Page 4 of Men of Fort Dale: The Complete Series

He looked up at the sound of his door opening but didn’t bother to check. Only a few people had a key to his apartment, and only one would walk in unannounced.

“Christ, that smells delicious,” Dean called, followed by the thump of his shoes being kicked off.

“On the shoe rack, I know, I know,” Dean grumbled.

Dean stomped into view, shaking a damp lock of blond hair free from his forehead. “Again, I say, that smells delicious.”

Sloane glanced at him. “Raining?”

“It was just a sprinkle at first, and then it decided to piss all over me, which was great.”

Sloane snorted, plucking the toasted buns from the pan and laying them on plates. “You know where the towels are.”

“Yeah, I’m not listening if I get your couch wet,” Dean huffed, turning and stomping off.

Sloane shook his head as the man, who probably didn’t weigh more than 160lbs, somehow managed to make enough noise for someone twice his size.

While Sloane had never worked alongside Dean in the field during their almost simultaneous deployment, he knew Dean could move with grace and great stealth.

Yet, take him out of the field and put him in a casual setting, and the man stomped around like an ogre.

As Sloane dropped the burgers onto the buns and grabbed the bag of chips, Dean reappeared.

During the few times Dean had been over and used one of his towels, the sight always amused Sloane.

Due to his size, Sloane bought the biggest and usually fluffiest towels he could find.

They suited him, but on someone of Dean’s stature, they looked like blankets wrapped around him, or in this case, a cape that started as a cowl.

Dean rubbed at his head vigorously. “I’m surprised they haven’t yelled at me for my hair yet.”

Sloane raised a brow. “I keep meaning to ask you who you’re bribing to let your hair grow more than a few inches, let alone longer.”

Dean shrugged. “I keep forgetting, and no one has corrected me yet. I think I’m the only guy on base with actual hair instead of just a suggestion.”

“A suggestion, huh?”

“I mean, it’s better than saying everyone else is wandering around with nothing more than peach fuzz,” Dean said.

Sloane held out one of the plates. “That’s pretty heavy criticism coming from you. Especially since I distinctly remember a certain drunk medic telling me how he got into the military because he really liked men in uniform.”

Dean hummed, curling his lip as he took the plate. “You’re not going to let me live that night down, are you?”

“Not so long as I still have a functioning memory and mouth,” Sloane said with a grin.

“Well, I guess I have no choice but to find a way to stop one or both of those things,” Dean said.

Despite his smaller frame, Dean had a surprisingly strong tolerance to alcohol.

In the few years Sloane had known the man, he could count the number of times he’d seen Dean more than buzzed on both hands, and he’d only seen him wasted once.

Sloane suspected it had only been the one time because that night had been so full of stories with which Sloane loved to regale him.

Well, and some part of him wondered if perhaps Dean just hated the idea of Sloane seeming like that too.

“And then I asked you how you manage to get through a normal day if you like men in uniform so much,” Sloane continued.

Dean sighed, turning to walk away. “I hate you.”

“And you said?—”

“Hate, hate, hate!”

“Like a good little private, you stand at attention all day.”

“Hate.”

Sloane trailed behind Dean, still chuckling as they entered the living room.

The apartment was the first place Sloane had ever been able to call his own.

On most bases, he probably would have been out of luck finding a place on-site.

There were typically more soldiers than living spaces, and generally, those homes went to married servicemen.

Fort Dale, however, wasn’t a densely populated base and possessed not just homes but apartments for its soldiers.

There was enough space for Sloane to snatch one up with little problem, save for all the tedious paperwork.

The only downside for Sloane was that the place wasn’t all that large.

Not that Sloane had a lot of things, but for someone his size, small spaces felt confining.

Especially when he had to invest in a huge armchair and couch combo to be comfortable.

His bedroom was no different, with most of the room taken up by a huge bed, for which he’d paid good money.

Sloane hadn’t bothered with decorating much.

A few pictures of his family lay scattered about, and a few posters of movies and sports teams he liked.

The main focus in the living room was the huge TV and sound system, which he’d spent a great deal of money on so he could enjoy his time at home.

And, well, he thought it added to the movie and game nights he and Dean shared.

Dean flopped down on the couch, forced to scramble as his plate almost tipped up.

Just as Dean was graceful and focused on the job, he was lurching and clumsy when he wasn't working. It was a strange dichotomy that most people didn’t get to see.

Sloane wasn’t sure Dean was even aware of it, but his friend’s true personality didn’t show itself until he was comfortable and away from prying eyes.

“Please don’t spill shit on my cushions,” Sloane said, easing himself onto the couch with more grace.

Dean held the plate out. “Not a single crumb or drop of grease has left the plate, see?”

Sloane ignored him, powering up the TV. “You heard me.”

“I forgot to grab beer,” Dean told him.

Sloane shrugged, cycling through the movie list. “There’s a few in the fridge if you want some, but I’m not worried about it.”

He didn’t need alcohol to get through their nights.

The two of them had always gotten along great, starting from the first conversation when they’d been put on watch together.

Sloane had first spoken as they sat, staring out into the dark woods as the hours ticked away.

Sloane could still remember the apprehensive look on Dean’s face as he eyed Sloane and the careful way he’d replied.

Not the greatest start, but Sloane had pretended not to notice and continued chatting.

“Hello? Sloane?”

He blinked, turning to look at Dean. “What?”

Dean frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I was...thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Sloane smacked Dean’s leg with the remote. “I was remembering the first time we talked, asshole.”

Dean snorted, rubbing the spot where he’d been struck. “God, I thought you would end up being the world’s biggest asshole.”

“Everyone does. It’s just my wonderful personality showing through.”

