Wolfie (wolfiekins) wrote in spn_slash, @ 2009-09-07 10:32:00 |
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Current location: | Hooterville |
Current mood: | accomplished |
Current music: | BOMBAY BICYCLE CLUB "Open House" |
Entry tags: | r, sam/dean |
SAM & DEAN GO TO WAL-MART, Sam/Dean, R
TITLE: SAM & DEAN GO TO WAL-MART
AUTHOR: wolfiekins
RATING: R
CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, OMC
WORD COUNT: 6150
COMPLETE: Yes
BETA: koshweasley
SUMMARY: The Winchester brothers' reality of life on the road sometimes forces them to resort to desperate measures. Fairly Gen-ish with some slashy goodness.
DISCLAIMER: I own neither the SUPERNATURAL characters or the franchise, nor am I associated with the Wal-Mart corporation in any way. For entertainment only.
GENRE: Slash, Humour, Mild Erotica
WARNINGS: Established Relationship, Adult Language, Adult Situations
The plot bunny for this fic first appeared sometime in 2007 whilst on a visit with magnolialane. It languished about, unfinished, on my hard drive since that time. For some reason, that now adult rabbit has kicked me in the arse, so here is the finished story...
Not nearly as slashy as originally intended. Most likely takes place late in season two or early on in season three.
Dedicated to Magnolialane!
~~~ SAM & DEAN GO TO WAL-MART ~~~
“Stipe's a wishy-washy celebrity afraid to admit who he really is.” Dean fiddles with the tuner of their in-dash radio just as the last bits of R.E.M.'s “The One I Love” fizzle away in a wave of static.
Sam looks up from his Treo, which has once again decided to malfunction. “What the hell are you talking about?” He stabs at some random buttons to no effect.
“It's pretty clear the guy's a butt pirate. He should just ante up and admit it publicly.”
Sam takes a deep breath, equally amused and annoyed at Dean's fascination with Michael Stipe and his alleged sexual orientation. They always seem to have the same discussion whenever an R.E.M. tune plays which isn't really surprising considering the radio stations Sam prefers. Oddly, Rob Halford of Judas Priest never seems to be a topic that breaches Dean's radar. "It doesn't matter at all," he shoots back, shoving his Treo into his jacket pocket. “Butt pirate? Sorta like calling the kettle black, isn't it?”
Dean flips Sam the finger. “I'm not the one with a problem, Sammy. I'm also not some famous celeb, like he is. That's why it does matter; he's got an obligation to queerdom to stand up and tell it like it is."
"That's bullshit, Dean."
"No it isn't." Dean shifts down in the seat, planting one hand at the very top of the Impala's steering wheel while gesturing vaguely with the other. "He's made one or two off-handed comments about it. Big deal. He's a well-known artist, at least with the dorky college types, so if he'd come clean and speak out, think of all the nerdy, dweeby folks that'd feel better about themselves."
Sam glares at his brother, and not for the first time, wonders if he really wasn't adopted. "Nerdy? Dweeby? I like R.E.M and I'm not like that."
Dean chuckles and rolls his eyes. "Just keep telling yourself that, Sasquatch."
"Michael Stipe is a person and can do what he wants, regardless of how famous he or his band is. And who says he's gay, anyway?"
"C'mon, just look at the guy."
Sam stares at his brother and arches an eyebrow.
Dean slinks further down in the bench seat. "What?"
"Since when have you had gaydar?"
"I don't."
"Whatever you say."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam turns to stare at the blur of brownish scenery rushing by. "Nuthin'. It's just that you seem to be able to pick out who's gay and who's not really easily."
"That's bullshit, man."
"Not from where I'm sittin'."
Dean glares back at him for a brief moment before looking down to spin the tuner of the uncooperative Kraco stereo embedded in the dash. He works with it for a long minute before switching the radio off altogether. "Damn thing."
"Nothing good on?" Sam knows the cassette player quit working two states ago.
Dean snorts. "Yeah, like there's tons of classic rock to be had in what, Pig's Knuckle, Arkansas."
"Where?" Sam responds, unable to contain his laughter. It's too hilarious that Dean completely loses all semblance of humanity if Led Zepplin, Cream or Deep Purple aren't readily available. "There's no such place."
"How do you know? We just passed through Bald Knob, for fuck's sake."
