Class - Other
Title: Class - Other
Author: ZanneS
Rating: G
Genre: gen/crossover (SPN/Glee)
Characters: Dean, Kurt, Mr. Ryerson
Summary: In lieu of detenion, Dean must serve as a model for art class.
Author's Note: Thank you to randomstasis for agreeing to beta!
Disclaimer: Kripke and Murphy own all.
Class - Other
“Thanks to a certain someone taking an interest in human anatomy in the janitor’s closet - despite several previous warnings from school staff - Principal Figgins has gifted us with a new model for the next two weeks.” The art teacher turned to shout over his shoulder, “Get your little behind out here and introduce yourself, you delinquent.”
A solidly built boy with broad shoulders and a surly expression came out of the teacher’s back office, his leather jacket only serving to make him look bigger. Kurt caught his breath, and rested one hand over his rapidly beating heart.
He couldn’t be this lucky.
“What the hell, Mr. Ryerson! No one said I had to talk!”
“Heck, Mr. Winchester. Be glad you’re here rather than in detention until you graduate. Principal Figgins is hoping this punishment will make you take the time to think twice before despoiling school property again. We had to throw out an entire series of textbooks due to ‘biological contamination’. Do you know how much that cost the school?”
“How was I supposed to know she wouldn’t swallow?” the boy griped under his breath, and one of the football players nearby guffawed with amusement.
“So you are here in place of the gorgeous young gentleman I met at Sheets N’ Things that I originally hired to be our torso model.” Mr. Ryerson didn’t look entirely pleased with this development, and most of the class rolled their eyes or leaned over to giggle with their seatmates. “Now introduce yourself. Pretend you’re at a little soiree in a French salon, discussing art and politics with Toulouse Lautrec and…some other French artist.” Mr. Ryerson waved his hand limply by his ear and crossed his arms over his chest, his pale pink tennis sweater draped loosely on one shoulder.
The boy frowned in the teacher’s direction and took a tentative seat on the stool in the middle of the circle of easels, his eyes cutting from student to student as if assessing them as a potential threat. “I’m Dean Winchester. This is supposed to be my free period, but the Nazi regime that runs this place decided I needed to ‘use my time to better advantage’, so I’m here instead.” He looked at the teacher with a smirk. “That it?”
“Fine, fine…now take off your jacket.”
Dean slowly slipped his jacket from his shoulders, revealing a plaid flannel shirt buttoned over what looked to be a black T-shirt beneath. The art teacher huffed his breath in frustration.
“How many layers are you wearing?!” Mr. Ryerson demanded, his voice rising with obvious annoyance.
“Enough to keep my virtue intact,” Dean told him with a grin. This time, it was one of the girls who guffawed.
“It’s no matter; take off the button down.”
Dean hesitated, before he caught the eye of one of the cheerleaders sitting to the side. He shifted in his seat to face her direction as he slipped the shirt off his shoulders with a sultry smile, and tossed the shirt in a heap with his jacket.
He was left draped on the stool, one long, lean leg bracing the bulk of his weight on the seat. His jeans were snug enough to show the curves of his thigh and a teasing suggestion of what lay hidden beneath the denim covering his lap, but the T-shirt was somehow even more obscene. The tight black fabric was almost sheer from multiple washings, so much so that Kurt thought he could discern the faintest circles of nipple on the defined muscles of Dean Winchester’s pecs.
“Shouldn’t the T-shirt come off, too?” Santana pointed out with a smirk. “We’re supposed to be learning how to draw muscle groups.”
Dean glanced at Mr. Ryerson over his shoulder, and said, “I lose another layer and you’ll have to pay me the fifty bucks.”
“Tell that to your clientele when you fail to graduate, Mr. Winchester. Principal Figgins expects a full report as to your cooperation with this artistic endeavor.”
Dean shrugged and turned to give Santana a friendly leer. “I’ll give you a private lesson later if you want, sweetheart.”
“Like I haven’t seen it before,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes at Quinn seated nearby.
Mr. Ryerson interjected, “Yes, Santana, he should be shirtless, but it was made quite clear by administration that I can’t ask a student to disrobe down to skin or underwear.” The teacher gave another huff of frustration as the class snickered. “Those cretins on the school board just don’t understand art.”
Kurt stared wide-eyed at the boy sitting in front of him, almost dizzy with want. He couldn’t believe he was finally in the same room as his crush, who looked like some debauched sex god in need of a velvet settee.
Maybe he would suggest that to Mr. Ryserson for the next class.
“Alright, Mr. Winchseter, lean back slightly and try to keep your eyes gazing adoringly towards the ceiling, like God is hovering on a marshmallow cloud overhead….” Mr. Ryerson waved his hands in the air as he described the scene, ignoring Dean’s look of disbelief as he arched his eyebrow in the teacher’s direction. “…and little baby angels are fluttering around you, singing Celine Dion’s greatest hits.”
“Are you nuts?” Dean asked, reluctantly moving into position.
“Like Picasso!” the art teacher stated with a smile. “Now arch your back….”
Dean bowed his back, thrusting his chest out in a parody of a Playboy pose, and pursed his lips in a pronounced pout.
“No, we are not re-enacting scenes from Debbie Does Dallas - try to make it look less like pornography and more like art.”
Dean’s pose relaxed into something more normal, but Mr. Ryerson didn’t stop barking out directions.
“Now flex - flex! We need to be able to see the delineated muscle groups through your shirt.” Dean shifted once more, and Mr. Ryerson groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. “Dear baby Brangelina,” Mr. Ryerson muttered, “you are absolutely hopeless. As a Barbizon graduate, I can assure you that you have no future in modeling.”
“There go my plans for after high school,” Dean said with affected disappointment.
“Now freeze.”
From his assigned seat, Kurt was gifted with Dean’s profile. He traced the brush of Dean’s hair with his eyes, past the lengthy lashes highlighted by the sun spilling through the open window, and down the slope of Dean’s nose until his gaze landed on those full, plump lips.
It was entirely the fault of Dean’s lips that Kurt felt it might be time to face up to the fact that he might be gay.
Then Dean’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Kurt had to let out a little gasp of pleasure.
Dean turned his head slightly, making the move look casual, and his eyes landed on Kurt. Feeling the weight of Dean’s eyes on him, Kurt did his best to appear busy, taking his charcoal pencil and drawing a mess of scribbles that looked like an upside down ice cream cone riding a bicycle.
But his eyes flicked up to see if Dean had turned away and it was safe to ogle him once more, only to find Dean still looking in his direction.
Dean grinned and gave him an impertinent wink, the thin charcoal stick snapping in Kurt’s grip as his blue eyes widened in surprise.
“Eyes up…up!” Mr. Ryerson shouted at Dean, one finger pointing towards the ceiling. “Remember, God on a marshmallow cloud! Baby angels! Celine Dion!”
Dean redirected his gaze upwards at Mr. Ryerson’s agitated direction, and Kurt allowed a pleased smile to spread over his own face, his round cheeks flushing pink.
Oh, yeah - totally, completely, 100% gay. No doubt.