Dean chuckled. “I mean, you can be a grumpy dick, but you weren’t that night. You asked if I was used to cold nights because you remembered I was from Arizona.”

Sloane shrugged. “It was the first thing to pop into my head.”

“It was probably one of the best things you could have asked. You never said anything during downtime, so I figured you didn’t give a shit about any of us. Kind of surprised me you remembered where I was from,” Dean said.

“I paid attention,” Sloane protested.

Maybe not to most things, but Dean had caught his eye from the first time they’d had a moment to breathe.

There was something infectious about the way Dean laughed, and even when they were sore all over and worn to the bone, Dean still found a reason to smile.

Dean didn’t bitch and whine like some of the other recruits had, and despite being on the smaller side, had worked just as hard, sometimes even harder, during the more strength-oriented demands on them.

“You looked cold,” Sloane continued.

Dean smiled. “And I thought you were a little lonely.”

There was that. After living his whole life in cramped quarters with two sisters and an energetic mother, Sloane had grown used to noise and chatter.

Most of their fellow recruits were just as chatty, but they tended to give him a wide berth, though his dour attitude probably hadn’t encouraged them to change their thinking.

It hadn’t been until he’d been left alone with Dean that Sloane had found a reason to reach out and have a little more human interaction.

And so, the greatest friendship Sloane had ever had was born.

Dean’s eyes lit up, pointing at the screen. “Ooh, that one!”

“Seriously?” Sloane asked as he looked over the preview flashing on the screen.

“It looks amazing!”

“It looks like garbage.”

“Amazing garbage.”

Shaking his head, Sloane hit the play button and let the movie start. There was no arguing with Dean when he got excited, and Sloane didn’t see any harm in letting him have his way.

Sloane should have known Dean wouldn’t make it through the entire movie.

Dean worked a lot of hours in the clinic, but Sloane knew his friend didn’t sleep that well when he finally caught a few hours.

Dean was tight-lipped about what caused his frequent sleep problems, and Sloane knew better than to push him.

Which was why, as the second movie started, Dean had shifted from sitting on the couch to lying on it.

Dean sprawled along the length of the couch with his head on Sloane’s leg, making himself comfortable.

It was a position they found themselves in frequently, and Sloane slung an arm over Dean without a second thought.

Halfway through the second movie, Dean snoozed soundly, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. Whatever demons haunted Dean’s sleep, they didn’t follow him whenever he came to rest at Sloane’s.

Maybe that was why Dean slept over so often.

So, Sloane finished the rest of the movie with Dean sleeping peacefully, head in his lap.

Anyone who looked at the movie he was watching might have thought it’d been Sloane’s choice.

A beautiful woman with a considerable chest and a penchant for tight clothing swung her way from fight to fight, taking down scores of men who far outweighed her.

But no, the decision had been all Dean’s, the man’s love of ass-kicking women in action movies showing itself again.

Sloane wasn’t a fan, but it was flashy and entertaining enough to hold his interest.

In truth, he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening on the screen.

Despite his statement about not caring about the beer, Sloane had dipped into the supply he had stowed away and let it work its magic.

By the time he’d worked through a third, he was pleasantly warm and filled with a lassitude that had him half-dozing.

Dean continued to sleep peacefully through the next movie, which had started to auto-play.

Sloane sat, peacefully reclining against the back of the couch, his eyes half-closed.

Dean’s head on his leg was a comforting pressure, and Sloane ran his thumb in small circles over the sleeping man’s shoulder.

Whether they were simply existing close to one another, talking, or doing their own thing in the same room, Sloane always enjoyed their time together.

Dean stirred, turning his face into Sloane’s thigh and inhaling sharply. Sloane looked down, watching his friend as he waited to see how Dean would wake up. When Dean looked up at him, eyes blurry from sleep, Sloane let himself relax.

“How long have I been out?” Dean asked.

“Mmm, about an hour, hour and a half,” Sloane told him.

Dean groaned, flopping his arm onto the couch. “Damn it.”

“You always sleep like a rock when you’re here,” Sloane chuckled.

“Ugh, I know. Just wish it didn’t happen in the middle of the evening. Now I’ll never get to sleep later.”

“You can always crash here.”

Dean blinked slowly, shrugging. “Yeah, probably should, huh?”

Neither moved as Dean slowly brought himself back to the world of the waking.

Along with their close friendship came a closeness on a physical level that Sloane had never questioned.

A few people had seen the ease of the contact between the two men and questioned it, but Sloane had always shrugged it off.

It didn’t make a difference to Sloane that Dean was gay.

For him, having someone he could feel comfortable enough with just simply touching was nice.

His family had always been extremely affectionate growing up, and while Sloane was considered reserved by their standards, he still missed human contact.

With Dean, that sort of contact came easily, and neither of them made a fuss over it.

Dean grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position and stretched.

Sloane watched him, noting that he looked more rested than before.

He suspected it would take more than an hour’s nap to get Dean back to full force, but he also knew there was no point in mentioning it.

As warm and happy as Dean was, the man could be pretty cranky if he thought someone was trying to mother him, never realizing the irony.

“There any chips left?” Dean asked, standing up.

“Half a bag,” Sloane said.

“More than enough.”

When Dean returned, he plopped himself back on the couch, lying on his side again. This time, he didn’t lay his head in Sloane’s lap, but he did curl up against him, open bag of chips in hand as he munched away happily.

“You look like a raccoon,” Sloane observed.

Dean looked up, pausing with the chips between his fingers and halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Sloane snorted, shaking his head. “Continue foraging.”

Dean frowned, popping the chips into his mouth. “Jerk.”

Sloane flopped an arm over him. “Yeah, and you’re stuck with me.”