Sam shakes his head as he makes another effort to coax his cell phone to life.
Dean nods his head in Sam's direction. "So what does the Spacely Sprocket 5000 have to say?"
“Well--”
“On the fritz again, ain't it?”
Sam pulls a face. "The battery doesn't charge all the time.” He gestures to the Impala's dash. “There's something wrong with the lighter. Not enough juice or something.”
“Ain't nothing wrong with my car.” Dean's statement is as much of a warning as anything else.
“Whatever you say, man. Silly me thinking the problem might be in the forty-year old wiring rather than modern technology.” Sam does his best to conceal a grin. He counts silently: one...two...three...
“Hey, don't badmouth the car. If you don't like it, you can hit the pavement anytime, little bro.”
“Just making a point,” Sam replies amidst soft boops and beeps.
“Could've fooled me. You've had nothing but trouble with that thing since day one,” Dean mutters, sparing the silent radio a menacing glance.
“You're the one who said I should buy it. I thought you were going to get one, too.”
"That thing isn't me. Too silver."
"You'd buy anything that's black, wouldn't you?"
"Damn straight."
Sam shakes his head. "So predictable."
Dean jams his foot down on the gas, whipping the Impala across the double yellow and around yet another tractor. "So what's the low down on this Ripley place again?"
"Ah, smallish town south of Nashville. Not much of a history, demon-wise, but there've been dozens of cattle mutilations in the past year, plus a two hundred percent increase in the number of missing persons."
Dean rolls his eyes. "That's it?"
"What else do you need? We've gone halfway across the country for less."
"Whatever." Dean grabs his crotch and adjusts himself. Forcefully.
"Something wrong?" Sam arches an eyebrow.
“No,” Dean replies, squirming some more and clearly failing to find a comfortable position.
“Sure looks like there is.”
Sam can't help but smile. Dean wasn't exactly the best at provisioning, unless it's food. Everything else Sam handles, including their daily essentials and clothing. It wasn't the best or most fair arrangement, but it was certainly the least painful. When they'd first hit the road together, Sam had suggested that they split everything fifty-fifty, including the laundry duties.
It wasn't long before Sam discovered that while his older brother was an awesome hunter, he didn't know squat about the sorting or washing of clothes.
Several laundry disasters later, Sam had taken over.
Dean also tended to wear things until they either stood up by themselves or reverted to their base elements. Consequently, Sam had chucked Dean's last pair of underwear two days ago.
“I'm fine,” Dean says through clenched teeth.
“Going commando not what it's cracked up to be, huh?”
“It's fine. I'm just not used to...to-”
“Used to what?” Sam leans toward Dean, who spares him a pained glance.
“It's...well...shit!” Dean shifts around some more, spreading his legs as far apart as he can. “I'm just not used to all the...space. I kinda like things, ya know, more contained.”
“Contained?” Sam feels a full-blown laughing fit coming on, and does his best to head it off with some fake coughs.
“Fuck off! You're the underwear whore, not me.”
“Christ, you'd buy shorts at second hand stores if they sold 'em there. And just because I've a little selectivity...”
“Hah,” Dean snorts as he notices a state trooper parked behind an upcoming tree and decelerates. “You spend as much time with your nose in that Abercrombie & Fitch catalog as you do in Dad's journal.”
“I do not.”
“Do so.”
“I haven't seen one of those catalogs in months.”
“More like days,” Dean smirks, triumphant.
Sam knows that smirk well; it's the one Dean wears when he's sure he's prised open a chink in Sam's armor.
There are only two luxuries that Sam indulges in: his computer and his clothes. His laptop is rarely a bone of contention though, as it's become an integral part of their hunting. Sure, he's a bit picky about what he buys to wear, but he certainly doesn't go overboard with it. He does his best to select stuff that will not only be durable, but comfortable and vaguely stylish as well. And he takes care of his things, which isn't an easy task, considering. He's certainly not like Dean, who thinks that everything is disposable.
“Over-priced, over-marketed junk,” Dean throws out casually. “You waste too much money on that crap.”
“Better that than buying whatever's in the bargain bin and having it fall apart in a few weeks. I've had these jeans for nearly a year.” Sam nods to Dean's jeans. “Look at those things. Haven't had 'em a month, and they're already a mess. And they don't fit you for shit.”
Dean pulls a face. “They fit me fine.”
