A Moment with My Brother

Forfeit.

Sam and I are sitting at the library table, the companionable and contented silence shared like a mega-gulp and sweet buttered popcorn between us. We are lost in nerd-heaven, cataloging and categorizing the thirteen miniature cajun hex-books we found in one of the bunker's dustier storerooms.

They are dainty and delicate, each one bound in different colours of heavily-patinated old leather. The surfaces are tooled with symbols and sigils in gold and the creamy vellum sheets within whisper their deadly, sing-song-y, creole curses.

We couldn't be happier...Well, unless you could deliver Nyota Uhura for me! :0)

And so we barely notice Dean as he silently enters from the kitchen and deposits steaming mugs of rich, dark coffee before us.

"You've been at it for three hours, I think you might be thirsty."

He nods demurely toward me, his wide green eyes cast down.

"My Queen..."

I add nonchalantly and his head dips lower.

"My Queen."

He mumbles subserviently, adding a plate of warm peanut-butter/chocolate cookies (boy, that man can bake) to the table as he speaks and Sam's nose twitches in slight bewilderment at my comment but in happy acknowledgement of the proffered sweetmeats as he looks up to his sibling.

"H...holy freaking crap, D...Dean!"

Sam splutters, his gawkishly long arms flailing in shock as he takes in the older man's humble demeanor and attire and I'm forced to stifle a giggle as Dean almost carries off an air that is a mixture of affronted pride and nonchalant disregard.

Almost carries off...Yeah, but only almost... as evidenced by the adorable but furious blush that creeps up his neck and the wiggling of his little bare toes on the cool marble of the bunker's floor.

"What in all holy hell are you wearing?"

Sam gasps, wheezing around his total disbelief like an asthmatic at a dander and bed-bug seminar and I raise a triumphant eyebrow toward my big bro...my big bro who lost big-style at forfeit canasta to me last night and is now paying the price.

"Or...Not...wearing...more to the point..."

I throw in, my best Cruella D'Vil persona of multiple, cohabiting personas rising to the fore and Dean winces but stoically refuses to acknowledge me.

"Oh hell, no..."

Sam whispers as he throws his hands up to his eyes, rocking slightly as Dean squirms before him.

"Bleach...Charlie, please...Bleach for my eyeballs this minute."

Dean huffs, all pouty, his full lips now pink as his blushed cheeks.

"Come on, Sammy. Cut me some slack here. Pretend you're blind or something..."

His voice is wounded petulance with top notes of pinky-perfect embarrassment and adorably pathetic and Sam scissors his fingers open and peeks cautiously once more at the vision before him.

Dean is wearing his favorite MoL, looted from the 'dead-guy' wardrobe, long, green apron.

It was designed in a time when aprons were de rigueur and it...fortuitously...covers him from mid chest to just above the knee and because he's slim at the waist (huge shoulders but tapered like a he-man of a hero-hunter should be) it wraps almost, but not quite totally around him.

I say fortuitously...

Because...due to his appalling skill at canasta...(No I did not cheat! I'm offended you would say that...)

That's pretty much all he's wearing.

HeeHee.

Giggle...giggle.

Hey, I said it was forfeit canasta and he lost...big style...so his forfeit...You're getting the picture aren't ya?

Sam shakes his head, perplexion oozing from his over-height follicles as he shakily lowers his hands and he can just about manage a disbelieving...'Why?' as I smile so hard that my teeth ache.

"Lost at cards to Charlie..."

Dean pouts some-more, his laser-eyed, death glare trying to lock tractor beams on me but I have my phaser on blast not stun and I blow him outta the water by puckering up and kissing him a victorious, yet sisterly peck.

Sam swivels on his bunker wheel-y chair and his amber orbs lock on mine.

"So you made him..?"

He stutters to a halt, unable to commit his big-bro's shame to words so I supply the obvious for him.

"Be my hand-maiden...Wait on us, all day...like that. Yup, sure did."

I grin and Sam gulps.

"But..."

His voice falters with dread.

"But...Naked, Charlie?"

There's a sharp intake of breath from Dean and we both glance at him before turning back to each other.

"No, silly! Would I do such a thing?"

I chide and Sam's brows lower in confusion, but relief.

"Dean's not naked."

I explain and Sam almost smiles...

Then I let him have it.

"No, not naked, Sam cause see, apart from the apron..."

Dean sucks in his breath loudly, halting me, before babbling urgently.

"Charlie...My Queen...no please...Sam doesn't need to know..."

I hold my hand up, the finger of 'be silent my sorry-ass, canasta-loosing sibling' extended to still his nervous lips.

"Enough...You may leave us...Hand-Maiden."

I smile and wave imperiously and Dean breathes a (premature) sigh of relief and begins to back from our presence.

"Owh no..."

I chide and he stops, the blush leaping forth unchecked to ruddy his cheeks.

'You don't get away with it that easy..."

Dean whines, his terror-wide green eyes imploring, begging for mercy but I give no quarter.

"You may...turn and leave us."

I whirl my finger, dizzying, frenzied-polka style and Dean fiddles unconsciously with his apron, trying to draw it more encompassingly about him.

"Char...lie...eeeee!, please?"

He pleads.

I shake my head and I swear his lip quivers a little.

"Please...my Queen..."

Ooooo, nice try, Winchester but no cigar. This is too good to miss. I grin.

"You lost, Winchester. Suck it up and pay your forfeit!"

I remind him, my rightfully regal Queen of MoonDoor haughtiness compelling him finally to his fate.

And so, he sighs in abject defeat and turns, his bare foot squeaking nervously on the marble.

And Sam gasps as his brother's pink-silk-covered, 'you will serve us all day, Hand-Maiden', naked but for your Queen's pretty girly panties' ass bobs and shimmies it's way back to the kitchen.

ends