Fic: GLBTIQA (SPN AU Dean/Sam PG-13)
Jan. 25th, 2008 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chase_acow
Title: GLBTIQA
Author: Renae![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chase_acow
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, the setting is very close to my heart, but still not mine.
A/N: Big thanks toevesharmony for doing a real quick run through of this for me. : ) I really appreciate it! Mistakes and self-indulgences are all mine. Originally for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
just_google_it but it didn't work out.
Summary: AU Dean is the president of his campus Sexual Orientation Diversity Association, and his life is pretty predictable. He parties, he almost studies, and he takes care of his own. Then, almost the instant a new face -a pretty face- hits town, weird shit starts to happen.
Word count: ~9,000
Dean had never actually been to the opening mixer of the Sexual Orientation Diversity Association before. He wouldn’t have gone this year either, except that as president, it was kinda expected of him. It would have been much cooler if the decorating crew had gone with the skull and crossbones theme instead of fairies and glitter. He was going to be pulling sparkles out of his hair into the middle of next week.
Also, the next time he got a wand swat to the ass, he was going to break someone’s nose.
At least the dip was good, and there hadn’t yet been a circumstance where he’d turned down free food. Most the freshmen were annoying, but there were still a couple of older faces left, and some of the newbies were pretty enough to be worth the trouble to talk to. His advisor had been on his tail for years to get involved with campus activities and after eight semesters, he was finally getting that last piece of his resume in line.
Actually, the only reason he was president was that he’d slept with half the active members of the organization, and hadn’t been there to defend himself when he’d been nominated. He still couldn’t decide if in the grand karmic scheme of things, the office was meant as a punishment or as a reward. All things considered, he’d just assumed he’d have been voted most likely be diagnosed with a brand-spanking-new condom resistant STD.
He just knew that if they played 'YMCA' one more time, he was going to blow his own brains out.
"Hey, Maples! You get a real major yet?"
Dean turned at his last name and flipped off the dark haired man advancing on him with open arms. "You got a real dick yet?" he asked letting Dewy enfold him in a hug and then actually pick him up off the floor. He pounded on the other man's back, "Guess not, huh?"
"Dude, have you checked out the visiting TA from the Tulsa campus?" Dewy asked, letting his arm flop over Dean's shoulder as he spun them around so he could point over toward the chip dip.
"Kinda bald, isn't he?" Dean replied as he cocked his eyebrow and smirked up at his friend. Dewy was two years younger than he was and had tried on nearly every major the university offered before settling on Sport Theory. Dean didn't think Dewy had any room to talk about Dean's major.
Dewy shoved him and cuffed the back of his head. "It's a deliberate bald, loser," he said and then ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt. "I'm going over there."
"Yeah, I'll just be over here, watching you crash and burn," Dean joked, reaching over to un-straighten Dewy's shirt and pat the side of his face.
Flipping him off, Dewy turned and waded through the crowd to the snack table. Just as he reached it, the opening strains of 'Macho Man' started blearing through the speakers. Dean groaned, and vowed never to leave the programming in the hands of his underlings again.
The Student Union sat on a hill so that even though SODA’s, and therefore Dean’s, office was in the basement, he’d flirted with the right people in order to move it to the one corner that was still above ground level. Yeah, it was actually behind the least used stairwell in the entire campus and smelled like three week old noodles, but it had a window.
As far as he was concerned, the window was worth the three hours of his life lost listening to the secretary whine about how everyone took her for granted. Actually, while she’d been in the restroom of the Copper Penny, he’d scored the bartender’s number so the night hadn’t been a complete waste.
He’d seen the place they stuck the Multicultural Affairs office; that was a festering pit of despair and darkness. They’d been entirely jealous over his three feet by one foot pane of glass that popped up just about at knee level for anyone walking by the formal gardens. He liked to mention it whenever the Young Republicans were in earshot; they were still stuck with a cubicle in a room the size of a closet that they had to share with the custodial service.
On the first day of the semester, he'd spent the afternoon rearranging and redecorating his office. His other elected officers had pitched a fit when he took Judy Garland down and replaced her with a poster of several classic cars, but sometimes the only way to get through his office hours was to get lost in the shine of a ’69 Mustang's rims. Sure, she was more flash than bang but when he needed a bigger boost he'd take out his other calendar and check out the GTOs.
“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” the kid sitting in front of his desk whined letting his wrists flop to the side as he gestured in what he probably thought was a very intense manner.
Dean rolled his eyes and put down the Chinese finger trap he’d been playing with, “Dude, stop being such a fag. Don't stalk the kid down your hall, it'll only lead to restraining orders. If you want to get his attention find out when he's in your dorm's community space, then go talk to him.”
The kid looked at Dean suspiciously as if Dean had suddenly sprouted a third eyeball or something. Dean tried to smile helpfully, since that never failed to get rid of whoever was sitting across from his desk. Sure enough, the kid muttered something, groped for his bag and made for the door.
"Hey," Dean yelled, making the kid poke his head back around. "Under no circumstance do you bring up show tunes, Joan Rivers, or Brokeback Mountain when you talk to the kid. If you need extra pointers go see the social activities director."
One week the Cowboy marching band, (a good twenty percent of SODA’s members) practiced an Ozzy show. Dean kept the window wide open and played along to Paranoid on air guitar. His paperwork was late and mistyped, but he felt much better.
It was a brisk fall day on campus when Preacher Bob reared his ugly head. Dean was on his way to his Leadership Development class (full of athletes, 13.7 percent SODA members) when he saw the large crowd gathered on Library Lawn and a familiar insulting yet articulate voice rising over the crowd noises. He smirked and cut across the grass listening to Bob's spiel.
“I am in a unique situation to help you all. I have not sinned since 1993! You! Don’t you know that men are not supposed to wear makeup? And you, miss, why must you parade your hussiness around these good God-fearing boys? Only whores wear pants and sleeveless shirts. I think it’s time for a song, since that’s the only way you all learn.”
Bob liked to think that he was doing them a favor by trying to save their souls from the satanic fraternities and sororities. He also claimed their mascot Pistol Pete was possessed by evil and would send them all to hell for worshiping it every game day. He blew into campus, yelled, got things riled that shouldn't be riled, and then blew out again, just like the wind.
Dean rolled his eyes at how predictable Bob was, and cut through the goggle-eyed freshmen so he could get a good spot in the front. Bob’s first semester visit to campus was never something to miss. Between Bob's singing and the outrage of the freshmen, the crowd was a powder keg just ready to go off in blood colored sparks. He caught sight of a couple of the more excitable members of SODA on the fringe and heaved a sigh. He so had not signed up for this.
They were muttering to each other while casting dark looks over at Bob. One of the thicker necked guys was actually cracking his knuckles as he glared. Dean rolled his eyes at himself, but knew that if they got arrested then he’d have to do the heavy lifting for the club parties himself. Cursing under his breath, he stripped off his hoodie and left it with his backpack on the sidewalk.