“Sure they do.”
“What's wrong with 'em?”
“Nuthin'. Except they're so baggy in the ass you look like...aw, nevermind.”
“I think I look good in these.” Dean shakes his head. “Sometimes I can't believe we're related. You'd rather jump into the pit than wear a cheap pair of jeans, right?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sam sighs, staring out his window. He can tell they're approaching a town, as the houses lining the road are closer to one another, and the speed limit's dropped from 55 to 40. “We've got different tastes, that's all. I take care of my stuff. You don't. Been that way since we were kids.”
“Different tastes, all right,” Dean grumbles, playing with the radio again. “Mine's good. Yours isn't.” He finds only a handful of stations as he spins the tuning knob, nothing but country, news or twangy preachers. “This sucks.”
“Uh-huh. Might be time for a new radio.”
Dean turns off the Kraco again as they roll to a stop at the town's first traffic light. “Maybe. I doubt this burgh will have a huge selection of electronics stores. Where are we, anyway?”
“Hang on.” Sam unfolds the map of Arkansas, trailing his long finger along the red line representing the state route they're on. “Um, looks like were in Shortsville.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“Nope.” Sam points ahead. “Look. Shortsville Suds, Grub & Tattoos. And One-Hour Photo and Nail Salon.”
“Awesome. Now if they had Asian Massage too, we'd be stoppin'.”
“Or wi-fi Internet,” Sam adds. “Not much chance of finding that in a place this small.”
“Who needs that wireless stuff when you can hack dial-up? Anyway, I think civilization's made it's way to Shortsville.” Dean pulls Sam's attention to a huge sign coming up on their left. “Everything anyone could need under one roof. Well, everything but beer, tattoos and massage, that is.” He flicks on the Impala's turn signal.
“Shit, Dean, you know I hate this place.”
“Suck it up, Sam. Time to get my baby a new stereo. And maybe some underwear, too.”
“Whatever.”
Sam lets out a deep breath as the Impala slides into an empty parking space.
~~~~~ * * * * * ~~~~~
“They must've just finished this place hours ago. You can still smell the fresh paint.” Sam jams his hands deep into his jacket pockets as the automatic doors whoosh apart at their approach.
“Awesome. That means the restrooms might still be usable.” Dean glances at his brother, one eyebrow arched high. “Christ, Sammy, you look like you've just wolfed a bad corn dog. Ease up, dude. We're not always going to stumble across some hippie co-op organic market...especially in by-god Arkansas.”
Sam doesn't respond, as there's little point. Dean knows how he feels yet insists on rubbing his nose in it. The best course of action is to just hunker down and roll with it.
“Welcome to our Shortsville Wal-Mart!” blurts a short, middle-aged woman wearing an over-sized blue vest covered in buttons. One is a huge smiley face with a blinking red nose. Just above that, her name tag reads “Melvina.” She thrusts a flier into Dean's chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Lotsa bargains in our opening week circular, hun!” She beams up at Dean, her huge, clearly artificial eyelashes fluttering like mutated hummingbird wings.
“Ah, thanks, um, Melvina,” Dean replies as he slowly pries the flier from her fingers.
Sam clears his throat, a smile spreading across his face. One of Dean's habits is to use the name of whomever's serving them: waitresses, store clerks, whatever. Generally not a bad idea, but Sam's noted that a lot people see the ploy for what it is: a transparent attempt to curry favor. And in the most blatant cases, Dean's only motive is to schmooze a particularly attractive server for some possible motel action later.
Usually while Sam's banished to the Impala.
“You're welcome, hun,” Melvina replies, her voice dropping a few registers. “We're sure to have anything you need.” She licks her lips in a disturbingly seductive manner.
“Uh, right.”
Sam notes that Dean's eyes have gone wide in horror. “Do you have men's underwear on sale?” He pats Dean on the shoulder. “My brother here goes through shorts like shit through a goose.”
Dean makes a strangled sound and takes a step backward.
Melvina's gaze flicks downward to Dean's crotch and lingers there. “Oh, dear-”
Before she can finish, Dean finds his voice again. “Okay, thanks, thanks a lot.” He flashes his trademark crooked grin, both hands sliding down with the flier centering over the front of his jeans. “Oh, and could you point us toward the lingerie section, too?”
Melvina sighs, crestfallen. “A gift for a lady friend, then?”
