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apocalypsosThere, now I have no excuse and nothing distracting me from getting that synopsis done. *buckles down*
Title: Real Men Don't Make Cheesecake
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,773 words
Spoilers: Season one (Pre-series)
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations and references
Disclaimer: If I owned the Winchester boys, they'd be cleaning my apartment right now so I don't have to.
Summary: Dean takes home economics, and chaos ensues. And no, it's not his fault.
Author's note: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_flashback, prompt #124. Dean getting stuck in home economics because it's the only thing that will fit in his schedule, and then figuring out it's a great way to meet girls.
*****
Real Men Don't Make Cheesecake
*****
When Dean looks back on it, he can't even remember how the hell it happened.
See, there were seven slots to fill when he signed up for his stupid senior year classes. He needed lit, math, science, and history to graduate, yeah. Dean's plan from the very beginning was to cram all of them in before lunch. Okay, sure, he'd have to pry his eyes open with a crowbar to stay awake through the first few, but when (not if, but when) he felt like skipping out one sunny afternoon to go scam off lunchtime drunks at the local pool hall, he wouldn't be missing anything important. Besides, he was a firm believer in getting annoying shit out of the way first so that he could wallow in the stuff that didn't suck later on.
Wood shop and auto shop were full, and there was only one other elective left.
That, he figured, was how he ended up with the prospect of spending the final period of the day during his first semester at Fremont High in home economics.
Well, that, or he'd been wasted. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility, you know?
*
"Home ec?!"
Sammy doesn't stop laughing for fifteen minutes.
Not even when Dean throws an empty pizza carton at his head.
*
So here's what home economics looks like.
Two and a half weeks each of sewing, cooking, and cross-stitching.
One teacher, Mrs. Simons. She weighs ninety pounds soaking wet, wears five different versions of the same neatly homemade dress in varying calico patterns, and has genuinely silver curls that the students theorize she shines up every night with jewelry polish.
Twelve students, all of which are girls except for the charming new guy with the gorgeous green eyes in the back of the classroom. One of the girls is this thin chick with ugly designer clothes one size too big and long dark wavy hair that could stand to be washed more often. She looks as if she raided her fatter sister's closet.
Ten of the girls are on the cheerleading squad.
It only takes Dean five minutes to see the advantages here.
I mean, c'mon, man. He's always been smarter than people give him credit for.
*
Dean might be seventeen, but he knows a lot about breasts. Hell, he's certainly held enough of them in his hands, nice and round and firm and soft and big and small and ... well, a guy's got to have experience, you know what I mean? When you're the new kid in school every other semester, it helps if you can make a good first impression. Being able to make a girl come just from rubbing her nipples the right way works much better than a handshake.
He wouldn't suggest trying that instead of one, though. Just putting that out there.
"I mean, who even wears Bermuda shorts anymore?"
The blond girl at the sewing table next to Dean's snaps her gum as her friends roll their eyes in agreement. The blond is Julie Ames, the head cheerleader. Her two friends, the brunette and the redhead, are Tiffani and Bianca. They're the top three girls in the pyramid and they all wear the same exact blue contacts. Dean would bet ten bucks they all have the same bra size. He really wishes someone would take him up on testing that bet with his hands.
Dean can't help but check out his own pieces of fabric with a sneer. They had to use the fabric in the home ec room for their first sewing project, although Mrs. Simons had pointed out that most people never even make it past that.
It's not so hard, though, the sewing thing. There's measuring and dots and notches and shit. Seriously, how hard could something be that comes with instructions this detailed?
Julie leans over with this cotton-candy-sweet smile on her face and waves her fabric in midair. She hasn't even cut it out yet, and straight pins fly everywhere.
"Isn't this the stupidest, most worthless thing ever?" she coos at him.
Dean could swear he hears a female voice in the back of the room say, "I can think of some solid competition in that category," but maybe he's just going insane or something.
"Could be worse," he says, although he can't think of many things that are at this particular moment. Last month, a ghost knocked him out a second-story window. That sucked worse than this. "And hey, you can always wear them to bed, right?"
He wasn't fishing, but she bats her eyelashes at him and says, "I don't wear anything to bed, gorgeous."
No, seriously, one of you is going to take him up on that bra size bet, right?
Behind him, the dorky girl in the shabby dark blue dress makes some snarky remark under her breath and finishes off another seam. She's the only one in the classroom who's turned on her sewing machine so far, and it suddenly occurs to Dean that the only reason he hasn't turned on his own machine is because he's sure as hell not going to start sewing before one of the cheerleaders does.
Oh, hell, at this rate, they never will.
The pattern on Dean's fabric is sailboats.
Hell, maybe Sammy can wear them in gym class or something. You know, if they all suddenly take up yachting.
*
Mrs. Simons stops Dean on his way out of the classroom door at the end of the second day. He's not really surprised.
"You mind telling me who made this for you?" she says, and holds up his finished pair of Bermuda shorts.