“I love Preacher Bob!” he screamed running behind Bob and jumping up to click his heels together like the freakin' deranged leprechaun from the freakin' cereal box. He really hoped that no one else saw him making an ass out of himself. “Preacher Bob is my hero! Whoo!”
The crowd burst into laughter and even his two thugs couldn’t help but giggle at Dean’s antics and how Bob spun to keep him in sight while simultaneously listing in alphabetic order the numerous reasons exactly why Dean was going to hell. None of his organization was going to jail, and he'd even managed to burn off a little energy before class, so Dean considered it mission accomplished. As luck would have it, he was wearing his favorite formerly white shirt that got dyed pink when he did the wash and accidentally mixed in his pair of red boxers.
It was laundry day anyway.
Homecoming fever had the campus locked in a frenzy of activity that had everyone down to the most wallflower of loners wearing orange and trash talking the rest of Big XII South football. Dean had to cover his mouth when his secretary and activity’s director, two of the biggest fairies he knew, started talking about the relative merits of a shotgun versus spread offense.
Then he figured out they were really talking about Saturday night at the town’s lone ‘nightclub’ (and he used the term very loosely) The Tumbleweed and he felt less like his universe was caving in.
The campus paper The Daily O'Collegian had decided to celebrate Halloween by publishing a full week of old urban legends. Dean could scoff and laugh at them in his office, but it was a whole new ballgame when he was faced with the project of walking through the deserted buildings. He'd never liked Halloween much; it had left a bad taste in his mouth ever since he could remember. At least his class had got him out of SODA's Annual Costume Bash.
The nights were cold enough that he finally got out his leather jacket to wear over his hoodie, and that night he had it zipped and his hood up as he walked across campus to the parking garage. Monday night classes were a bitch, but it was the only chance he had to pick up an international dimension class. As his fifth year in college, his free ride was getting cut in December. It was make it or break it time, and he still couldn't quite muster the attention his dad thought he needed to have toward his future.
The moon was a bright yellow ball hanging low in the sky and at ten o’clock there shouldn’t have been anyone around, much less someone skulking in the shadows of Old Central peering into the windows. Old Central was the oldest building on campus, and probably in the county. They’d made it into a museum a few years back and SODA was thinking about renting out the ballroom for their winter formal.
“Hey!” Dean yelled before he could think better of it, not surprised that he could see his breath curling over his head. It was always either all or nothing around here: hot enough to boil his balls in their own sweat or cold enough to break them off like ice cubes. “What are you doing?”
The guy jumped and spun around reaching behind him while simultaneously putting his back to the wall. He was taller than Dean, and had shaggy hair that curled out from under the botDewy of his stocking cap and over the collar of his jean jacket. He was younger than the type Dean usually went for, but still attractive in his unfinished sort of way. Dean could hear that he was breathing hard.
“Oh, I was just, ah,” the guy stuttered looking nervously up and down the sidewalk, but did step away from the wall. He was wearing a motley coordinated outfit and his jeans had a hole in the knees. Without another layer or two on his thin frame, he could freeze out in the November weather. He came closer to where Dean was standing under a lamppost and flashed a grin, “I was looking for the Student Union.”
Dean rolled his eyes and hunched his shoulders higher to block the wind from angling down the edges of his sweatshirt. “Yeah, that would be the only building around here still lit up,” he said, snorting and nodded behind the guy to where they could just see the top of the brightly illuminated Union steeple behind the Alumni Center.
“Oh, yeah,” he said quietly, his grin sliding into something a little more sincere. His cheeks dimpled, and Dean found himself revising his earlier assessment of cute but too young. The other guy held his hand out, “Hi, I’m Sam, I’m new around here.”
“No kidding,” Dean said, glancing down at Sam’s bare hand reaching out toward him. He jerked so his bag would slide up on his shoulder and sidestepped Sam to continue along the sidewalk. When he didn’t hear any footsteps he turned around, “You coming or what?”
Sam ducked his head, and took three long strides to reach Dean’s side, but once he was there, their ambles shifted easily to match each other.
The rest of the school week passed in a blur as far as Dean was concerned. The Frat boys (2.5 percent SODA membership) were in full form, and not even the countless hours they spent welding for their stupid House decoration competition kept them from hassling some of the more out-there members of SODA. He tried not to feel too smug the night he “accidentally” borrowed fifty yards of chicken wire from the Farmhouse fraternity and donated it to the Humane Society.
It would cost them easily half a day to catch up with the other displays down Frat Row and there would be no time to picket SODA's drag pageant Mr. Dragonfly. He could have sworn he’d put that wire on SODA’s budget. Oh well.
At the meeting on Thursday, a third of his officers decided not to show up. Dean had to take the minutes himself, but he made up for it by nearly eating his weight in pizza. He thought it was odd; usually, his cabinet wouldn’t have missed the chance to gossip and make fun of each others' clothing behind their backs.
Even though he couldn’t have cared less about the Frats, he had to admit that the annual Friday night “Walk Around” was good for one thing. There was more food and pretty young co-eds than even Dean could shake a stick at. He did shake something else though.
Sam caught up with him under the orange lights illuminating Theta pond. Dean was still trying to rub away the sting from his right cheek where he’d miscalculated how far his charm could get him and ended up with a slap instead of a kiss. How was he supposed to know that she was the president of the Baptist Collegiate Ministry?
“Wow, that was. . .” Sam trailed off smiling and tucking some of his wavy hair behind his ear. They were far enough away from the line for pictures with the campus mascot that they could just here the low rumble of hundreds of people milling around down the street.
“Yeah, well you can suck it too,” he growled, but something told him that Sam was laughing with him instead of at him. There was just something about Sam that gave Dean an ease he seldom felt away from home. Home was where he could geek out and kick back without knowing that everyone in the room was watching him.
As a peace offering, Sam held out a bag of popcorn, but instead of taking a handful, Dean snatched the bag and bumped Sam’s shoulder before he started pigging out. They'd met randomly a couple of times in the atrium over the week and eaten lunch together. Dean knew that it was Sam not Sammy Winchester from Lawrence Kansas and that he was a PoliSci major with an option for pre-law.
“Didn't you say you were the president of SODA?” Sam asked hunching his shoulders down and ducking his head. He scuffed his worn out sneakers on the gravel path and reached over to snag back some of the popcorn. Chewing thoughtfully, he glanced back the way the girl had gone, “So, what were you doing macking on the Bible Belt?”
“Dude, don’t label me,” Dean grinned, and led Sam away from the pond and back to the barbeque turkey legs. Maybe the night wouldn't be a total bust, after all.
“So it’s not that you’re gay or bi,” Sam said continuing an earlier conversation as he slid closer to Dean on the bleachers. They had been almost inseparable for the last twenty-four hours and the teasing had slowly changed to flirting. “It’s just that you’re horny.”
The game was going their way for the moment, but Dean knew better than to count his chickens before they hatched. Only their team could outscore their opponents three out of four quarters but still lose the game. Dean bled orange just as much as the next guy, but even he wasn’t completely willing to overlook his team’s many flaws.
