Home Ec.
He was stuck in frigging Home Economics. The wussiest, girliest, sissiest class offered by America's educational system. It was a class to sew and cook - which were obviously the wussiest, girliest, sissiest skills known to the human race.
He didn't know which was lamer - cooking or sewing. Cooking at least had the benefit of being useful. He was the primary chef of the family, but sadly his most gourmet dish stretched to Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. (And even that he often managed to screw up half the time if you asked him.) Dad could cook the most amazing stuff sometimes, but he was never home and when he was it wasn't as though he wanted to act like a freaking housewife. Frozen meals, takeouts, and cereal would just have to be acceptable.
Sewing just seemed ridiculous. True, their clothing had more rips and tears than swiss cheese due to the hunts, but with holey jeans being "in" and thrift stores found everywhere, fixing clothes was of little concern. Dean was sure he could do a passable job if it came down to it anyway.
Home Ec was so lame it sucked ass. He was a macho guy, dammit!
All of his classmates were girls. Hey, so maybe Home Ec wasn't so bad after all, eh?
Wrongo.
That was the worst part - none of them were remotelyhot. Even the teacher was an old hag.
Usually Dean didn't mind jumping from school to school, meaning he would often get stuck taking whatever crappy classes were available whether he wanted to be in them or not; but this time it was Home Ec and he had never been more keen to escape a school in his life.
According to the curriculum, hand-sewing was now the deadly trade of choice. (At least phrasing it that way made it sound cool. ...Ish.)
Dean found himself bouncing his knee up and down in his seat. The chick next to him was covered in a multitude of spots, the red splotches contrasting with her gaudy silver braces. Her hair was unkempt and frizzy, some of the curls standing up so sharply he feared they might find a way to impale him if he wasn't careful. An atrocious pair of round glasses best left in the 70s were perched precariously on the bridge of her nose, and her sausagey fingers were constantly pushing them back into place.
He really didn't particularly mind her appearance - it wasn't like he was going to make out with the chick - so much as what she used her appearance for.
Staring at him.
He had faced ghosts, wendigos, shapeshifters, pagan gods and, hell, even a demon or two, and yet none of them served to freak him out more than She-Urkel leering at him. He just knew that if they ever ended up alone in a dark alley he would probably have to use his expert training against her, which just weirded him out the more he thought about it.
Please god, don't let this be a partner project.
The teacher - Mrs. Fitzgerald or something of the likes - cleared whatever creature had taken residence in her throat, gaining the attention of all the students and likely people over in Cambodia, as she slowly hauled herself to her feet.
Dean wasn't sure whether his surprise over the fact she could stand had more to do with her impressive age or her even more impressive weight.
"Now, class, we're starting a new unit today. Hand-sewing!" She announced in a gravelly voice that would have been much more suited for a man.
Hmm, maybe Mrs. Fitz-whatever was actually Mr. Fitz-whatever.
Dude looks like lady. ...Score one for the song usage.
Several groans resounded throughout the stuffy classroom in the wake of her proclamation, Dean being one of the few to not publicize his distaste. (For one, complaining would likely get him nowhere but trouble, and for two, more importantly, he was too busy singing the Aerosmith classic to pay much mind.)
"There should be a square piece of fabric, a needle, some thread, and a small pair of scissors in front of you on the desk," she continued, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the complaints, her loud-ass voice only further confirming his suspicion that his teacher was a transvestite. That theory was a much less disturbing thought than it being an actual woman. She had freaking chin hair, for crying out loud!
"Is there anyone who doesn't have them?" Mr(s?). Fitzherbert peered around the room in search of a student who may not have the afore mentioned items.
Dean sighed in boredom. Little Miss Stalker next to him had yet to relinquish her need to take in his (undeniably gorgeous) face and now Mrs. Fitzpatrick chose to let her gaze linger on him for several seconds longer than the rest of the students. (And he was back to referring to her as a she because an old dude looking at him like that made him want to hurl, shower, and then hurl some more.)
Dad needs to kill that frigging werewolf so Sammy and I can get the hell out of this crap town.
"Today we're going to simply practice sewing a straight line, using different types of stitches, on our little squares. So, measure an appropriate amount of thread and snip it - I'll trust your good judgment on how long to make it." Something in her statement must have been inexplicably funny because she cackled then and Dean began to wonder if they should leave right after the werewolf was taken care of - it was possible they had a witch on their hands. Or warlock, whatever the hell male witches were called. (Ugh, so much for deeming her unequivocally a woman.)