You know, it's not like Dean even cares about this dumb class. Well, aside from the fact that it's teeming with cheerleaders who've been fawning all over him since they figured out he wasn't gay. But she seriously couldn't think he'd gotten one of the girls to make his stupid Bermuda shorts for him. Okay, that weird Sukie Wilcox in the back of the room, maybe. But it wasn't like he talked to her. Hell, he barely looked at her if he could help it, for the good of his eyesight and all.
"Nobody," he says, and yeah, maybe he sounds a little offended. He's done harder shit before. Remind him to tell you that story about the time he killed his first and second werewolves. He dropped them eight seconds apart. Dad almost bought him a party hat, but eleven-year-olds and party hats don't exactly mix, especially when said eleven-year-olds carry handguns on a regular basis.
Mrs. Simons raises a skeptical brow at that.
"Oh, come on," Dean snaps. "You make it sound like it's rocket science. A couple of seams, a little ironing ... what's so hard about that?"
"You expect me to believe you didn't sweet-talk one of those pretty girls into making this on the sly?"
Dean makes a face because ... well, sure, he could have gotten one of those girls to make them for him. Julie might have played a little hard to get, but Tiffani had already offered to do something to him that really made him hope she wasn't kissing her mother with that mouth without gargling first and Bianca's tops were getting so small she might as well give up all pretense and come to school in a bra. The problem lie in the fact that they haven't even stopped talking about shampoo or manicures long enough to finish their own shorts.
Ms. Simons takes one look at him and narrows her eyes thoughtfully. She grabs one of the pattern books from the shelf near the windows and says, "Sewed these yourself, did you?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So," she says, dropping the pattern book on the table, "prove it."
*
No one expects a teenage boy to rob a fabric store.
Okay, so you can't actually steal fabric. They'll notice you boosting an entire bolt, and if you think they'll pick up on that, you should see what they do if they catch you measuring out yards of fabric and stuffing it into your jacket.
You can steal the money to buy fabric, though, so Dean lifts a few wallets at the mall and hustles a crowd of college kids at a bar before heading over to Joann's Fabric.
He ends up getting seven yards of dark green fleece, eight of brown flannel, nine of blue plaid cotton and ten of black cotton knit. Well, okay, if we're being technical, that's just what he pays for. If we're really being honest, what he walks out with is the fabric, five packages of fusible interfacing, six spools of thread, five zippers, four patterns, two packages of 5/8" elastic, one package of 3/8" elastic, a plastic container of straight pins, and as many matching buttons as he can fit into his jeans.
The clerk's name is Paula, and she just graduated from Fremont the year before.
"That is one hot jacket," she says, leaning over the counter to drag her fingers over the leather of Dean's coat and flashing him a great view of her cleavage. He's not sure, but he could swear he can see her belly button down that shirt. It must be all the fabric he's buying that makes her say, "Did you make it?"
He can't help himself, plucking her hand from his coat and giving her his most winning smile.
"Oh, yeah," he says. "It's got a lot of pockets."
Did I mention that he walked out with the clerk's cell phone number, too?
'Cause, yeah. That's not really a surprise.
*
"Dean, what are you doing wth my jeans?"
Dean mentally notes the length of John's waist as he tucks the measuring tape into his pocket in one smooth move and turns around.
"Oh, nothing," he says, and gives his dad his most innocent smile.
What? One of them has to be more innocent than the rest of them, right? That's just decent odds, right there.
*
Hell, it's not like he's never patched up jeans or put on a button before. It's either that or buy new clothes they can't afford, man, and with Sammy shooting up like he's telling a long enjoyable string of lies, they'd be shopping for clothes constantly at this rate. Plus, you know, Sukie Wilcox is not that much faster at this than he is. A little healthy competition never hurt anyone.
The big difference between sewing and stitching up a wound is that he doesn't have to wash the blood from his hands afterwards.
Well, so far. The way Sukie keeps looking at the cheerleaders, those first aid skills his dad drilled into his head are going to come in handy real soon.
He may be getting a little too excited about learning how to pull a needle out of someone's eyeball, but don't quote him on that.
*
"Hey, Dean, where did this come from?"
Sam holds the green fleece pullover out in front of him, and Dean stops stirring the elbow noodles long enough to look over his shoulder at the kid. If he feels a warm flicker of pride that it looks as if the pullover's big enough to fit those newly long-ass arms of Sam's, he's sure as hell not going to acknowledge it.
"Maybe the Tooth Fairy left it on your bed," Dean says.
But Sammy's smiling, and he says, "Did you make this?"
Dean gives the noodles a good stir, and hot water splashes all over the stovetop. "Aw, shut up."
"No, I just ..."
Sam holds the pullover up a little higher, furrows his brow and tugs it on. It fits perfectly.
"I was just going to say thanks."
"Yeah, whatever."
Sam just grins and doesn't say anything else. 'Cause, you know, he's met Dean before.