Dean shakes his head, smirk still firmly in place. “Nah. For my little brother here. We haven't seen a Victoria's Secret in weeks, and he's gettin' really cranky.” He slams the flier into Sam's chest and stalks off.
Melvina's nose wrinkles as she sizes Sam up from head to toe. “Uh-huh.”
Sam considers a response but decides that retreat is the better part of valor. Leaving Melvina behind, he heads after Dean, who's already a fair distance down the wide main aisle.
It's not that he really minds Dean's jabs; it's just a thing that they do. They're brothers, after all, and part of the pathology involves doling out generous portions of ostensibly good-natured cut-downs and embarrassments.
And Sam can give as good as he gets.
What's really been annoying lately is Dean's almost continual use of the lingerie thing. They are classic cut-downs: Little Sammy likes to wear girl's underwear! Doesn't Sammy need some new panties for the upcoming drag show? The list is almost endless.
And honestly, Sam's the first to admit that the mental picture of someone long and lanky like himself in fishnets and lace would be pretty ridiculous; sorta like Barry Bostwick in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Without the glasses.
He's nearly caught up to his brother, who's stopped a much younger, very blonde associate, clearly asking her for directions.
Of course Dean knows that Sam hasn't the slightest predilection toward wearing women's clothes, underwear or otherwise. But there's something about how Dean just keeps pounding the tired joke home, over and over. Sam knows, too, that his older brother not only has a strangely kinky side, but he never talks openly about them.. Does Dean secretly desire to prance around in frilly underclothes? It's a totally laughable prospect.
Or maybe it's just more over-compensation. Dean's huge with the over-compensation thing.
What's more likely at work is just another facet of Dean, another complexity to the already Escher-like structure of his brother's psyche. Sometimes Sam imagines Dean as a jigsaw puzzle with all of the pieces the same color. It's a pretty bizarre thing to know so much about someone, but so little about how all the parts somehow come together and interact to produce the person everyone sees. Sam smiles to himself, easily imagining the sort of comment Dean might offer to such musings.
“Yo, Sam!”
Dean's call breaks him from his reverie.
“Dude, pink is definitely not your color.” Dean jerks his head.
Sam looks over at the indicated rack, to find that while lost in thought, he'd stopped next to a display of lacy corset things in various colors. He'd walked right into that one, complete with a spacey grin.
Another thing about Dean: he wasn't one to miss a good opportunity.
~~~~~ * * * * * ~~~~~
“I can't believe they don't carry any stereos with cassette players.” Dean eyes the carton with the Impala's new Sony stereo as if it's a hex box containing something particularly nasty.
“That's probably because they don't make cassette tapes any more.” Sam gestures to their right. “Looks like the men's stuff is over there.”
“That's just stupid,” Dean replies, tucking the box under an arm. “I've got all those tapes-”
“I've told you a million times that I can download all the songs on your tapes and burn them to CDs. It won't be a problem, Dean.”
“Yeah, you keep sayin' that.”
Sam can't resist a grin at his brother's displeasure. Hunting and his music are about the only things he takes seriously. “Once you get used to the CD sound, I bet you won't miss the tapes at all. Most of yours are so worn out they're nothing but hiss anyway.”
The pair finally arrive at their destination and Sam gestures expansively at the huge array of men's underwear displayed before them.
“There's gotta be something here that you'll like,” Sam mutters as he immediately begins searching for possible choices.
“Okay, these should do.” Dean yanks a package of underwear from the nearest hook and shoves it under his arm with the stereo. “Let's hit it.”
“You didn't even look around. You just grabbed the first bag you came to.”
“It's underwear, Sam. For most people, it's not a life or death decision.”
“Right.” Sam snatches the package.
“Hey!”
“Wow, nice choice, Dean,” Sam says, turning the package over. “Generic underwear. Fifty percent polyester. These should chafe nicely.”
“So what. Here. Gimme!” Dean reaches for the package of underwear, but Sam jerks away.
“Briefs, too. You know you grabbed 'Large', don't you? These things'll hang on you like crazy. You'll look like an eighty-year-old guy in these.”
“C'mon, I need Larges.” Dean steps in, looking around to see if any other customers are nearby. “You know...I need the extra space. In front.”
“No, you don't.” Sam hangs the package back on its hook. “Let's see what else we have here.”