He leapt to his feet with the rest of the student section when the quarterback threw a long pass down the field to the end zone. Dean held his breath as the ball hung in the air for an eternity before the intended receiver jumped high in the air and beat out two defenders to snag it and fall back down to the turf. The noise was deafening, and he could just barely hear the sounds of the marching band from the other end of the field.
Sam stood too and took his hands out of his pockets to clap along with everyone else as they kicked the PAT. He was shivering every time a gust of wind cut through the stadium, and was just lucky that the students liked to crowd together at every chance or he’d have been freezing the entire time.
“I like to say that I don’t discriminate, Sam,” Dean said with a grin, stretching his chapped lips wide. After four “rebuilding” years, it was finally time that his team started winning again. He pointedly raked his gaze up and down Sam’s body, “And don’t you know anything about dressing for a college football game?”
Shoving his hands back into his jeans, Sam curled in on himself trying to make a smaller target for the wind to hit. His cheeks were flaming red and his long hair looked like a bird had tried to nest in it. “It was eighty degrees yesterday,” he grumbled, and then actually whined back in his throat.
“Well, that’s Oklahoma weather for you,” Dean said with a laugh, and tugged his scarf over his head and swung it around Sam’s neck. He tugged up the collar of Sam’s jacked and looped the extra ends under the buttons. He should have switched earlier, he had his hood he could have pulled up, “There you go, that'll help a little.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, looking at him strangely, but tucking his chin under the gray and lightly pink striped wool to warm up his mouth and nose. He poked back out for just long enough to say, “I thought you were from Kansas, how'd you end up here?”
“Jayhawk blue and red clashed with my natural complexion,” Dean teased, elbowing Sam gently in the ribs before he turned his attention back to the kickoff. As an after thought, he added, “I spent most my childhood in Dodge City, but I had friends south of the border in the armpit of Oklahoma. Well, one really good friend. He came here, and I followed him.”
Dean shrugged, he didn't like talking about Chris. Growing up in the middle of cowboy and Indian territory, Dean never really thought he'd get his happily ever after. Not with the rednecks and gay bashers making the papers every other week. That didn't mean it hurt any less when it blew up in his face and Chris left him lying in the gutter. The next semester was when he got his reputation as the campus bicycle.
"Hey," Sam said softly, obviously knowing that he'd brought up some bad memories. He glanced at the scoreboard and leaned back into Dean's space, "So, what do we do when we win?"
The final seconds of the fourth quarter were counting down, and all around him, Dean could feel the student population straining forward ready to jump over the wall and onto the field. It wasn't every year, or decade for that matter, that they beat Texas. He grinned up at Sam, his previous mood forgotten. "Elementary, my dear Sammy," he said letting the nickname roll off his tongue as he grabbed hold of Sam's sleeve so that they wouldn't get separated. "Obviously, we party."
Dean started to get really worried on Monday when less than half of his officers arrived for the meeting. They suspended all official business and spent the next four hours trying to get ahold of anyone who had seen or talked to the missing people. At midnight, the Student Union closed and Dean sent everyone home with the warning that they should stick together going across campus. Of course, he wasn't very good at taking his own advice, waiting until they'd all rounded the corner before he locked up his office.
Nothing. He'd called almost every number in his cell phone, and there were a lot, but he couldn't find the slightest trace of anything. It was as if they'd disappeared. Tomorrow, he'd have to start calling their families to see if they knew what was happening. It was the least that he could do.
Outside, most the lights were off, Dean could just make out the soft blue glow of an emergency phone in the distance. Soft flakes of snow fell silently from the sky, melting before they'd even hit the ground. The ground was still too warm for any of it to stick, but the wind chill was well below freezing. He wished he would have grabbed the fuzzy pink earmuffs his family had sent as a gag gift.
The soft hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard the slightest rustling from the bush just ahead of him. The one that partially obscured the window from his office. Despite, or perhaps because of, his tough attitude, Dean had probably only been in a handful of fights in his life. He liked to go his own way, but he wasn't one of those guys that just kept shoving until the other guy had no choice but to swing.
He wasn't usually paranoid, but even the biggest anti-conspiracy theorist would be hard pressed not to find the connection between all the disappearances. His muscles all tensed, and his heart speed up as he made himself put one foot in front of the other. He twisted his fingers around his keys in his pockets and held his breath as he pulled up even with the bush. Then he saw it.
Underneath the bottom branches, hung one end of a scarf he knew like the back of his hand. Relief rushed through his body, and he almost missed his next step, scuffing the toe of his sneaker over a crack in the pavement. He went about another five feet before he called over his shoulder, "Dude, if you wanted to hang out, you could have just called my cell."
Sam unfolded his freakishly tall frame from where he'd been crouched in the shadows, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The knees of his jeans were wet and caked with dirt that fell off in small clumps as he moved. "Sorry man," he said, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just passing by."
Dean's heart went cold as he remembered that all his friends had gone missing only after he'd met Sam in the shadows of Old Central. He clutched his keys again, taking a step back. "Hey," he said, clearing his throat twice before he could get the word out. "Hey, I don't suppose you're some kinda psycho bent on hunting down and killing all the queers you can find, are you?"
"Hunting?" Sam repeated weakly, raising his eyebrows like Dean had just insisted that the President of the United States was a tutu-wearing hermaphrodite. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right," Dean drawled, backing further away and wishing he would have made Tiny (Fire and Emergency Management grad student 3 percent SODA membership) walk him to his car. "Just do me a favor and if you know what's going on then tell me. Otherwise just keep your distance, weird stalker guy."
A kicked puppy had nothing on the expression on Sam's face right before Dean turned and power walked into the parking garage. His gut twisted the further he went aching and he just hoped that he was doing the right thing. He looked back once, and Sam was still standing there, alone on the sidewalk watching him.
"Campus security is a fucking joke!" Dean yelled, slamming the phone down into its cradle. He let his head fall down and bang into his desk. He hadn't been to class in two days, but he still hadn't made any headway on finding anyone. There was a tentative knock on his door and he didn't bother to raise his head before growling, "What?"
"Hey, I was wondering if I could come in?"
Dean sat up, and had to reach up to tear off a piece of paper stuck to his forehead before he could see Sam standing nervously in his doorway. He had Dean's scarf bundled in his hands, wringing it slightly while he shuffled his feet.
"You're not a student here," Dean said suddenly, shoving away from his desk and standing up. "I've checked with everyone and no one in the Political Science department, or even the University has ever heard of a 'Samuel Winchester'."
He was very conscious that even though it was the middle of the afternoon, his section of the Student Union basement dried up like the Sooner bandwagon fans after a loss. He hadn't even heard the janitors in the last thirty minutes. If Sam tried anything Dean would have to hope he could reach the phone and that the police station would actually pick up after all the names he'd called them.
"You're right," Sam said softly, shaking his head to move his bangs out of his eyes while he tried to hold Dean's gaze. "I lied to you, and I'm not a student here. Actually, I've never gone to any college. But if you'll let me, I want to help you."