*
Dean should not be so grateful when they finish sewing, just like he shouldn't get so damn annoyed that after two and a half weeks, Julie and the rest of the cheerleaders have yet to finish a pair of Bermuda shorts. He knows cheerleaders aren't supposed to have brains. Actually, he's usually counting on that.
But come on -- four seams, two hems, and one elastic waistband. Hell, the damn things come with instructions. Detailed instructions, with little pictures.
An untrained monkey could make a pair, if you could get him to stop flinging his own crap first.
Julie breathes this sigh of relief that makes those amazing tits of hers heave in this fabulous roll. She leans over to Tiffani and Bianca after wadding up what's made of her shorts and stuffing them into her Prada backpack. "God, that was so hard," she drawls.
"Like standing upright?" Sukie mutters under her breath from the back of the room.
Dean chokes on something that might be laughter.
In the past two and a half weeks, Sukie's made three dresses, two skirts, and a fairly complex purse that even impresses the hell out of Dean. Dean's made two flannel shirts for his father, three fleece pullovers for Sam, and pajama bottoms for all of them.
Yeah ... yeah, it's probably laughter.
*
So now it's cooking.
They get paired up alphabetically. Julie ends up at the front of the room with Bianca.
Dean ends up with Sukie. All of the cheerleaders stare at her like she's a disease he's going to catch and pass onto them, and for a brief instant, Dean feels sorry for her. Unless bad fashion sense is suddenly a life-threatening illness, she isn't that bad.
Mrs. Simon lugs a couple of grocery bags into the kitchen section of the room and drops them onto the countertop.
"We're going to be starting with something easy," she says, and starts passing out bags of chocolate chips to every cooking station.
By the end of class, two of the cheerleaders have set their ovens on fire.
The second time, Bianca stands back and sobs as Julie mutters something under her breath about getting that skanky smoke smell out of her hair. The rest of the cheerleaders try to wave more smoke out of the previously opened windows. Mrs. Simons looks through the cabinets with tired eyes. If he were her, Dean thinks, he'd be desperate for cooking sherry right now.
He and Sukie lean back against their station to watch the chaos.
"Cookie?" she says.
"Thanks," he says, and takes a bite out of the one she passes him.
He's never tasted anything better, and not just because they're perfect.
*
The next day, Mrs. Simons takes it back a step and has the cheerleaders cook tater tots and frozen onion rings. Only one of the ovens bursts into flames this time.
Sukie and Dean make fettucini alfredo. From scratch.
What? Dean takes over from Sukie's careful instructions on how to make the sauce, once she figures out he's not a completely belligerent tool ("Gee, thanks"). One whiff of it has Julie, Trina, Kaitlyn, and Liliana failing miserably to disguise the rumbling of their stomachs.
Suki's still in the middle of making the noodles, which look to Dean like troll intestines and isn't something he'd ever admit out loud anyway, when Dean says, "Where'd you learn how to do all this?"
"My uncle's a cook."
"And the sewing?"
"I have a grandmother." Sukie frowns down at her dress. "Not that my mother will let me alter her stupid clothes anyway."
"You're just related to everybody, aren't you?" He grins at that, then suddenly says, "Wait, you're not related to me, are you?"
"God, I hope not," she mutters.
It's the first day since the start of class that none of the cheerleaders give Dean so much as a passing glance, but he's so full of pasta at the end of the day he really doesn't give a damn. Hey, it's sort of orgasmic.
*
Speaking of orgasms, you should hear the sounds Sam makes when Dean cooks dinner the next weekend. Dad's off hunting some ghost in Connecticut, so Dean figures what the hell, hustles a good fifty bucks at the nearest bar, and splurges on the ingredients for shrimp jambalaya. Moans and groans and Sammy making these hungry mewls of culinary ecstacy that ... shit, if he's been making those sounds around any actual girls, Dean's going to goddamn kill him.
"Wow, Dean, you're really good at this when you're not making Spaghetti-O surprise."
"Oh, shut it, geek."
Sam moans again just for the hell of it.
*
On the last day of cooking classes, Dean whips up a double chocolate cheesecake that would have had the cheerleaders swooning at his heels.
You know, if they were speaking to him.
Maybe it would help if it he showed them some of his burn scars so they don't think they're the only one in class with them, he thinks.
Then again, maybe not.
"Please tell me you're going to let me have some of that," Sukie says. She made key lime bars. Dean had really wanted one, but Mrs. Simons had taken one bite of them and rushed off with plate in hand to pass them off to the other teachers. Yeah, he's still a little bitter.
"Are you kidding? I could keep my brother as a personal slave for weeks with this to encourage him."
He holds the cheesecake up in the air, too high for her to reach, and she scowls at him past long hair that could definitely use a wash.
"Jerk."
"Dork."
"Yeah, I haven't heard that one before."
"Well, 'jerk' isn't exactly a new one for me, either."
"You are such a decomposing truckload of elephant afterbirth."
"Better, but you're still not getting any cheesecake."