“C'mon, man...”
“Here, these aren't too bad.” Sam hands Dean a different package, this one with black, grey and white shorts.
Dean scrutinizes the package as though he were trying to decipher hieroglyphics. “Boxer briefs? Nah. No way. And I don't do foofy colors.” He thrusts the package back toward Sam.
“Dude, those'll look fine. They're mediums so they'll fit...and what's wrong with boxer briefs? I think you'll like 'em.” He pauses a moment. “And since when are black and grey foofy?
Dean folds his arms. “I'm NOT wearing anything with “Joe Boxer” plastered all over the waistband. Ain't gonna happen.”
“Fine” Sam takes the rejected Joe Boxers and returns them to their peg. “Here. Same style and size, but in white.” He scans the label. “All cotton, a name brand, and made in the USA.” He tosses the package to Dean, who catches it easily.
He looks at the package for a brief moment. “Since we're on our way to a job, I'm not gonna argue.”
“Great. Let's get the hell out of here. The muzak is starting to get to me.”
“Not so fast, little bro.” Dean holds up the package of underwear. “I'm not buying these until I try 'em on first.”
Sam's jaw drops. “Dean, you can't 'try on' underwear!” He leans in, lowering his voice. “It's not...like, sanitary.”
“Chill out, Mrs. Clean. I showered this morning.”
“That's not the point!” Sam lowers his voice further to a strained whisper. “What are you gonna do if you don't like 'em? Put them back?”
Dean gestures to a handful of ripped open packages dumped along the bottom of the display rack. “Seems like I'm not the only person who likes to be sure.” He smirks as he pushes past Sam toward the fitting booths.
“They're not going to let you try them on, Dean.”
“Watch and learn, Sammy. Watch and learn.”
Sam groans as he puts his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hard.
Against his better judgment, he decides to catch up to his brother, who's impatiently leaning on the tiny counter situated in front of the two fitting booths.
“Yo! Anybody home?”
“Dean, they're not gonna let you try those on. Look.” Sam points to a large sign hung directly over the fitting booths. “See number 6? No hosiery or underwear allowed in the fitting rooms.”
Dean rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Rules schmules. I'll be able to talk my way in.” He winks.
“What're ya gonna do? We're not in a bar; you can't get the clerk plastered first before having your way with 'em.”
“I guarantee that I'll have whomever shows up eating out of my hand in less than a minute. Especially if they're under thirty.” He hikes up his jeans, grinning from ear to ear. “Ain't no one that can resist when I pour on the Dean Winchester charm.”
“Can I help you?” booms an entirely too deep voice.
Sam and Dean turn around as a definitely male associate approaches them. As tall as Sam and built like a linebacker, he steps behind the counter. Sam notes that the young guy's arms are probably bigger than his own thighs. Definite ex-football type, complete with an honest to goodness mullet-style haircut.
“Um, yeah, Aidan,” Sam says, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he reads the guy's name tag. “My brother here wants to try something on.” He glances at Dean, whose mouth is hanging open.
Aidan looks down at Dean for a second before indicating the package of underwear. “You can't try those on.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Didn't you read the sign?”
“Um, well...” Dean stutters.
“You were saying something about less than a minute,” Sam reminds him.
“Uh...”
“Hey, I'd love to stand around and chat, but I'm covering three departments,” Aidan quips as he looks from Dean to Sam and back again, scratching his head. “That's a new one. Wanting to try on underwear. Geez,” he snorts before sauntering off.
“Wow. That was truly amazing. Great job with the charm thing. I think he sorta liked you.”
Dean looks as if he'd just bitten into a raw cheeseburger. “Stuff it.”
Sam winces and clutches his chest. “Ow! You really know how to sling the comebacks, too.”
With a growl, Dean reaches into his pocket to extract his trusty lock-picker. “Fuck the rules.” The next second, he's fiddling with the doorknob of one of the fitting booths.
“My god,” Sam groans. “They've got security cameras everywhere.”
Dean makes a rude noise as the lock set clicks and the door pops open. He looks up at the nearest black Plexiglas hemisphere attached to the ceiling and smiles before disappearing into the fitting booth and slamming the door.
Sam looks all around, attempting to discern whether any associates had noticed Dean's break-in.
