Dean, always with the scissors

Dean muttered angrily to himself as he tied the strings around his neck, and then again around his waist. The strings hanging down from the bow at the small of his back tickled his asscrack. The air moving across his naked ass and balls was distracting, as was the movement of cloth across his thighs and…other parts.



He looked down and grimaced. The bib of the apron was a white expanse down his torso, so that wasn’t so bad. It was the skirt that was causing him to plot Sam’s death in messy, painful ways. It was wide and long, just hitting his knees and it had ruffles. A double row of them, in fact. All starched and wide and…ruffly-looking.



In no way did Dean find this at all arousing. Or amusing.



At least he got to keep his boots on. For when he was going to kick Sam’s giant cheating ass after this.



“Hurry up in there!” Sam called out from the other room.



Dean’s grumbling ratcheted up a notch to semi-audible as he banged a metal tray onto the counter.  He took a lacy paper doily from a plastic wrapped packet and laid it on the tray.



“Quitcher bitching. You lost fair and square.”  Sam’s voice continued.



“Should know better than to play rock paper scissors with a freaking PSYCHIC!” Dean yelled the last part.



“I don’t need to be psychic to predict that you’ll pick scissors every time. Now hurry it up or my beer’ll get warm.”



Dean pulled a bottle from the fridge, popped the cap, and put it on the doily on the tray. Sam didn’t even have the decency to drink something manly or common, he had to have some sort of wussy local microbrew.



The cold air from the refrigerator swirled around his bare legs and upwards and his nuts shriveled up like a sack of dimes.



Oh, Sam was going to pay and pay and pay for this. Itching powder in his underwear for all eternity. Superglue on every possible surface he might touch. Red t-shirts in with the white laundry. Oh yes. Dean’s revenge would be subtle and terrible.



“And put a smile on your face when you bring that beer.” ordered Sam.



“That wasn’t part of the deal!” protested Dean.



“It’s part of the service.” returned Sam. “Dooo it.”



Dean picked up the tray, balanced it on his fingertips, and pasted a minty-fresh smile on his face. He clomped into the next room.



The silence stretched and was shattered by a dorky, braying belly-laugh.



Dean snarled, “Son of a bitch!”



Then there was the sound of the tray hitting the floor with a metallic clang, and Sam shrieking, “Deeeean!” as Dean poured beer on Sam’s head and Sam lunged up out of his chair for Dean.



Later they lay panting amid the ruins of the rickety motel room’s furniture and one dented metal tray.



“Dean.” Sam started, sounding all mournful and like he was going to launch into some sort of chick-flick soliloquy. Dean rolled his head to look at Sam, bracing himself.



“This all could’ve been avoided if you wouldn’t pick scissors all the time.” Sam couldn’t hide his smirk. And they were off to the races one more time, rolling and sparring and wrestling and finally ending up on their backs giggling madly. And even in a girly skirt with ruffles and nothing else but his boots, Dean felt all right.