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spn_springfling2017-04-09 11:30 pm
springflingmod.livejournal.com) wrote in spn_springfling2017-04-09 11:30 pm
Dean, employed and interrupted by shifty_gardener for twisted_slinky
Title: Dean, employed and interrupted
Pairing: Dean/Crowley
Rating: G
It was two months into the semester, and Dean was doing what he typically did on a Sunday afternoon: wander around the Forbidden Forest, looking for the next week's teaching material. He had bluffed his way into a job as assistant Care of Magical Creatures professor that summer, mostly by accident (none of Dean's research had shown that this random castle was actually a school or that witches had a school system at all...but Dean was arguably more qualified to teach this kind of job than he had at any other school he'd crashed), but "assistant" had been a bit of an understatement.
Professor Grubbly-Plank was apparently done with teaching and wanted to focus on her research but also wanted to keep her sweet digs at the castle and to maintain her so-not-clandestine romance with the janitor. Dean was not judging, but also he was considering asking for a raise. Not that he knew what any of the gold coins Headmaster Mills forked over were actually worth. Athough he did know one galloon could get him a pasty at the pub, which was like an empanada but always had potatoes in it no matter what flavor you ordered.
Mmmm, pasties.
Dean's stomach rumbled loudly.
The silence that ensued was slightly louder (or quieter, as it were) than the silence that came before he'd made noise, a phenomenon common in forests all around the world. It was eventually broken by the sound of a badger snuffling at a fern. Dean was very familiar with that sound, by this point.
"Dude, I know that's you," Dean said without looking up from examining the suspiciously broken oak branch. A chimaera totally came this way within the last few hours.
The crackling of leaves and a sigh proved Dean's suspicions to be right. It had been Crowley. Fucking witches, man. The thought was marginally fonder than it would have been months before. There must be something weird in American water, because magic users abroad were way more sufferable than the ones Dean ran into at home.
Crowley cleared his throat meaningfully a few times, and Dean rolled his eyes. "What is it? I have a chimera and three kelpies to catch before tomorrow." He looked up and restrained a manly yelp at Crowley, who was way closer than expected.
Crowley leaned even farther into Dean's space and plucked a leaf out of his hair. There was nothing tender about Crowley - every other sentence he drawled was sarcastic, and he was single-handedly responsible for half of the students' detentions and loss of house points - but the gesture was oddly considerate. Dean suddenly felt cared for. By a fucking witch who spent a fifth of his time as a badger and was part of a castle-dwelling, dress-wearing cult. What was with his life.
Dean belatedly batted at Crowley's hands. "What's with the gorilla act?"
Crowley smirked and twirled the leaf between his fingers until, suddenly, it was a chocolate chip muffin. It steamed faintly in the afternoon air. It also smelled really good. Dean's stomach growled again. He scowled. "Gross, dude, I'm not eating your weird leaf food."
Dean also didn't eat the food that appeared on platters at meals - he had read his folklore and fairytales and shit, okay, he didn't want to get turned into a frog or trapped in the spirit world or lose 50 years of his life in a semester, or something. Instead, he snuck down to the kitchens - portraits loved him - and sat in the warmth and watched house elves make him food. Sometimes he fell asleep in front of the flickering fire on the criminally comfortable divan that had mysteriously shown up in a corner the time after Crowley had found him sleeping down there, head on the hard wood next to a slice of pie and a crick in his neck.
Crowley had been watching him closely, like he did sometimes. Dean knew everyone here at Hogwarts thought he was a squab or a quib or something - someone who had grown up around magic but without it. Dean wasn't sure what Crowley believed, though. Sometimes he sent Dean these looks, like he thought Dean would be impressed by pretty commonplace magic - stepping into portraits, turning into a badger, talking to wolves. Dean did not find a dude who didn't even have a wand impressive in the least. A dude with that ass, however...
Crowley gave up on looking for whenever it was he was searching for in Dean's face and resumed their conversation as if he hadn't taken a break for a long stare. "How am I not surprised," was all he said. He pulled a paper-wrapped parcel out of his pocket. "Flapjack?"
Dean could feel the gleam in his eye. You can take an American out of America, but you can't take American breakfast food out of their heart. "Pancakes?" He grabbed the parcel, only to see- "What the hell is this?" he asked, but shoved it in his mouth anyways. It was some sort of sweet oatcake. At this point, Dean couldn't tell what was a weird British thing or a weird witch thing.
"Come on, Dean," Crowley said his typical sultry growl. For reasons unexamined, Dean had been very disappointed to find he used it on everyone. "Let's catch you a chimera so we can have dinner."