“Fucking typical,” he mumbles, leaning against the small counter. Once Dean gets something in his head, there's usually no changing it. Especially if someone tells him he can't do something. And the reverse psychology thing doesn't work, either; Sam's tried that too, with no success.
With any luck, Dean would pop out of the fitting room in a minute or two, they'd check out and get the hell out of Shortsville and on to their next hunt. If only...
“May I help you with something, sir?”
Sam jumps in spite of himself. He hadn't even noticed the young female associate that'd walked up from behind him. “No, no, I'm fine,” he stammers, hoping his smile looks genuine instead of just plain stupid. “Just waiting for someone. In there,” he adds with a nervous chuckle.
The young girl, Lornette, nods sagely. “Oh, yeah.” She glances at the fitting booths. “Girlfriend taking forever to try stuff on, right?” She smiles. “Be patient, okay? We may take awhile sometimes, but we're just interested in looking the best we can.”
Sam swallows a laugh, nearly choking in the process. “Oh, yeah, right. Thanks.”
“Well, if your girlfriend needs any help, you send her my way. I'll be over in the next aisle stocking lingerie, okay?”
“Yeah, right, thanks,” Sam replies, his stomach flip-flopping.
Lornette smiles and turns to leave just as the lock to the fitting booth clicks and the door swings wide. Dean steps into the doorway, wearing nothing but one of the pairs of new boxer briefs. Sam notes that they fit nicely. Really, really nicely.
“You were right, Sam, these fit-” He stops in mid-sentence. “Hi,” he offers with a small wave of his hand.
Lornette's face scrunches up as if she'd sucked on ten lemons. “Your girlfriend, huh?” she says to Sam accusingly.
“I never said anything about-”
“Ewww,” Lornette says, looking disgustedly from Sam to Dean and back again. “This is a family store, I'll have you know.” She points a finger at Dean, who actually jumps. “Those are new, aren't they? Can't you read? You're not supposed to try on underwear!”
“Um,” Sam begins.
“Yeah, well,” Dean adds.
“What in blue blazes is goin' on over here?”
Sam sees Dean's eyes go wide. He looks over his shoulder to find that Aidan is standing just behind him, huge arms crossed over his barrel chest.
“Yeah, well,” Sam begins.
“Um,” Dean adds.
“These two...these...whatever they are,” Lornette says, still pointing at Dean, “they're...well, look!”
Aidan holds up a beefy hand. “Never mind, Lornette. I've got it. Go on and get back to whatever you were workin' on.” His expression is stony as he studies Dean intently. “I'll handle these jokers.”
Lornette wrinkles her nose as she walks away. “Perverts.”
Sam groans. “I was just standing here.”
“We call that a lookout,” Aidan replies flatly, running a hand through his deep auburn hair.
“Oh, man.” Sam shoots his brother a nasty look. “This is why I hate these places.”
Aidan watches as Lornette disappears around an end cap featuring a display of nasty, solid rubber clog things. He raises an eyebrow at Sam before walking around the small counter to tower over Dean, who's simply standing in the doorway of the booth, his hands clasped in front of his undershorts.
“You just don't like to follow the rules, do ya, buddy?” Aidan notes the Sony stereo box visible on the floor of the fitting room. He points to the sign over his head. “No other merchandise allowed in the fitting rooms.”
“Dean,” Dean says.
“What?”
“I'm Dean,” he repeats, offering his hand.
Aidan stares at the proferred hand warily, nodding slightly. “You weren't planning on slipping that stereo into that big leather jacket of yours, were you, Dean?”
“Oh, shit.” Sam steps around the counter, palms upturned. “No, no, you've got this all wrong-”
“Hey, we're not-” Dean blurts at the same time.
“Save it, okay?” Aidan draws himself up, hooking both thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. “This ain't New York City or San Francisco, but we still know how to deal with your type around here.”
Dean's eyes are wide, his mouth agape. Again.
Aidan nods, an odd, crooked smile on his face. He yanks a cell phone from his belt and jabs a few buttons.
Sam shoots his brother a glance, mouthing the words nice job, dickhead.
Dean snarls in response before taking a step toward Aidan. “Hey, dude, this is just a misunderstanding. We'll just-”
He's cut off as Aidan draws the forefinger of his free hand across his throat. “Marcy? Aidan Johnson here. I've got a couple of suspicious characters here at the fitting booths.” He stares directly at Dean. “Yeah, definite out-of-town types.”