Dean felt his own face react in surprise, and he slumped back in his chair, his limbs splaying wide as he cocked his head up to stare at the ceiling. The fluorescent lighting didn't do the cheap building materials any favors at all. Sometimes when he was really tired, and stared at the cracks and crannies until his eyes crossed, the ceiling tiles would take on a weird glow, and shimmer like they were on fire.
He looked back at Sam who had inched his way into the room until he was close enough to loom over the desk. "What's in it for you? Why bother?" he asked tiredly, he probably hadn't had more than ten hours of sleep for the past three days. "What exactly do you think you can do to help?"
"Wow, that's a lot of questions. It's just what I do. I could feed you a line, but I don't want to. Believe me when I say that you can trust me," Sam said earnestly, laughing a little under his breath nervously. He tilted his head in a way that made Dean want to spill his guts about everything that had happened to him since he started kindergarten. "Can you think of anyone who'd want to hurt you? Anyone who would have a grudge against SODA?"
"God, do you want it alphabetically or categorically?" Dean yelled, shoving the binder with SODA's roll on the ground so that the papers spiraled everywhere. "I'm president of one of the largest associations on campus full of loud, obnoxious, wonderful people who make it a habit to annoy and challenge anyone who doesn't see eye to eye with them. Yeah, we've got people who would love nothing more than if the whole lot of us disappeared off the face of the planet."
He thumped his elbows back down on his desk, and dropped his head, rubbing his hands over his face and into his hair. Dean knew he was about one bad thing away from a full meltdown unlike anything seen outside a freshman councilor's office. He'd taken the stress management course, twice in fact, but all he could remember was the instructor's measurements. Somehow he didn't think 36-24-32 was going to be much of a help now.
"I think you might be next," Sam said, reaching out and offering the scarf back.
Dean threw his head back and laughed.
"So, what are we doing here?" Dean asked frowning as Sam pulled his car behind a taped off building. He still wasn't quite convinced that Sam was just a good ole boy trying to help out. How would he have known so much about the disappearances if he were just a Joe Blow?
The car had been a pleasant surprise; it wasn't that often a person saw classic cars like the Impala around that part of the country. It needed a good wash, and the inside was littered with fast-food wrappers, but she was a gorgeous machine. He sank into the passenger seat as if it was molded for his butt and no other, even if his fingers did twitch to wrap around the steering wheel.
Sam put the car in park and turned off the ignition; the sudden silence seemed to blast into the still of the night. He looked over and grinned. "Just keeping you out of harm's way," he said, and grinned opening up his door and stepping out.
"I thought all this was on the table to be demolished," Dean said, getting out and following Sam through the back door. He craned his neck around, looking at the desolate neighborhood. "The college is tearing all this down to make room for the new stadium."
"Yeah," Sam said distracted as he led Dean through the kitchen and living room to the smaller back bedroom. He checked each area with a glance, keeping one hand close to his back where Dean was more and more sure he kept a weapon. "Which means it's vacant and no one will look for us here."
The back room was empty except for a backpack, blanket, and sleeping bag rolled up and sitting just inside the closet where casual observation would have left it hidden. Dean frowned when he saw a small space-heater sitting next to the bundle and experimentally walked over to flick the light switch up. The room was bathed in pale golden light, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and ancient carpeting.
"Hey!" Sam yelled and rushed back to turn the light off. He glared at Dean and ushered him back to the middle of the room. "What part of 'squatting for your safety' don't you understand?"
"Dude," Dean raised his hands up, and took a step back trying to turn his nervous grin into a genuine smile. "You're just full of surprises."
Sam snorted and walked over to kneel in the closet. "It wasn't that hard to hack the wiring from a live feed," he said harshly, tossing out the sleeping bag and an extra blanket. He twisted the space heater around and plugged it into the wall. "I'm just a regular true blue freak."
"Actually, I'd say it was pretty cool," Dean said, letting his eyes slide over Sam's obvious discomfort. It didn't take a psych major to figure out that he'd hit a button there with his comment. Even if it was true, Sam was a bit freaky; he'd only been friendly to Dean so far, even when Dean was practically accusing him of murder. "So, what's the plan, MacGyver?"
"Keep your head down, see what happens," Sam said absently, walking over the carpet on his knees to straighten out the blankets. He had the tip of his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth when he looked back up at Dean. "I've got a few leads, but I was too distracted watching out for you to follow them up."
A slow and honeyed smile spread over Dean's face, and he fell back into his posed slouch. This was familiar territory, much more so then rampaging lunatics bent on his death and destruction. "Are you trying to tell me you've been checking out my ass?" he asked softly.
Sam froze, but then grinned hesitantly as Dean just cocked his leg out and tipped his hips down with a raised eyebrow. "Jerk," Sam said as his own lips twitched into a grin and the soft lines around his eyes crinkled.
"Bitch," Dean replied and then knelt down to help Sam unzip the sleeping bag.
He woke up hot and boxed in. Dean was pushed almost face first into the crumbling plaster wall while Sam was a snoring inferno of heat curled behind him. There was just enough light peeking in through the dusty mini-blinds to tell him that it was at least after dawn. Hot breath rushed down his collar every time Sam exhaled, and Dean squirmed a bit in his discomfort.
Sam's arm pulled him back from the wall and tighter in against his chest, snuffling in his sleep and nudging his nose into the back of Dean's neck.
"Snuggle much?" Dean asked wiggling to escape before he finally gave up and just rolled over on top of Sam's body and off the other side. It wasn't that he actually minded the contact, but he really needed to pee, and he was way too old to start making out on the floor.
Sam grunted as Dean's weight hit him and slid over, and he opened his eyes, blinking quickly and scrunching his face in an entirely endearing way. "What?" he asked, voice sleep rough and catching in his throat. "What's going on?"
Dean rolled his eyes and tugged his clothing straight. "Tinkle break," he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder where he guessed he'd find some sort of bathroom. "Think you can make it five minutes without me, cuddle-monster?"
Without waiting for an answer, Dean twisted around and walked down the barren hallway. He could see the lighter patches on the wall where pictures had hung, and was mad all over again at the eminent domain clause that threw so many people out of their homes. The bathroom was to the left, and it was just as empty as the rest of the house. There wasn't even any water in the toilet bowl.
He finished his business and headed back to the bedroom. He met Sam in the hallway and there was an awkward moment where they each tried first to move to the right to pass each other, and then to the left. Finally, Sam reached out, grabbed Dean's shoulders and levered them around until he was on the side closest to the bathroom. He grunted success and turned around.
Snorting, Dean guessed that Sam wasn't much of a morning person. He stretched his arms over his head, hoping to work out some of the kinks that sleeping on the floor had left him with. It hadn't actually been so bad, he'd woken up cold once, and realized that Sam was hogging the blanket. He'd shifted closer and yanked both blanket and Sam back to his side, and that had turned out to be plenty warm.
