spine. He got up and turned to face Sam.
“Naw, man, I didn’t mean like that! I mean, we get along, she’s a funny person, I mean, they could’ve saddled me with a real killjoy-” His words were cut off as Sam kissed him.
Dean moaned, blocking out everything but the kiss. He’d been waiting for this the whole meeting, his time to just be alone with Sam.
When they cam up for air, Sam said (in a rather ragged voice), “Dude, we either leave now, or I’m gonna end up screwing you in a Freemason’s Temple.”
“The final frontier” Dean said, laughing.
Sam cocked his head, trying to figure out if he was serious. Apparently, the conclusion he came to was ‘Yes’, because he smiled. He grabbed the collar of Dean’s Scout shirt and dragged him over to the bathroom. Dean unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off. He was just about to take off the scarf when Sam caught his wrist and said, “Leave it.”
Dean grinned. “Kinky.”
Dude, I'm posting this from BELIZE! How awesome is THAT?! Merry belated Christmas, and all that jazz. Feedback is my crack, as y'all know! *grins*