Dizzojay's Dean Dreams (dizzojay) wrote,
Dizzojay's Dean Dreams

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Dancing King


Genre: Humour
Rating: K+
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Word Count: 680
Disclaimer: I don't own them

Written for the spn_bigpretzel 5th birthday challenge.  Theme - 5 star hotel and 5 o'clock
Dean needs to learn new skills to impress his latest conquest.  Sam means well, but ...

“I don’t see why I’ve gotta dress up like a pox doctors’ clerk,” Dean grumbled sourly as Sam straightened his crooked bow-tie.

“Quit whining Dean,” Sam replied;  “you’ve got to dress up because you have somehow managed to attract a classy chick, and she’s invited you to a dinner and dance and it’s at a five star hotel, and it’s black tie, so we need to get you looking vaguely respectable.”

Dean’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Actually,” Sam added; “we probably should have started last week, but …”

“Har har, you’re funny bitch,” Dean responded irritably.

Sam reached out to rearrange Dean’s cummerbund which had somehow worked its way halfway up his chest and had his hand slapped away for his trouble.

“Leave my friggin’ Cumberbatch alone,” Dean snorted, pulling it back down to his waist.

“You do know you’re gonna have to dance”, Sam observed; “like, I mean – proper dancing.”

“I can dance,” Dean snapped, rearranging his tight wing collar and dislodging the bowtie that Sam had so carefully straightened; “I’m a party animal - I can cut a mean rug.”

“I don’t mean that thing you do when you’re drunk and you look like an octopus in a blender,” Sam replied; ”I mean real dancing, like the waltz and the foxtrot.”

“The whattrot?”  Dean’s eyes widened in horror; “I can’t do all that shit,” he gasped. “I don’t know how to do that proper pansy dancing.”

“Well then, you need to learn, and pretty quick,” Sam replied.

“How?” Dean pleaded, on the verge of hyperventilating; “oh, this is going to be a friggin’ disaster –Lucinda’s gonna think I’m a complete dick.”

“Okay, look,” Sam replied calmly, placing his hand on Dean’s shoulder; “I’m no expert, but I took a couple of lessons while I was at Stanford.  We used to have student balls, and I wanted to make the effort, for Jess’ sake. I could probably give you a rundown on the basics.”

“You said student balls,” Dean smirked, his momentary panic suddenly ovverridden by his inner nine-year-old.

“D’y want my help or not?” Sam responded grumpily.

“Okay,” Dean sighed, reluctantly shrugging off his tuxedo; “this stupid shindig starts at five pm so I’ve got an hour before I have to hit the road.  Let’s get on with it.”

“Right,” Sam fiddled with his Ipod, finding a few light classics, and turned back to his brother.   “Okay, put your left hand on my shoulder, and then take my left hand in your right.”

He waited until Dean had squeamishly arranged himself as necessary.  “Now listen to the music – see the beat is one-two-three, one-two-three?”

Dean gnawed on his lip and nodded.

“Okay, now I’m going to step forward, and as I do that, you need to step back, in time with the music …”

An hour later, Sam stood in the bunker’s doorway and watched the Impala pull away as Dean headed off, taking his new found sense of confidence with him.  Sam couldn’t help but smile at the thought that he put that confidence there.


It was later that evening while Sam was sitting at the table in the bunker’s main hall, poring over some research, when he heard the main door open, and Dean’s heavy footsteps stomp down the metal staircase.

“Hey Dean,” he yelled, jumping up from his seat; “how’d it g …”

The words died on his lips when he saw the look on Dean’s face.

“Is something wrong?” He asked meekly.

“Is something wrong?” Dean growled; “well let me see, where do I start? Lucinda thinks I’m a complete moron, so yeah, you could say something’s wrong.”

“But why?”  Sam pleaded, “didn’t the dancing lessons work?”

“Oh, they worked,” Dean snapped.  “The music started, and she dragged me up onto the dance floor, and then one two three … and we both danced backwards across the dance floor.”

Sam cocked his head quizzically.  “What?”


Sam deflated.  “Oh crap!”

They both stood in miserable silence for a moment.

“Oh well,” Sam observed; “at least your bow tie’s still straight.”


Tags: dean winchester, fan fiction, humour, sam winchester, spn-bigpretzel, supernatural

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