The familiar opening notes of AC/DC's Hell's Bell's' sent Dean scrambling over to the corner where he'd thrown his coat last night. It took too long though, and by the time he'd pulled his coat away from Sam's and found the right pocket his voicemail was beeping. Sam walked in right when he heard the message.
"It's Dewy," Dean said, clicking the phone shut and shoving it in his front pocket. He felt desperation unfurling its wings in his belly and looked up at Sam, "he's missing."
"What are we doing at Old Central?" Dean grumbled, his impatience getting the better of him as he kicked the red brick wall in front of him. He would have slammed his fist into the wall if he thought it would do any good. He hated not being able to do something to stop this. "I thought you were going to help me!"
Sam had followed him around all day as he pounded on doors and called every phone number in the database looking for Dewy. He hadn't really said anything, just supplied a comforting presence at Dean's back while his world spun out of control. Then at just after sundown when the campus was empty except for the most socially-retarded grad students, Sam had steered him off the beaten track until he was looking up at the steeple of Old Central.
The lampposts barely put a dent in the twilight dimness, making it so that Dean could just barely see what Sam was doing at the doorway. He couldn't follow all the movements anyway, but a moment later when the door opened and Sam looked around guiltily, he had a pretty good idea what happened. Sam pulled him in by the elbow and shut the door behind them, locking them in darkness.
"I am trying to help you," Sam said, whispering even though his voice still echoed across the small entry room they were standing in. The gloom was all persuasive inside the building, the only light came from the red exit signs scattered through the room. "This is the only way I know how to help you."
"Okay," Dean said doubtfully, shuffling his feet and looking around. Truthfully, the building had always given him the creeps when he had to be there. It was old, and full of old things with weird decorations on the outside walls. After their first inspection, he'd left all the winter formal plans in the hands of the committee. "So, why exactly are we here?"
Sam was pacing the hallway, craning his neck from left to right to look all around him. He stopped and pulled his bag around on his shoulder, digging around in the main compartment until he triumphantly pulled out two flashlights. He tossed one to Dean and flicked his on, "Looking for something weird," he answered lifting his eyebrows and jerking his head for Dean to follow him into the next weird.
"'Something weird'?" Dean repeated, rolling his eyes and clucking his tongue. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his flashlight on, following Sam. He sneezed at the dusty air and wiped his nose with his jacket sleeve. "Well, it's a good thing that we're not being condescendingly vague or anything."
The main room was a giant empty cavern, perfect for a group to crowd together for a dance but good for little else. Just a bunch of dusty cases lining the walls, spanning the decades when the college was known as the Oklahoma State University of Agriculture and Mechanics. There were pictures of horses hitched to a post while one of the first classes was being held inside the same building he was standing in now. Gold for the history buffs, but he was already bored.
He had left the door open behind him when he followed Sam, paying only partial attention to his surroundings while he watched Sam's jean clad ass bend. He wished that Sam really had been a PoliSci transfer, they could have gone to the Winter Formal together. They could have dated, moved in together, and a lot of really hot sex. Mostly the sex. Because behind Sam's awkward weirdness, Dean was sure he'd be smokin' in bed.
The first thing Dean noticed outside his daydream of bending Sam over the Impala was the drop in temperature. He shivered and then jumped as the door behind them slammed hard enough to shatter the windowpane. They both spun around as one, shining their flashlights at the broken glass. The beam from his light bounced a little more than Sam's did and he swallowed nervously.
"Well," Dean said into the sudden silence, feeling the short hairs on the back of his neck lift along with the goosebumps on his forearms. "That's a little weird."
"Oh, it gets weirder," Sam said quickly, striding over to where Dean was standing and putting a hand on his shoulder. He pulled out a handgun, and twisted his head looking for something or someone. "Be careful Dean."
Dean was only slightly relieved that Sam didn't point the weapon at him, but even that went away when a gust of wind came out of nowhere and blasted them as if it came from every direction at once. The lights flared on, blasting them with light before half of them burst, the light bulbs splintering into the walls.
"GIVE IT BACK!" a voice howled like echoing hollowly like the wind on a straight shot of prairie land. It sounded like an old man, broken with age.
"S-Sam?" Dean said, backing up until he bumped into the body behind him. The beam from his flashlight wobbled madly as he waved it all over the display cases in front of him. "I don't suppose that was you, was it?"
Just by luck, Dean was pointing his light in the far corner when an antique pair of spurs vibrated up off the shelf and shot through the air right at them.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, shoving him violently, "Duck!"
Dean went down hard on his knees, slapping his palms against the floor and losing his flashlight. He heard the air rip over his head as the spur spun over him and embedded in the far wall. The lights flared up again, even without intact light bulbs, and stayed bright enough that Dean could see the other aged instruments beginning to rattle against their bindings.
"There's something you're not telling me!" Dean yelled, ducking as a scythe vibrated off the wall and straight at his head. He barely made it behind another display case when he heard it thunk into the wood where he'd just been sprawled.
He heard glass shatter across the room, and popped up just long enough to see Sam roll over broken glass trying to stay out of the way of a pissed off settler's dress. The off-white fabric rolled and boiled twisting as if caught in tornado level winds. It would have been funny if the left sleeve wasn't trying to wrap itself around his throat and choke the life out of him.
It took too long for Dean to find his feet and clamber across the floor, ducking shards of glass and ropes shaped into lassos. He skidded to a stop next to Sam on the floor and ripped the dress away, the fabric going lax in his hands until it let go of Sam's neck. He hauled Sam against his chest and tried to shield him from the flying debris until they could get their breath back.
"Um, ghosts and spirits are real?" Sam said plaintively looking up at Dean and cradling his wrist to chest as he pressed his shoulder into Dean's body. "And apparently very angry."
"You know," Dean said hooking his hands underneath Sam's armpits and hauling until Sam could get his feet steady on the floor. Around them the objects where whirring faster than ever, but seemed to always swerve to miss them at the last second. "I kinda hate you right now."
Sam scrambled after him and gave him a push to clear the door that sent them both falling down the stairs outside and into the grass. The door slammed shut behind them and all the lights went off. He looked over at Dean and panting said, "I get that a lot."
Inside Dean's office, Dean tried to bandage Sam's arm as best he could. It wasn't really like he had much experience at being Florence fucking Nightingale or anything. Sam sat still with his arm extended over Dean's desk and hissed as Dean dabbed at his cuts with a cotton swab full of antiseptic.
"So," Sam said, clearing his throat awkwardly as he spoke for the first time since they entered the office. He was dirty and the glass he'd rolled through had taken it's toll on his exposed skin as well as his jacket. "Do you know what he was talking about?"
"Who?" Dean asked, distracted as he finished taping some gauze over Sam's wrist. He frowned at the desk and walked around the other side so he could get a better angle for the scratch over Sam's eye.
It probably wasn't completely necessary, but Dean never could pass up an opportunity to put himself in a compromising position, so he straddled Sam's thighs and inched his way toward Sam's chest. He used one hand to tilt Sam's head back so he could swab gently over Sam's eyebrow. Sam brought his arms up and lightly rested his hands on the back of Dean's thighs.