"You suck."
"Only on request, sweetheart."
Dean nearly drops the cheesecake when she punches him in the stomach.
The entire room smells like burnt french fries.
*
And then it's on to cross-stitching. The cheerleaders bitch about what the needle's going to do to their manicure, and Julie takes one look at her nails and bursts into tears. Six of them decide to skip the next two weeks for a spontaneous ski trip.
Suki has her own circular wooden frames, three of them in varying sizes. Figures.
Did you know that there are programs on the Internet that will turn a photo into a cross-stitch pattern?
Well, hell, if Dean's got to do this, it might as well be something he likes.
*
For two straight weeks, John Winchester is positive that Dean's spending an hour and a half every night in the bathroom jerking off, which is why he doesn't bother pounding on the door to get him to come out.
And hey, it's possible he's jerking off. Leave a man in peace, all right?
*
Sukie leans over the last sewing machine in the back of the room to get a better look at what Dean's stitching and frowns. "Is that a car?"
Dean frowns. "It's not a car, it's a 1967 Chevy Impala. There's a difference."
"Yeah, I'll just bet," she says.
*
Dean gets an A. None of the cheerleaders are talking to him.
Really, he can't decide whether he's pissed or a little bit proud about either one of those.
*
You know how I said that thing about Dean not being stupid?
See, a week after the end of the semester Dean's suffering through auto shop -- not that he doesn't like fixing up a car, but Jesus, could the teacher drone just a little more? Mr. Kuchanski's not a bad guy and he knows what the hell he's teaching, but if there's a sound out there that can make a guy slip directly into a coma, Mr. Kuchanski does a damn fine impression of it. Dean would almost wonder if he were some sort of sleep demon or something, if he were conscious in class more often.
So this one day after classes, Dean's tossing the last of his books into his locker, trying to avoid the last of the straggling students heading home for the weekend, and he hears this voice from his right.
"Shouldn't you be in the home ec room making a prom gown for Julie or something?"
Dean tilts his head, all prepared with some sarcastic retort, and --
Well, damn.
Damn.
Some people clean up pretty well, you know what I mean? Get them out of whatever nerdy clothes their mother make them wear on a regular basis and they're even a little hot. Sometimes it turns out they've got great legs or a fabulous pair of breasts or an ass that will fit perfectly in your hands. Put them in a dress they made while they were bitching about moronic cheerleaders whose bra sizes are bigger than their IQs and it's an even bigger turn-on than you'd think.
"Sukie?"
She crosses her arms over her surprisingly more-abundant-than-he'd-thought chest and cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah, what of it?"
Pink looks good on her.
Oh, and she might be wearing contacts, and thank God she lost the glasses, but those pretty blue eyes are all hers.
*
"Oh, wow."
Her hands clutch at him, right, pulling him down against her like she's trying to use him to press herself all the way through the couch cushions. Her skin tastes more like strawberries and cream the further south he lets his tongue wander and he tugs at her dress, pulling it up along the length of her bare thighs. God, he really has to go out with more dorky quiet girls, because apparently they're really grateful for the attention.
"Like that?" Dean asks, palming one of her breasts.
"That's a dumb question," she says, yanking at his shirt.
He chuckles into the curve of her neck and she moans in response.
"Nice pleating," he mutters.
Honestly, he has no idea where the hell that one came from.
Sukie's hand slips down, undoes the buttons of his jeans, and starts doing these perfectly obscene things to his cock. Like, perfectly obscene. If the word "obscene" were defined in the dictionary with video footage, it'd be those deft little fingers of hers doing thatthingrightthereohmyfuckingGOD. For someone who's supposedly never done this before, she's like some handjob savant or something.
And she snaps, "Are you going to shut up and fuck me or not?"
Yeah, so you know that rumor about band geeks?
Home economics geeks are that much worse in all the best ways.
*
Like I said, Dean's not stupid. Not about sewing in a zipper or making a cheesecake from scratch, and definitely not about helping Sukie Wilcox lose her virginity on the couch in her game room.
Three times over, even.
Title: Real Men Don't Make Cheesecake
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,773 words
Spoilers: Season one (Pre-series)
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations and references
Disclaimer: If I owned the Winchester boys, they'd be cleaning my apartment right now so I don't have to.
Summary: Dean takes home economics, and chaos ensues. And no, it's not his fault.
Author's note: For
spn_flashback, prompt #124. Dean getting stuck in home economics because it's the only thing that will fit in his schedule, and then figuring out it's a great way to meet girls.Real Men Don't Make Cheesecake
*****
When Dean looks back on it, he can't even remember how the hell it happened.
See, there were seven slots to fill when he signed up for his stupid senior year classes. He needed lit, math, science, and history to graduate, yeah. Dean's plan from the very beginning was to cram all of them in before lunch. Okay, sure, he'd have to pry his eyes open with a crowbar to stay awake through the first few, but when (not if, but when) he felt like skipping out one sunny afternoon to go scam off lunchtime drunks at the local pool hall, he wouldn't be missing anything important. Besides, he was a firm believer in getting annoying shit out of the way first so that he could wallow in the stuff that didn't suck later on.
