Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural and their characters and situations belong to their respective creators, not me.
Dean squirmed uncomfortably on the counter by the sink and Xander wondered which was worse, Dean’s thong wedgie of doom or his own dish-pan hands of, well, also doom. Xander clenched his chapped, reddened hands and sighed. “Man, I hate this job.”
“Dude, say what you want about washing dishes,” said Dean, absently plucking at the seat of his tear-away pants, “but the Fabulous Ladies Night Club is one primo spot for picking up chicks.”
“Yeah,” Xander snorted, fishing through the suds for the next shot glass, “if you like ‘em middle-aged and crazy. Some old biddy actually jumped me the other night, and I just to the dishes.” He shuddered at the memory. “It was like flashbacks to high school,” he added, shuddering at that memory too.
“Stay after working on some extra credit?” Dean nodded knowingly. “Did she have one of those sweater sets? I love me some sweater sets.” His eyes grew unfocused and dreamy. “Ms. Campbell wore those.”
“Ms. French,” Xander corrected, putting the glass in the dish drainer. “Less with the sweater set look and more with this giant virgin-eating praying mantis thing.”
Dean shook his head sadly. “She still gave you a B, huh?” he commiserated. “What a bitch.”
See, that was what Xander liked about him. Dean might have been the prettiest man on the planet, but unlike the other quote-unquote dancers with their gym membership muscles and sexier-than-thou attitudes, he was actually a regular guy. They could talk about regular guy stuff like girls and cars and grilling things and any monsters that came up were just metaphors and double entendres. It had been a long time since he’d had that. It was kind of, well, weird actually, but nice weird like bubble bath instead of bad weird like snot monsters.
They both lived in the same flea-bag motel, Xander working ‘til he could buy a new car, and Dean and his kid brother waiting for the return of a mythical father figure that made Godot look punctual. Dean drove a sweet old car that was so big, black and shiny it made Uncle Rory’s Bel Air look like chick repellent. Every day the three of them would hang together watching crappy movies on cable, and every night he’d give Xander a lift to work in exchange for a promise to never tell his little brother what he did there. As far as the kid knew, they both washed dishes, and that was apparently the way Dean wanted to keep it.
Dean shifted to make room as the bus-boy brought another load of dishes. “Look, all I’m saying is, it could be worse. You could be digging graves or–”
“Getting nekid for complete strangers?” Xander interrupted for the sheer pleasure of making Dean blush.
“Yeah, well,” Dean hedged, cheeks still flaming under his freckles, “the money’s not bad but this friggin’ thong–”
“Winchester,” the manager barked from the door. “You’re up.”
Dean slid off the counter with a sigh, adjusting his sidearm and the shiny tin star on his shirt. “Guess it’s Sheriff of Lovin’ time.”
“Respecting the authority.” Xander raised his hand for a soapy high-five. He watched Dean head off to face his adoring (middle-aged and crazy) fans and didn’t envy him a bit. The money might be good, but he still had nightmares about his swim team stint, and not just ‘cause of the fish monster thing. No, they couldn’t pay Xander enough to strip.
A week later, Papa Winchester finally put in an appearance and Dean showed up to work with a bruise the likes of which Xander hadn’t seen since his last bit of slayage, thereby clinching the old man’s nomination for father of the year. Suddenly Xander was the one with the shiny star and Dean was washing dishes. Turned out they could pay him enough to make Xander strip and the stranger thing actually made it easier. Dean was right though, money in his waist-band was pretty sweet, but thong wedgies really did suck. A lot.