He sighed, blotting out her grating instructions on how to thread a needle.
Because who the hell didnt' know how to do that?
...Granted the only reason Dean knew was because of how many times he had been subjected to threading the suture needle because his father's fingers were too shaky to do so himself. But whatever, everyone in that room should have known how to thread a damn needle.
Well apparently not, as Ms. Psycho next to him cleared her throat obnoxiously and leaned over to see how he had accomplished the seemingly impossible task. Her breath was freakishly hot and wet against his neck, and he couldn't help but shy away from her and her uncomfortably heavy exhalations.
"Um, can I help you?" He asked uncertainly, thinking about how cool it would be if he were some creature that could disappear at will.
"Can you help me thread my needle?" She asked, peering up through her crusty lashes in what she probably thought was a sexy manner.
Dean, though he liked to deny it, was actually quite the gentleman at heart, and couldn't very well say no to helping her. Rather than teaching her, however, he simply grabbed her needle and threaded it himself.
He noticed with little interest that she huffed at jutted out her lower lip in a very unbecoming pout, but moments later was thanking his lucky stars at how he had handled the situation - for some reason it had gotten her to stop staring at him.
Thank God.
His hands began drumming against his thigh subconsciously as he waited for the rest of the slow pokes in his class to figure out the formidable chore. The weirdo next to him shot a nasty glare his way, which he gleefully returned with a cheeky grin.
Scowling, she returned her attention to her desk and began fiddling with her supplies.
At long last, his witch of a teacher (he smirked for the term was actually quite literal in this case), ground out her next instructions, which was to simply sew a straight line up the center of the scrap.
Dean almost growled in frustration. No doubt this was the class from Hell. He really wished Mrs. Fitzsomething-or-other truly was a witch, if only to incite some excitement.
A weary sigh expelled from his lips, but he dutifully picked up his materials and did what was asked of him. This would be easy. How many times had he sewn up Dad? Sammy? Himself?
No doubt sewing up a small piece of ugly flannel would be ten times easier than making tiny, even stitches into the skin of a loved one. The fact that he didn't have to worry about not flinching every time Dad did, keeping his hands steady, was enough to make this task a walk in the park.
The fact that he didn't have to whisper reassuring words through his lips if only to calm himself down and help him mentally block out Sammy's pitiful whimpers present with each pierce of the tip made it a piece of cake.
In fact, after the first few pulls of thread, he realized it was almost relaxing.
The lighting was bright and made seeing his progress simple. It wasn't in some dingy motel room where the lightbulbs were more useless than candles. It wasn't the back seat of his beloved Impala with only the moon and, if he was lucky, a flashlight to illuminate the darkness.
Blood wasn't seeping from some gaping wound, coating his fingers and making his grip on the tiny sliver of metal grow increasingly slippery even though he desperately tried to keep pace with the gushing flow and mop it up with his sleeve or some spare gauze; neither was it oozing from his own head injury and leaking into his eye so he had even more trouble focusing on the gash he was supposed to be fixing up.
Dad wasn't goading him to hurry up, nor was Sammy fretting about how much worse Dean's injury was than he had let on and why the hell aren't you telling dad?
For once he didn't have to worry about his skill being the difference between a unnoticeable scar or a big-ass monstrosity - the difference between life and death.
Well, fan-freaking-tastic. That line of thought had most definitely ripped apart that whole "relaxing" aspect. In fact, the more he thought about it the more he decided he frigging hated this class, this sewing.
He shouldn't be good at sewing. No respectable dude was good at sewing.
No decent human being - outside of the medical realm - was good at sewing because they were used to patching up skin with crude supplies like dental floss and whiskey - which of course functioned as both disinfectant and pain killer.
Damn, he hated this class.
When he got home he was so making Dad let him help gank that hellish werewolf so they could get the hell out of this god-forsaken town and shove him in some manly class like mechanics.
This is just an idea that popped in my head months ago - that Dean could sew in Home Ecs due to sewing up wounds after hunts - and I finally took the initiative and whipped up a quick oneshot to help deal with this blasted hellatus. Feedback of all kinds loved - follow, favorite, review:)