Wood shop and auto shop were full, and there was only one other elective left.
That, he figured, was how he ended up with the prospect of spending the final period of the day during his first semester at Fremont High in home economics.
Well, that, or he'd been wasted. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility, you know?
"Home ec?!"
Sammy doesn't stop laughing for fifteen minutes.
Not even when Dean throws an empty pizza carton at his head.
So here's what home economics looks like.
Two and a half weeks each of sewing, cooking, and cross-stitching.
One teacher, Mrs. Simons. She weighs ninety pounds soaking wet, wears five different versions of the same neatly homemade dress in varying calico patterns, and has genuinely silver curls that the students theorize she shines up every night with jewelry polish.
Twelve students, all of which are girls except for the charming new guy with the gorgeous green eyes in the back of the classroom. One of the girls is this thin chick with ugly designer clothes one size too big and long dark wavy hair that could stand to be washed more often. She looks as if she raided her fatter sister's closet.
Ten of the girls are on the cheerleading squad.
It only takes Dean five minutes to see the advantages here.
I mean, c'mon, man. He's always been smarter than people give him credit for.
Dean might be seventeen, but he knows a lot about breasts. Hell, he's certainly held enough of them in his hands, nice and round and firm and soft and big and small and ... well, a guy's got to have experience, you know what I mean? When you're the new kid in school every other semester, it helps if you can make a good first impression. Being able to make a girl come just from rubbing her nipples the right way works much better than a handshake.
He wouldn't suggest trying that instead of one, though. Just putting that out there.
"I mean, who even wears Bermuda shorts anymore?"
The blond girl at the sewing table next to Dean's snaps her gum as her friends roll their eyes in agreement. The blond is Julie Ames, the head cheerleader. Her two friends, the brunette and the redhead, are Tiffani and Bianca. They're the top three girls in the pyramid and they all wear the same exact blue contacts. Dean would bet ten bucks they all have the same bra size. He really wishes someone would take him up on testing that bet with his hands.
Dean can't help but check out his own pieces of fabric with a sneer. They had to use the fabric in the home ec room for their first sewing project, although Mrs. Simons had pointed out that most people never even make it past that.
It's not so hard, though, the sewing thing. There's measuring and dots and notches and shit. Seriously, how hard could something be that comes with instructions this detailed?
Julie leans over with this cotton-candy-sweet smile on her face and waves her fabric in midair. She hasn't even cut it out yet, and straight pins fly everywhere.
"Isn't this the stupidest, most worthless thing ever?" she coos at him.
Dean could swear he hears a female voice in the back of the room say, "I can think of some solid competition in that category," but maybe he's just going insane or something.
"Could be worse," he says, although he can't think of many things that are at this particular moment. Last month, a ghost knocked him out a second-story window. That sucked worse than this. "And hey, you can always wear them to bed, right?"
He wasn't fishing, but she bats her eyelashes at him and says, "I don't wear anything to bed, gorgeous."
No, seriously, one of you is going to take him up on that bra size bet, right?
Behind him, the dorky girl in the shabby dark blue dress makes some snarky remark under her breath and finishes off another seam. She's the only one in the classroom who's turned on her sewing machine so far, and it suddenly occurs to Dean that the only reason he hasn't turned on his own machine is because he's sure as hell not going to start sewing before one of the cheerleaders does.
Oh, hell, at this rate, they never will.
The pattern on Dean's fabric is sailboats.
Hell, maybe Sammy can wear them in gym class or something. You know, if they all suddenly take up yachting.
Mrs. Simons stops Dean on his way out of the classroom door at the end of the second day. He's not really surprised.
"You mind telling me who made this for you?" she says, and holds up his finished pair of Bermuda shorts.
You know, it's not like Dean even cares about this dumb class. Well, aside from the fact that it's teeming with cheerleaders who've been fawning all over him since they figured out he wasn't gay. But she seriously couldn't think he'd gotten one of the girls to make his stupid Bermuda shorts for him. Okay, that weird Sukie Wilcox in the back of the room, maybe. But it wasn't like he talked to her. Hell, he barely looked at her if he could help it, for the good of his eyesight and all.
"Nobody," he says, and yeah, maybe he sounds a little offended. He's done harder shit before. Remind him to tell you that story about the time he killed his first and second werewolves. He dropped them eight seconds apart. Dad almost bought him a party hat, but eleven-year-olds and party hats don't exactly mix, especially when said eleven-year-olds carry handguns on a regular basis.
Mrs. Simons raises a skeptical brow at that.
"Oh, come on," Dean snaps. "You make it sound like it's rocket science. A couple of seams, a little ironing ... what's so hard about that?"
"You expect me to believe you didn't sweet-talk one of those pretty girls into making this on the sly?"