Sam rubs his forehead while Dean folds his arms and leans against the door frame.
“Uh-huh,” Aidan continues. “Dunno what they're up to. I'm takin' them to the Security Office now, so I'll be off the floor for awhile.”
Dean rolls his eyes.
Sam notes that a small crowd is forming.
“Nope, nope, I can handle 'em, no problem. I'll give you a buzz when I'm finished with 'em. Yeah, bye.” Aidan ends the call and clips the phone back onto his belt. “All right, I need both of you to come with me. We'll work this out. In private.”
Sam groans aloud and Dean makes to close the fitting room door.
“Uh-uh!” Aidan barks out. “You both come as you are. Don't want you dumping any other merchandise on the way to Security.”
Dean pulls a face. “What could I be hiding, for chrissakes?”
“Save it, smart guy. Just pick up your stuff and come with me. Now.”
“Like this?”
Aidan plants his hands on his hips. “Suddenly shy, are we?”
“Fine,” Dean snorts, bending over to pick up his clothes, jacket, the stereo box and opened package of underwear.
Sam notes that Aidan is clearly staring at Dean's admittedly nice backside. What the hell had his brother gotten him into this time?
“Okay, Officer Krupke. Let's go.” Dean smiles broadly.
Aidan gestures to the now sizable crowd of customers and employees. “All right, make a space! Comin' through.” He points at Dean. “You first.” He nods to Sam. “You, follow me. And no funny stuff.”
Dean nods, taking the lead. Aidan follows, close behind, and Sam takes his place in the third position of their absurd little conga line. “Keep it moving, tough guy,” Aidan grumbles, and Sam notes that he's still staring at Dean's ass. His brother does have a nice ass, and the boxer briefs certainly accentuate that particular attribute. He briefly considers making a run for it, but with Dean's state of undress, they'd probably never be able to outrun anyone. Plus, Dean's stocking feet wouldn't have any traction at all on the freshly waxed floors. Nothing to do but roll with it.
Aidan glances over his shoulder, still smirking.
Sam averts the gaze, focusing on the small leather patch embroidered into the right back pocket of Aidan's jeans. Wranglers, the old-school type. Well worn, by the looks of them. And nicely fitting, to boot. VERY nicely fitting, as a matter of fact. Most guys looked like crap wearing those kind of jeans, himself included. And then there was the retro haircut; Sam can't recall the last guy he'd seen that'd been able to pull off a mullet successfully. The guy looked predatory in an odd way; something was up, that was certain.
Aidan directs them through a set of double doors which lead to the vast stockroom. “That door, over there.” Sam and Dean look in the indicated direction, where, sure enough, the door bears the word SECURITY in big block letters.
Dean steps aside as he reaches the door, allowing Aidan to unlock and open it. He reaches inside to flick on the overhead lights. “Inside,” he says simply.
Sam follows Dean inside, taking in the rather large room. Nothing surprising, really: a big desk with two chairs in front of it; a small bank of monitors on a shelf behind. Metal shelving lines one wall, with a cheap looking plaid couch and two matching chairs along the other. Everything brand new and way too clean.
Dean dumps his armload on the desk as Aidan closes the door.
“You, slim,” Aidan says, indicating Sam. “Take off that jacket and put it on the desk.”
Sam complies as Aidan closes the blinds on the door.
He watches Sam flop his jacket onto the desk. “Good. That's better.” He then locks the doorknob and throws the deadbolt with a swift motion. “We've got ourselves a rather interesting problem here. I could call the Sheriff out, and that'd take time. And there'd be more questions, and that'd take even more time.”
Sam looks to Dean, who's nodding, his arms crossed over his chest again.
Aidan walks over to the front of the desk, un-clipping his cell phone from his belt and turning it off. “Store policy's really clear about what to do with possible shoplifters.”
“We weren't shoplifting,” Sam answers tiredly, once again looking to his brother.
Dean remains silent, simply shrugging in response.
Aidan mimics Dean's shrug. “Maybe not, but like I said, we're trained to follow procedure.” He un-clips his tie and tosses it on the desk. “You gotta admit that you two are sorta suspicious. I bet dollars to doughnuts that you boys ain't from anywhere around here.” He un-buttons the top two buttons of his shirt. “But there's somethin' that says to me that maybe we don't need to involve anyone else in this.”