"The ghost said that he wanted something back," Sam said softly, his eyes darting in quick movements over Dean's face. His chest was rising and falling steadily and his fingers moved over Dean's jeans. "Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"
Dean shook his head without really listening to the question and let his fingers drop to trace over Sam's cheekbones. He tossed the cotton into the nearby trashcan and turned back to Sam. He bent over, letting his back bow as he reached closer to their first kiss. He could feel Sam's breath against his lips and Sam's fingers tightening around the seams on the inside of his jeans. What would they have taken from Old Central anyway? It wasn't like there was anything in there except some very dated cowboy –
"Oh," Dean said, straightening so fast and Sam jarred against the empty air as he tried to lean forward into a kiss that wasn't there anymore. "What kind of 'something' are we talking about?"
Sam glared up at Dean, his face scrunched at the sudden change in mood, but answered Dean anyway, "It could be anything. Some kind of personal object that is tying the ghost to this world so that it can't move on."
"So, like maybe a hat?" Dean asked backing away and walking over to the far side of his office and bending over to dig through a big box of bric-a-brac he'd managed to accumulate. He pulled out a black felt hat and held it as far away from his body as he could.
"Wait," Sam scoffed, baffled as he stood up and walked over to Dean and the hat, "so you're telling me that you stole a cowboy hat and it was here the whole time?"
"The brim was already shaped," Dean said defensively, passing the hat onto Sam gladly. His face flushed though, as he tried to shrug off Sam's amusement, "I thought it would make a good prop for the winter formal."
Sam reached up to tug the ends of his hair out of his face, and grinned, making the dried blood on his chin flake and fall away. "Oh my god," he said, throwing the hat in the trashcan and reaching for his backpack. He pulled out what looked like a can of salt and dumped that in with the hat too before he stuck a match. "You are so gay."
The hat and paper caught fire instantly, burning until only a few tattered remains of black felt quickly melted into ash. Dean put his hand out to the flame, warmth curling over his palm. He pulled Sam's elbow around and grabbed him by the belt loops, drawing him closer. "I think you like it," he said feeling a warmth in his belly that had little to do with the fire.
A day later, they were up on the top level of the parking garage with an empty blue Oklahoma sky stretching away into eternity over their heads. The Impala looked just as good in the daylight, and Dean found himself running his fingers down the sleek lines almost unconsciously. His insides felt stretched tight as if he couldn't quite find enough to fill up his ribcage when a month before he never would have realized the deficit.
"You know what I still don't get?" Dean asked suddenly, with his hip pushed tight to the curve of the rear wheel well, and continued before Sam could reply, "I don't get how you even knew that anything was going on? Why'd you come here?"
Sam winced and straightened from where he was shifting the contents of the trunk into some sort of order that made absolutely no sense to Dean. "I had a nightmare," he said, almost gritting the words out through his teeth as he threw a bag roughly against the bottom. "A really bad nightmare and you were in it. I had to come."
"Oh," Dean didn't think he'd known anyone else in his life who would have gone so far out of their way for him. He didn't know that he would have done it for any of them, either. "Well, at least everyone's all right."
Some of them were a little skinnier than normal but Dean and Sam had found every single missing member of SODA locked in the basement of Old Central. They'd all been scared and confused but seemed to buy Sam's story of them being kidnapped by a cult. Dewy had characteristically latched on to the lie and ran, promising to call the newspapers and local stations. Dean had laughed, but Sam had gone suddenly pale and made a hasty exit.
"Yeah, it doesn't usually turn out that way, but I'm glad it did this time," Sam stopped, suddenly very intent on shoving his backpack into the trunk. He blew out a large breath and ran his hand through his hair. He looked up at Dean with an open expression and finished, "You can- You could come with me if you wanted. On the road. We could help people. Together."
It only took a second to think through the future of what could be his life. Dean thought about what it would be like once he graduated with a B.A in Leisure Service Management qualified to do exactly – not much. His dad had already shown more initiative than Dean to line him up with a job in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas. He doubted whether there would be much salting or burning necessary in that line of work.
No saving people. No Sam.
"Really?" he asked, shifting his feet and straightening up from the Impala. He thought about his apartment full of things he wouldn't miss and smirked at how irritated his landlady would be to clean out his room. She'd always hated renting to gay people, it'd serve her right to have to clean out his collection of porn.
Of course, maybe he'd have Sam swing by him place so he could pick up a few of his favorite pieces. He'd write his resignation notice on the back of a take out menu from Leo's and sadly enough his life would mostly be in order to leave it all behind. The sky didn't seem as far away as it had a moment ago.
"You're right. Stupid idea, I guess," Sam said, totally misunderstanding Dean's tone. He blushed and tried to shove his hands in his pocket, and hissed when he put pressure on his bandage. He ended up slamming the trunk shut to cover up his indecision with what to do with his hands and poking at the ground with his toe. "I'll just head out then. I've got a lead on a cursed necklace over in Colorado."
Sliding over, and up on top of the trunk, Dean let his knees fall apart and grabbed Sam by the front of his jacket, pulling him in. "That's not what I meant," he said softly, forcing Sam to lean in closer to hear him. He leaned back, placing his palms flat on the top of the trunk. "Where'd you learn all this stuff? Hotwiring, killing fashion-victim spirits, and Latin?"
Sam breathed out his mouth, twitching his fingers and shuffling the tiniest bit in to push against Dean's thighs. "My uncle Bobby," he answered, ducking down so that while Dean was looking up their faces were only inches apart. "After my dad died, Uncle Bobby raised me and taught me everything he knew about hunting. The car used to belong to my dad, and now I hunt the thing that killed him."
"Really?" Dean asked again, stretching his back up so that his lips just brushed against Sam's. He smiled at the thought that maybe he'd get his happy ending after all. "I was adopted too. What a small world, huh?"
Any reply Sam was going to make was lost as their lips met and their tongues slid together.
Author: Renae
chase_acowFandom/Pairing: Supernatural Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, the setting is very close to my heart, but still not mine.
A/N: Big thanks to
evesharmony for doing a real quick run through of this for me. : ) I really appreciate it! Mistakes and self-indulgences are all mine. Originally for just_google_it but it didn't work out.Summary: AU Dean is the president of his campus Sexual Orientation Diversity Association, and his life is pretty predictable. He parties, he almost studies, and he takes care of his own. Then, almost the instant a new face -a pretty face- hits town, weird shit starts to happen.
Word count: ~9,000
Dean had never actually been to the opening mixer of the Sexual Orientation Diversity Association before. He wouldn’t have gone this year either, except that as president, it was kinda expected of him. It would have been much cooler if the decorating crew had gone with the skull and crossbones theme instead of fairies and glitter. He was going to be pulling sparkles out of his hair into the middle of next week.
Also, the next time he got a wand swat to the ass, he was going to break someone’s nose.