Dean makes a face because ... well, sure, he could have gotten one of those girls to make them for him. Julie might have played a little hard to get, but Tiffani had already offered to do something to him that really made him hope she wasn't kissing her mother with that mouth without gargling first and Bianca's tops were getting so small she might as well give up all pretense and come to school in a bra. The problem lie in the fact that they haven't even stopped talking about shampoo or manicures long enough to finish their own shorts.
Ms. Simons takes one look at him and narrows her eyes thoughtfully. She grabs one of the pattern books from the shelf near the windows and says, "Sewed these yourself, did you?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So," she says, dropping the pattern book on the table, "prove it."
No one expects a teenage boy to rob a fabric store.
Okay, so you can't actually steal fabric. They'll notice you boosting an entire bolt, and if you think they'll pick up on that, you should see what they do if they catch you measuring out yards of fabric and stuffing it into your jacket.
You can steal the money to buy fabric, though, so Dean lifts a few wallets at the mall and hustles a crowd of college kids at a bar before heading over to Joann's Fabric.
He ends up getting seven yards of dark green fleece, eight of brown flannel, nine of blue plaid cotton and ten of black cotton knit. Well, okay, if we're being technical, that's just what he pays for. If we're really being honest, what he walks out with is the fabric, five packages of fusible interfacing, six spools of thread, five zippers, four patterns, two packages of 5/8" elastic, one package of 3/8" elastic, a plastic container of straight pins, and as many matching buttons as he can fit into his jeans.
The clerk's name is Paula, and she just graduated from Fremont the year before.
"That is one hot jacket," she says, leaning over the counter to drag her fingers over the leather of Dean's coat and flashing him a great view of her cleavage. He's not sure, but he could swear he can see her belly button down that shirt. It must be all the fabric he's buying that makes her say, "Did you make it?"
He can't help himself, plucking her hand from his coat and giving her his most winning smile.
"Oh, yeah," he says. "It's got a lot of pockets."
Did I mention that he walked out with the clerk's cell phone number, too?
'Cause, yeah. That's not really a surprise.
"Dean, what are you doing wth my jeans?"
Dean mentally notes the length of John's waist as he tucks the measuring tape into his pocket in one smooth move and turns around.
"Oh, nothing," he says, and gives his dad his most innocent smile.
What? One of them has to be more innocent than the rest of them, right? That's just decent odds, right there.
Hell, it's not like he's never patched up jeans or put on a button before. It's either that or buy new clothes they can't afford, man, and with Sammy shooting up like he's telling a long enjoyable string of lies, they'd be shopping for clothes constantly at this rate. Plus, you know, Sukie Wilcox is not that much faster at this than he is. A little healthy competition never hurt anyone.
The big difference between sewing and stitching up a wound is that he doesn't have to wash the blood from his hands afterwards.
Well, so far. The way Sukie keeps looking at the cheerleaders, those first aid skills his dad drilled into his head are going to come in handy real soon.
He may be getting a little too excited about learning how to pull a needle out of someone's eyeball, but don't quote him on that.
"Hey, Dean, where did this come from?"
Sam holds the green fleece pullover out in front of him, and Dean stops stirring the elbow noodles long enough to look over his shoulder at the kid. If he feels a warm flicker of pride that it looks as if the pullover's big enough to fit those newly long-ass arms of Sam's, he's sure as hell not going to acknowledge it.
"Maybe the Tooth Fairy left it on your bed," Dean says.
But Sammy's smiling, and he says, "Did you make this?"
Dean gives the noodles a good stir, and hot water splashes all over the stovetop. "Aw, shut up."
"No, I just ..."
Sam holds the pullover up a little higher, furrows his brow and tugs it on. It fits perfectly.
"I was just going to say thanks."
"Yeah, whatever."
Sam just grins and doesn't say anything else. 'Cause, you know, he's met Dean before.
Dean should not be so grateful when they finish sewing, just like he shouldn't get so damn annoyed that after two and a half weeks, Julie and the rest of the cheerleaders have yet to finish a pair of Bermuda shorts. He knows cheerleaders aren't supposed to have brains. Actually, he's usually counting on that.
But come on -- four seams, two hems, and one elastic waistband. Hell, the damn things come with instructions. Detailed instructions, with little pictures.
An untrained monkey could make a pair, if you could get him to stop flinging his own crap first.
Julie breathes this sigh of relief that makes those amazing tits of hers heave in this fabulous roll. She leans over to Tiffani and Bianca after wadding up what's made of her shorts and stuffing them into her Prada backpack. "God, that was so hard," she drawls.
"Like standing upright?" Sukie mutters under her breath from the back of the room.
Dean chokes on something that might be laughter.
In the past two and a half weeks, Sukie's made three dresses, two skirts, and a fairly complex purse that even impresses the hell out of Dean. Dean's made two flannel shirts for his father, three fleece pullovers for Sam, and pajama bottoms for all of them.