Dean throws his arms wide. “We can keep things personal, right? Just between us?”
Aidan nods. “Yeah. What happens in here-”
“Stays in here,” Dean finishes.
Sam sucks in a breath as Aidan pulls his shirt from his jeans and shrugs out of it, revealing his broad and nicely muscled chest.
“Now we're on the same page,” Aidan says, taking a step toward Dean as he absently trails a finger over his slightly rounded belly. “What I've got in mind is a whole lot better than dealing with the Sheriff and stacks of paperwork.”
“Um-” Sam begins.
“You're optional, slim,” Aidan quips, never taking his eyes from Dean. “But I really get turned on when someone watches.”
“All righty, then,” Dean answers as Aidan un-zips his Wranglers.
~~~~~ * * * * * ~~~~~
“This pizza sucks.” Dean tosses the half-eaten piece back into the nearly empty pizza box.
“Didn't stop you from eating half of it.”
“I was hungry.”
Sam laughs. “I bet, after that workout of yours back in Shortsville.”
“Wassamatter, Sammy? Jealous because you only got to watch?”
“Ah, no, I'm not jealous. More like psychologically scarred.”
Dean laughs, yanking off his t-shirt and standing just long enough to shove off his denims before flopping back onto the bed. “No more than you are already, little bro.”
“Yeah, probably. But still...couldn't you have at least tried to talk your way out of..of...”
Dean takes a long drink of beer. “Nah. Our buddy Aidan had a one-track mind. And he did have a point, though. His plan was better than involving the local authorities. The last thing we need are more police reports filed on our behalf.”
“I suppose,” Sam replies, emptying his own bottle of beer.
Dean gestures to the ancient television hanging from the wall. “What'd the manager say when you told him about the busted TV?”
Sam stares at the battle-scarred Zenith. “He agreed that it was busted.”
“That's it?
“Yep.”
“Dickhead.”
Sam shrugs. “At least the room's clean.”
“Ya know, I think we were lucky today. It was pretty painless, actually.”
“For you,” Sam adds around a grin. “I thought for sure the entire store heard the guy yelling.”
“Yeah, our big, tough ex-ball player screamed like a ten year old at a surprise birthday party. No shock to me, though. I know the type.”
“Really?”
“You bet. I'd pegged Aidan as a bottom boy right from the get go.” Dean offers his empty bottle and Sam places it next to the other eleven on the dresser.
“Unbelievable,” Sam answers, shaking his head. He un-buttons his shirt, folding it carefully before laying it on the far end of the dresser. “You're totally unbelievable.
“You've gotta admit that Aidan took his commitment to total customer satisfaction rather seriously. He even gave us a discount on the new car stereo.”
“Okay, but you know what I find most interesting about this whole, twisted episode?”
“I'm trembling with anticipation.”
Sam flips him off. “Here it is: despite what you say, not only do you seem to have gaydar, but you've apparently honed your instincts so that you can determine preferred positions, too.” Sam kicks off his own jeans to sit next to Dean.
Dean pulls a face. “Man, you're hung up on labels, whether it's clothes or people.” He scoots across the bedspread to lean against a pile of pillows, both hands behind his head.
Sam shifts so that he's closer to Dean, one hand propped under his head. “God, why can't you just admit it, Dean?”
“What? That you were right about boxer briefs?”
Sam growls out a response. “You know what I mean, jerkface.”
“Bitch,” Dean shoots back as Sam slides on top of him. “I know why you're pissed, though.”
“I'm not pissed, but this should be stunning, anyway.” Sam leans in, licking and suckling his way from the middle of Dean's belly, between his pecs and up to the base of his neck.
“You wanted to do more than just watch,” Dean whispers as Sam kisses his way along Dean's jawline.
“Uh-huh.” Sam slowly grinds their erections together. “So it's payback time, and now you're bottom boy.”
Dean reaches up to slide both hands down Sam's sides, his questing fingers gliding under the waistband of Sam's undershorts. “Works for me. I'm flexible.” He massages Sam's ass with both hands, grinning crookedly.
“More like easy,” Sam murmurs.
“Whatever,” Dean breathes, withdrawing one hand from Sam's backside to turn off the lamp on the nightstand.
Sam returns the kiss as darkness surrounds them.
~~ fin ~~