fic: everything a ninja knows (spn, gen)

[jukeboxhound]

Everything a Ninja Knows, He Learned from Dean Winchester
SPN || PG-13 - language || gen, unless you read into it || 1,200 words || mockery of Starbucks hipsters some stereotypes
Operation: Geek Liberation is a go.

Target sighted.

Dean leaned idly against a pillar outside the storefront, giving a passing girl a wink and a smile before sneaking another look through the windows.

Target stationary. Surrounded on all sides by the enemy. His mind was working fast, calculating angles and escape routes, a well-fucking-oiled machine. Stealth extraction required.

He lounged around like a cool alley-cat until a small chattering group of hipsters came along, arguing about gender discrimination in contemporary literature or indie films or maybe in the distribution of fair-trade shoes, Dean didn't fucking know, but he waited until they'd mostly gone inside before tacking himself onto the end of the group like he belonged there. Hey, the leather jacket and plaid and scuffed boots were counter to the counterculture and anyway, anyone who wore multicolored checks with stripes couldn't fucking talk. He hoped he wouldn't catch a case of pro-Pabst.

The charade apparently worked because his target and the enemy alike barely gave Dean a second look. This was because he had mad skills of subterfuge honed by years of general badassery.

Casually, he sauntered away from the group and around a carousel of overpriced coffee, keeping his target in his periphery but carefully not making direct visual contact. There were sixteen patrons in the vicinity, most of whom were as absorbed in their laptop screens as the aforementioned target, lounging in mismatched armchairs and sofas or slumped over small scuffed tables.

Operation: Geek Liberation is a go.

With the speed of the fucking trade winds, a striking serpent, a diving Peregrine falcon, a fucking tiger, Dean launched himself at his target with a war cry worthy of William Wallace, consciously knocking the laptop safely to the other side of the sofa so his target wouldn't kill him after the mission.

"Jesus fucking Christ what the fucking fuck – "

"Language, Sammy," Dean gasped in the controlled fall over the back of the couch and forward onto the floor, barely missing the edge of a coffee table. He landed with his face in Sam's armpit, his knee dangerously close to Sam's groin, and coffee spilled everywhere within a ten-foot radius. It was probably organic and Dean was fucking soaked in it. Sam, meanwhile, was breathless with the force at which Dean had landed flat on top of his ribcage.

What the fuck, Sam mouthed, still not quite breathing, and Dean figured he could at least lever himself up so his brother's diaphragm could start functioning again.

"I'm here to rescue you, dude," said Dean, and he took advantage of Sam's temporary incapacitation to twist over and shove the laptop into that dorky man-bag Sam insisted on carrying, he probably kept his lipgloss and face moisturizer in there or something, and Dean was related to this. Coffee was dripping from Sam's hair and that probably meant Sam was gonna try to get his pound of flesh for it – actually, that might turn rather awesome – but he couldn't stop to think about such things. For the sake of his little brother, the mission couldn't be compromised.

"Dean – "

He had to act fast; Sam was getting his breath back and the idiot had no sense of self-preservation. Dean heaved himself back to his feet, ignoring the shocked faces surrounding them, and reached down to grab Sam's wrists. The kid weighed as much as a goddamn elephant but Dean managed it, just in time to see the shop manager come striding out of the backroom with the same kind of expression worn by fathers of teenage daughters with questionable virtue.

Not that he'd know.

"Enemy insurgent at two o'clock," he said and, with the man-bag in one hand (Sam was so gonna owe him for having to carry that thing, someone might've thought it was his) and Sam's shoulder in the other, he dragged both towards the door.

"Oh my god Dean have you gone insane," Sam demanded, shaking his head and spattering the area with coffee drops. Dean yelped when he got one right in the eye but he didn't give up, he was way too hardcore to let something like a bit of chocolate mocha vanilla rainbow virgin's blood frappe stop him, and he managed to get himself, Sam, and the freakin' man-bag out of the door seconds before the manager caught them.

The sudden burst of cold air made him shiver in his damp shirt, and if that coffee stained his jacket then heads were gonna fucking roll. Dean yelled, "Go, go, go!" and shoved Sam in the Impala's direction after practically throwing the man-bag at his chest, thank god he'd parked close. Sam was pulling open the door as Dean slid on his ass across his baby's hood (he'd perfected the move after a marathon of The Dukes of Hazzard when he was sixteen and all the bruises he'd earned from that were totally worth it).

"Calling the cops – !" the red-faced manager was yelling ineffectually.

Cackling, Dean started the car and pealed out towards the highway exit. He wanted to crank up "Renegade" but he rather thought Sam would punch him in the face if he told Sam to find the unlabeled Styx tape.

"Dean," Sam finally said. Dean glanced at the radio; his brother had lasted three minutes.

"Yes, dear?"

"…What was that?"

"Operation: Geek Liberation," he answered cheerfully.

"…Why?"

"Because sometimes you need an intervention. I'm worried about you, Sam. You already get overpriced douche-drinks and listen to emo crap. If you don't stop you'll start wearing multicolor checks with stripes or Che Guevara shirts, and by then it'd be too late."

Out of the corner of his eye Dean could see the muscles in Sam's jaw tensing as he pulled off his now-stained button-up shirt. Bitch: zero. Dean motherfucking Winchester: forty gazillion and counting.

"Besides, I'm a fucking ninja."

"I thought you were a cowboy."

"That was last week, dickhole."  Guns blazing, a shot from the hip like John "the Almighty God" Wayne, and that werewolf hadn't stood a snowball's chance.  Yeah, good times.

"If I kill you," said Sam, "no court of law would convict me."

"Sam. I have three main sources of entertainment: killing shit, this, and your face. It's in your best interest to just play along."

Dean expected a pissy face and a sermon on how his behavior was leading to the moral corruption of mankind, but instead he got a winning smile and Sam looking oh-so-innocently out the window.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam hummed, and Dean frowned.

"Dude, what."

"Nothing, calm the fuck down," but Dean had nearly three decades of keeping a close eye on his brother and he saw, he saw that fucking unholy flicker in his eyes that had nothing to do with goddamn demon blood. He'd told Mom and Dad they should've gotten a puppy.

Dean glanced over and narrowed his eyes. He had mad skills and long experience in badassery, his brother didn't stand a chance.  "Bring it, bitch."