Yeah ... yeah, it's probably laughter.
So now it's cooking.
They get paired up alphabetically. Julie ends up at the front of the room with Bianca.
Dean ends up with Sukie. All of the cheerleaders stare at her like she's a disease he's going to catch and pass onto them, and for a brief instant, Dean feels sorry for her. Unless bad fashion sense is suddenly a life-threatening illness, she isn't that bad.
Mrs. Simon lugs a couple of grocery bags into the kitchen section of the room and drops them onto the countertop.
"We're going to be starting with something easy," she says, and starts passing out bags of chocolate chips to every cooking station.
By the end of class, two of the cheerleaders have set their ovens on fire.
The second time, Bianca stands back and sobs as Julie mutters something under her breath about getting that skanky smoke smell out of her hair. The rest of the cheerleaders try to wave more smoke out of the previously opened windows. Mrs. Simons looks through the cabinets with tired eyes. If he were her, Dean thinks, he'd be desperate for cooking sherry right now.
He and Sukie lean back against their station to watch the chaos.
"Cookie?" she says.
"Thanks," he says, and takes a bite out of the one she passes him.
He's never tasted anything better, and not just because they're perfect.
The next day, Mrs. Simons takes it back a step and has the cheerleaders cook tater tots and frozen onion rings. Only one of the ovens bursts into flames this time.
Sukie and Dean make fettucini alfredo. From scratch.
What? Dean takes over from Sukie's careful instructions on how to make the sauce, once she figures out he's not a completely belligerent tool ("Gee, thanks"). One whiff of it has Julie, Trina, Kaitlyn, and Liliana failing miserably to disguise the rumbling of their stomachs.
Suki's still in the middle of making the noodles, which look to Dean like troll intestines and isn't something he'd ever admit out loud anyway, when Dean says, "Where'd you learn how to do all this?"
"My uncle's a cook."
"And the sewing?"
"I have a grandmother." Sukie frowns down at her dress. "Not that my mother will let me alter her stupid clothes anyway."
"You're just related to everybody, aren't you?" He grins at that, then suddenly says, "Wait, you're not related to me, are you?"
"God, I hope not," she mutters.
It's the first day since the start of class that none of the cheerleaders give Dean so much as a passing glance, but he's so full of pasta at the end of the day he really doesn't give a damn. Hey, it's sort of orgasmic.
Speaking of orgasms, you should hear the sounds Sam makes when Dean cooks dinner the next weekend. Dad's off hunting some ghost in Connecticut, so Dean figures what the hell, hustles a good fifty bucks at the nearest bar, and splurges on the ingredients for shrimp jambalaya. Moans and groans and Sammy making these hungry mewls of culinary ecstacy that ... shit, if he's been making those sounds around any actual girls, Dean's going to goddamn kill him.
"Wow, Dean, you're really good at this when you're not making Spaghetti-O surprise."
"Oh, shut it, geek."
Sam moans again just for the hell of it.
On the last day of cooking classes, Dean whips up a double chocolate cheesecake that would have had the cheerleaders swooning at his heels.
You know, if they were speaking to him.
Maybe it would help if it he showed them some of his burn scars so they don't think they're the only one in class with them, he thinks.
Then again, maybe not.
"Please tell me you're going to let me have some of that," Sukie says. She made key lime bars. Dean had really wanted one, but Mrs. Simons had taken one bite of them and rushed off with plate in hand to pass them off to the other teachers. Yeah, he's still a little bitter.
"Are you kidding? I could keep my brother as a personal slave for weeks with this to encourage him."
He holds the cheesecake up in the air, too high for her to reach, and she scowls at him past long hair that could definitely use a wash.
"Jerk."
"Dork."
"Yeah, I haven't heard that one before."
"Well, 'jerk' isn't exactly a new one for me, either."
"You are such a decomposing truckload of elephant afterbirth."
"Better, but you're still not getting any cheesecake."
"You suck."
"Only on request, sweetheart."
Dean nearly drops the cheesecake when she punches him in the stomach.
The entire room smells like burnt french fries.
And then it's on to cross-stitching. The cheerleaders bitch about what the needle's going to do to their manicure, and Julie takes one look at her nails and bursts into tears. Six of them decide to skip the next two weeks for a spontaneous ski trip.
Suki has her own circular wooden frames, three of them in varying sizes. Figures.
Did you know that there are programs on the Internet that will turn a photo into a cross-stitch pattern?
Well, hell, if Dean's got to do this, it might as well be something he likes.
For two straight weeks, John Winchester is positive that Dean's spending an hour and a half every night in the bathroom jerking off, which is why he doesn't bother pounding on the door to get him to come out.
And hey, it's possible he's jerking off. Leave a man in peace, all right?
Sukie leans over the last sewing machine in the back of the room to get a better look at what Dean's stitching and frowns. "Is that a car?"
Dean frowns. "It's not a car, it's a 1967 Chevy Impala. There's a difference."