At least the dip was good, and there hadn’t yet been a circumstance where he’d turned down free food. Most the freshmen were annoying, but there were still a couple of older faces left, and some of the newbies were pretty enough to be worth the trouble to talk to. His advisor had been on his tail for years to get involved with campus activities and after eight semesters, he was finally getting that last piece of his resume in line.
Actually, the only reason he was president was that he’d slept with half the active members of the organization, and hadn’t been there to defend himself when he’d been nominated. He still couldn’t decide if in the grand karmic scheme of things, the office was meant as a punishment or as a reward. All things considered, he’d just assumed he’d have been voted most likely be diagnosed with a brand-spanking-new condom resistant STD.
He just knew that if they played 'YMCA' one more time, he was going to blow his own brains out.
"Hey, Maples! You get a real major yet?"
Dean turned at his last name and flipped off the dark haired man advancing on him with open arms. "You got a real dick yet?" he asked letting Dewy enfold him in a hug and then actually pick him up off the floor. He pounded on the other man's back, "Guess not, huh?"
"Dude, have you checked out the visiting TA from the Tulsa campus?" Dewy asked, letting his arm flop over Dean's shoulder as he spun them around so he could point over toward the chip dip.
"Kinda bald, isn't he?" Dean replied as he cocked his eyebrow and smirked up at his friend. Dewy was two years younger than he was and had tried on nearly every major the university offered before settling on Sport Theory. Dean didn't think Dewy had any room to talk about Dean's major.
Dewy shoved him and cuffed the back of his head. "It's a deliberate bald, loser," he said and then ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt. "I'm going over there."
"Yeah, I'll just be over here, watching you crash and burn," Dean joked, reaching over to un-straighten Dewy's shirt and pat the side of his face.
Flipping him off, Dewy turned and waded through the crowd to the snack table. Just as he reached it, the opening strains of 'Macho Man' started blearing through the speakers. Dean groaned, and vowed never to leave the programming in the hands of his underlings again.
The Student Union sat on a hill so that even though SODA’s, and therefore Dean’s, office was in the basement, he’d flirted with the right people in order to move it to the one corner that was still above ground level. Yeah, it was actually behind the least used stairwell in the entire campus and smelled like three week old noodles, but it had a window.
As far as he was concerned, the window was worth the three hours of his life lost listening to the secretary whine about how everyone took her for granted. Actually, while she’d been in the restroom of the Copper Penny, he’d scored the bartender’s number so the night hadn’t been a complete waste.
He’d seen the place they stuck the Multicultural Affairs office; that was a festering pit of despair and darkness. They’d been entirely jealous over his three feet by one foot pane of glass that popped up just about at knee level for anyone walking by the formal gardens. He liked to mention it whenever the Young Republicans were in earshot; they were still stuck with a cubicle in a room the size of a closet that they had to share with the custodial service.
On the first day of the semester, he'd spent the afternoon rearranging and redecorating his office. His other elected officers had pitched a fit when he took Judy Garland down and replaced her with a poster of several classic cars, but sometimes the only way to get through his office hours was to get lost in the shine of a ’69 Mustang's rims. Sure, she was more flash than bang but when he needed a bigger boost he'd take out his other calendar and check out the GTOs.
“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” the kid sitting in front of his desk whined letting his wrists flop to the side as he gestured in what he probably thought was a very intense manner.
Dean rolled his eyes and put down the Chinese finger trap he’d been playing with, “Dude, stop being such a fag. Don't stalk the kid down your hall, it'll only lead to restraining orders. If you want to get his attention find out when he's in your dorm's community space, then go talk to him.”
The kid looked at Dean suspiciously as if Dean had suddenly sprouted a third eyeball or something. Dean tried to smile helpfully, since that never failed to get rid of whoever was sitting across from his desk. Sure enough, the kid muttered something, groped for his bag and made for the door.
"Hey," Dean yelled, making the kid poke his head back around. "Under no circumstance do you bring up show tunes, Joan Rivers, or Brokeback Mountain when you talk to the kid. If you need extra pointers go see the social activities director."
One week the Cowboy marching band, (a good twenty percent of SODA’s members) practiced an Ozzy show. Dean kept the window wide open and played along to Paranoid on air guitar. His paperwork was late and mistyped, but he felt much better.
It was a brisk fall day on campus when Preacher Bob reared his ugly head. Dean was on his way to his Leadership Development class (full of athletes, 13.7 percent SODA members) when he saw the large crowd gathered on Library Lawn and a familiar insulting yet articulate voice rising over the crowd noises. He smirked and cut across the grass listening to Bob's spiel.
“I am in a unique situation to help you all. I have not sinned since 1993! You! Don’t you know that men are not supposed to wear makeup? And you, miss, why must you parade your hussiness around these good God-fearing boys? Only whores wear pants and sleeveless shirts. I think it’s time for a song, since that’s the only way you all learn.”
Bob liked to think that he was doing them a favor by trying to save their souls from the satanic fraternities and sororities. He also claimed their mascot Pistol Pete was possessed by evil and would send them all to hell for worshiping it every game day. He blew into campus, yelled, got things riled that shouldn't be riled, and then blew out again, just like the wind.
Dean rolled his eyes at how predictable Bob was, and cut through the goggle-eyed freshmen so he could get a good spot in the front. Bob’s first semester visit to campus was never something to miss. Between Bob's singing and the outrage of the freshmen, the crowd was a powder keg just ready to go off in blood colored sparks. He caught sight of a couple of the more excitable members of SODA on the fringe and heaved a sigh. He so had not signed up for this.
They were muttering to each other while casting dark looks over at Bob. One of the thicker necked guys was actually cracking his knuckles as he glared. Dean rolled his eyes at himself, but knew that if they got arrested then he’d have to do the heavy lifting for the club parties himself. Cursing under his breath, he stripped off his hoodie and left it with his backpack on the sidewalk.
“I love Preacher Bob!” he screamed running behind Bob and jumping up to click his heels together like the freakin' deranged leprechaun from the freakin' cereal box. He really hoped that no one else saw him making an ass out of himself. “Preacher Bob is my hero! Whoo!”
The crowd burst into laughter and even his two thugs couldn’t help but giggle at Dean’s antics and how Bob spun to keep him in sight while simultaneously listing in alphabetic order the numerous reasons exactly why Dean was going to hell. None of his organization was going to jail, and he'd even managed to burn off a little energy before class, so Dean considered it mission accomplished. As luck would have it, he was wearing his favorite formerly white shirt that got dyed pink when he did the wash and accidentally mixed in his pair of red boxers.
It was laundry day anyway.
Homecoming fever had the campus locked in a frenzy of activity that had everyone down to the most wallflower of loners wearing orange and trash talking the rest of Big XII South football. Dean had to cover his mouth when his secretary and activity’s director, two of the biggest fairies he knew, started talking about the relative merits of a shotgun versus spread offense.
Then he figured out they were really talking about Saturday night at the town’s lone ‘nightclub’ (and he used the term very loosely) The Tumbleweed and he felt less like his universe was caving in.