Dean shrugged, mouth still full of oatcake. "Okay." And they strolled off into the sun-dappled forest.
Later, only much later, would he realize that that was their first date.
Pairing: Dean/Crowley
Rating: G
It was two months into the semester, and Dean was doing what he typically did on a Sunday afternoon: wander around the Forbidden Forest, looking for the next week's teaching material. He had bluffed his way into a job as assistant Care of Magical Creatures professor that summer, mostly by accident (none of Dean's research had shown that this random castle was actually a school or that witches had a school system at all...but Dean was arguably more qualified to teach this kind of job than he had at any other school he'd crashed), but "assistant" had been a bit of an understatement.
Professor Grubbly-Plank was apparently done with teaching and wanted to focus on her research but also wanted to keep her sweet digs at the castle and to maintain her so-not-clandestine romance with the janitor. Dean was not judging, but also he was considering asking for a raise. Not that he knew what any of the gold coins Headmaster Mills forked over were actually worth. Athough he did know one galloon could get him a pasty at the pub, which was like an empanada but always had potatoes in it no matter what flavor you ordered.
Mmmm, pasties.
Dean's stomach rumbled loudly.
The silence that ensued was slightly louder (or quieter, as it were) than the silence that came before he'd made noise, a phenomenon common in forests all around the world. It was eventually broken by the sound of a badger snuffling at a fern. Dean was very familiar with that sound, by this point.
"Dude, I know that's you," Dean said without looking up from examining the suspiciously broken oak branch. A chimaera totally came this way within the last few hours.
The crackling of leaves and a sigh proved Dean's suspicions to be right. It had been Crowley. Fucking witches, man. The thought was marginally fonder than it would have been months before. There must be something weird in American water, because magic users abroad were way more sufferable than the ones Dean ran into at home.
Crowley cleared his throat meaningfully a few times, and Dean rolled his eyes. "What is it? I have a chimera and three kelpies to catch before tomorrow." He looked up and restrained a manly yelp at Crowley, who was way closer than expected.
Crowley leaned even farther into Dean's space and plucked a leaf out of his hair. There was nothing tender about Crowley - every other sentence he drawled was sarcastic, and he was single-handedly responsible for half of the students' detentions and loss of house points - but the gesture was oddly considerate. Dean suddenly felt cared for. By a fucking witch who spent a fifth of his time as a badger and was part of a castle-dwelling, dress-wearing cult. What was with his life.
Dean belatedly batted at Crowley's hands. "What's with the gorilla act?"
Crowley smirked and twirled the leaf between his fingers until, suddenly, it was a chocolate chip muffin. It steamed faintly in the afternoon air. It also smelled really good. Dean's stomach growled again. He scowled. "Gross, dude, I'm not eating your weird leaf food."
Dean also didn't eat the food that appeared on platters at meals - he had read his folklore and fairytales and shit, okay, he didn't want to get turned into a frog or trapped in the spirit world or lose 50 years of his life in a semester, or something. Instead, he snuck down to the kitchens - portraits loved him - and sat in the warmth and watched house elves make him food. Sometimes he fell asleep in front of the flickering fire on the criminally comfortable divan that had mysteriously shown up in a corner the time after Crowley had found him sleeping down there, head on the hard wood next to a slice of pie and a crick in his neck.
Crowley had been watching him closely, like he did sometimes. Dean knew everyone here at Hogwarts thought he was a squab or a quib or something - someone who had grown up around magic but without it. Dean wasn't sure what Crowley believed, though. Sometimes he sent Dean these looks, like he thought Dean would be impressed by pretty commonplace magic - stepping into portraits, turning into a badger, talking to wolves. Dean did not find a dude who didn't even have a wand impressive in the least. A dude with that ass, however...
Crowley gave up on looking for whenever it was he was searching for in Dean's face and resumed their conversation as if he hadn't taken a break for a long stare. "How am I not surprised," was all he said. He pulled a paper-wrapped parcel out of his pocket. "Flapjack?"
Dean could feel the gleam in his eye. You can take an American out of America, but you can't take American breakfast food out of their heart. "Pancakes?" He grabbed the parcel, only to see- "What the hell is this?" he asked, but shoved it in his mouth anyways. It was some sort of sweet oatcake. At this point, Dean couldn't tell what was a weird British thing or a weird witch thing.
"Come on, Dean," Crowley said his typical sultry growl. For reasons unexamined, Dean had been very disappointed to find he used it on everyone. "Let's catch you a chimera so we can have dinner."
Dean shrugged, mouth still full of oatcake. "Okay." And they strolled off into the sun-dappled forest.
Later, only much later, would he realize that that was their first date.