"Yeah, I'll just bet," she says.
Dean gets an A. None of the cheerleaders are talking to him.
Really, he can't decide whether he's pissed or a little bit proud about either one of those.
You know how I said that thing about Dean not being stupid?
See, a week after the end of the semester Dean's suffering through auto shop -- not that he doesn't like fixing up a car, but Jesus, could the teacher drone just a little more? Mr. Kuchanski's not a bad guy and he knows what the hell he's teaching, but if there's a sound out there that can make a guy slip directly into a coma, Mr. Kuchanski does a damn fine impression of it. Dean would almost wonder if he were some sort of sleep demon or something, if he were conscious in class more often.
So this one day after classes, Dean's tossing the last of his books into his locker, trying to avoid the last of the straggling students heading home for the weekend, and he hears this voice from his right.
"Shouldn't you be in the home ec room making a prom gown for Julie or something?"
Dean tilts his head, all prepared with some sarcastic retort, and --
Well, damn.
Damn.
Some people clean up pretty well, you know what I mean? Get them out of whatever nerdy clothes their mother make them wear on a regular basis and they're even a little hot. Sometimes it turns out they've got great legs or a fabulous pair of breasts or an ass that will fit perfectly in your hands. Put them in a dress they made while they were bitching about moronic cheerleaders whose bra sizes are bigger than their IQs and it's an even bigger turn-on than you'd think.
"Sukie?"
She crosses her arms over her surprisingly more-abundant-than-he'd-thought chest and cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah, what of it?"
Pink looks good on her.
Oh, and she might be wearing contacts, and thank God she lost the glasses, but those pretty blue eyes are all hers.
"Oh, wow."
Her hands clutch at him, right, pulling him down against her like she's trying to use him to press herself all the way through the couch cushions. Her skin tastes more like strawberries and cream the further south he lets his tongue wander and he tugs at her dress, pulling it up along the length of her bare thighs. God, he really has to go out with more dorky quiet girls, because apparently they're really grateful for the attention.
"Like that?" Dean asks, palming one of her breasts.
"That's a dumb question," she says, yanking at his shirt.
He chuckles into the curve of her neck and she moans in response.
"Nice pleating," he mutters.
Honestly, he has no idea where the hell that one came from.
Sukie's hand slips down, undoes the buttons of his jeans, and starts doing these perfectly obscene things to his cock. Like, perfectly obscene. If the word "obscene" were defined in the dictionary with video footage, it'd be those deft little fingers of hers doing thatthingrightthereohmyfuckingGOD. For someone who's supposedly never done this before, she's like some handjob savant or something.
And she snaps, "Are you going to shut up and fuck me or not?"
Yeah, so you know that rumor about band geeks?
Home economics geeks are that much worse in all the best ways.
Like I said, Dean's not stupid. Not about sewing in a zipper or making a cheesecake from scratch, and definitely not about helping Sukie Wilcox lose her virginity on the couch in her game room.
Three times over, even.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 02:29 am (UTC)Thanks for the belly-aching good time. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 04:00 pm (UTC)We geek girls deserve a chance, and this proves that Dean has good taste. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-17 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-20 10:52 am (UTC)For some reason this line just cracked me up! Go figure?
Anyway, loved your story! Thank you.
Alley
no subject
Date: 2007-11-24 09:46 am (UTC)For two straight weeks, John Winchester is positive that Dean's spending an hour and a half every night in the bathroom jerking off, which is why he doesn't bother pounding on the door to get him to come out.
And hey, it's possible he's jerking off. Leave a man in peace, all right?
I could not breathe, I was laughing so hard.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-01 08:04 am (UTC)giggle fest
Date: 2007-12-01 08:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 10:16 pm (UTC)I like it!!!!
no subject
Date: 2008-10-11 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-24 06:17 am (UTC)But the crosstitch is comedy genius. Did you know that there are programs on the Internet that will turn a photo into a cross-stitch pattern?
Also, Dean learning to respect the virtue of intelligence and competence in women, which I'm sure is practical reinforcement of John's lessons, FTW.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-19 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 06:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-31 08:36 am (UTC)♥
*MEMS IT*
no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-08 05:20 pm (UTC)Awesome job. <33
no subject
Date: 2009-03-08 06:15 pm (UTC)that was awesome!
*imagining dean in an apron*
Date: 2009-03-09 05:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 04:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-12 02:24 am (UTC)I wish I had gone to high school with Dean... *sigh*
Mea Culpa
Date: 2009-03-16 09:36 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for writing this.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-08 11:14 am (UTC)Especially the way you make Dean's approach (and excellence in) home ec appear to be in character. And it's true: there's instructions, pictograms and rules - it's just like shop, really ...
It was funny and sweet and I thank you.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-27 09:18 pm (UTC)OH DEAN. Go Sukie Go!
no subject
Date: 2009-06-03 09:34 pm (UTC)Wait, that's gross. Uhhh.
Nice story! :D