The campus paper The Daily O'Collegian had decided to celebrate Halloween by publishing a full week of old urban legends. Dean could scoff and laugh at them in his office, but it was a whole new ballgame when he was faced with the project of walking through the deserted buildings. He'd never liked Halloween much; it had left a bad taste in his mouth ever since he could remember. At least his class had got him out of SODA's Annual Costume Bash.
The nights were cold enough that he finally got out his leather jacket to wear over his hoodie, and that night he had it zipped and his hood up as he walked across campus to the parking garage. Monday night classes were a bitch, but it was the only chance he had to pick up an international dimension class. As his fifth year in college, his free ride was getting cut in December. It was make it or break it time, and he still couldn't quite muster the attention his dad thought he needed to have toward his future.
The moon was a bright yellow ball hanging low in the sky and at ten o’clock there shouldn’t have been anyone around, much less someone skulking in the shadows of Old Central peering into the windows. Old Central was the oldest building on campus, and probably in the county. They’d made it into a museum a few years back and SODA was thinking about renting out the ballroom for their winter formal.
“Hey!” Dean yelled before he could think better of it, not surprised that he could see his breath curling over his head. It was always either all or nothing around here: hot enough to boil his balls in their own sweat or cold enough to break them off like ice cubes. “What are you doing?”
The guy jumped and spun around reaching behind him while simultaneously putting his back to the wall. He was taller than Dean, and had shaggy hair that curled out from under the botDewy of his stocking cap and over the collar of his jean jacket. He was younger than the type Dean usually went for, but still attractive in his unfinished sort of way. Dean could hear that he was breathing hard.
“Oh, I was just, ah,” the guy stuttered looking nervously up and down the sidewalk, but did step away from the wall. He was wearing a motley coordinated outfit and his jeans had a hole in the knees. Without another layer or two on his thin frame, he could freeze out in the November weather. He came closer to where Dean was standing under a lamppost and flashed a grin, “I was looking for the Student Union.”
Dean rolled his eyes and hunched his shoulders higher to block the wind from angling down the edges of his sweatshirt. “Yeah, that would be the only building around here still lit up,” he said, snorting and nodded behind the guy to where they could just see the top of the brightly illuminated Union steeple behind the Alumni Center.
“Oh, yeah,” he said quietly, his grin sliding into something a little more sincere. His cheeks dimpled, and Dean found himself revising his earlier assessment of cute but too young. The other guy held his hand out, “Hi, I’m Sam, I’m new around here.”
“No kidding,” Dean said, glancing down at Sam’s bare hand reaching out toward him. He jerked so his bag would slide up on his shoulder and sidestepped Sam to continue along the sidewalk. When he didn’t hear any footsteps he turned around, “You coming or what?”
Sam ducked his head, and took three long strides to reach Dean’s side, but once he was there, their ambles shifted easily to match each other.
The rest of the school week passed in a blur as far as Dean was concerned. The Frat boys (2.5 percent SODA membership) were in full form, and not even the countless hours they spent welding for their stupid House decoration competition kept them from hassling some of the more out-there members of SODA. He tried not to feel too smug the night he “accidentally” borrowed fifty yards of chicken wire from the Farmhouse fraternity and donated it to the Humane Society.
It would cost them easily half a day to catch up with the other displays down Frat Row and there would be no time to picket SODA's drag pageant Mr. Dragonfly. He could have sworn he’d put that wire on SODA’s budget. Oh well.
At the meeting on Thursday, a third of his officers decided not to show up. Dean had to take the minutes himself, but he made up for it by nearly eating his weight in pizza. He thought it was odd; usually, his cabinet wouldn’t have missed the chance to gossip and make fun of each others' clothing behind their backs.
Even though he couldn’t have cared less about the Frats, he had to admit that the annual Friday night “Walk Around” was good for one thing. There was more food and pretty young co-eds than even Dean could shake a stick at. He did shake something else though.
Sam caught up with him under the orange lights illuminating Theta pond. Dean was still trying to rub away the sting from his right cheek where he’d miscalculated how far his charm could get him and ended up with a slap instead of a kiss. How was he supposed to know that she was the president of the Baptist Collegiate Ministry?
“Wow, that was. . .” Sam trailed off smiling and tucking some of his wavy hair behind his ear. They were far enough away from the line for pictures with the campus mascot that they could just here the low rumble of hundreds of people milling around down the street.
“Yeah, well you can suck it too,” he growled, but something told him that Sam was laughing with him instead of at him. There was just something about Sam that gave Dean an ease he seldom felt away from home. Home was where he could geek out and kick back without knowing that everyone in the room was watching him.
As a peace offering, Sam held out a bag of popcorn, but instead of taking a handful, Dean snatched the bag and bumped Sam’s shoulder before he started pigging out. They'd met randomly a couple of times in the atrium over the week and eaten lunch together. Dean knew that it was Sam not Sammy Winchester from Lawrence Kansas and that he was a PoliSci major with an option for pre-law.
“Didn't you say you were the president of SODA?” Sam asked hunching his shoulders down and ducking his head. He scuffed his worn out sneakers on the gravel path and reached over to snag back some of the popcorn. Chewing thoughtfully, he glanced back the way the girl had gone, “So, what were you doing macking on the Bible Belt?”
“Dude, don’t label me,” Dean grinned, and led Sam away from the pond and back to the barbeque turkey legs. Maybe the night wouldn't be a total bust, after all.
“So it’s not that you’re gay or bi,” Sam said continuing an earlier conversation as he slid closer to Dean on the bleachers. They had been almost inseparable for the last twenty-four hours and the teasing had slowly changed to flirting. “It’s just that you’re horny.”
The game was going their way for the moment, but Dean knew better than to count his chickens before they hatched. Only their team could outscore their opponents three out of four quarters but still lose the game. Dean bled orange just as much as the next guy, but even he wasn’t completely willing to overlook his team’s many flaws.
He leapt to his feet with the rest of the student section when the quarterback threw a long pass down the field to the end zone. Dean held his breath as the ball hung in the air for an eternity before the intended receiver jumped high in the air and beat out two defenders to snag it and fall back down to the turf. The noise was deafening, and he could just barely hear the sounds of the marching band from the other end of the field.
Sam stood too and took his hands out of his pockets to clap along with everyone else as they kicked the PAT. He was shivering every time a gust of wind cut through the stadium, and was just lucky that the students liked to crowd together at every chance or he’d have been freezing the entire time.
“I like to say that I don’t discriminate, Sam,” Dean said with a grin, stretching his chapped lips wide. After four “rebuilding” years, it was finally time that his team started winning again. He pointedly raked his gaze up and down Sam’s body, “And don’t you know anything about dressing for a college football game?”
Shoving his hands back into his jeans, Sam curled in on himself trying to make a smaller target for the wind to hit. His cheeks were flaming red and his long hair looked like a bird had tried to nest in it. “It was eighty degrees yesterday,” he grumbled, and then actually whined back in his throat.
“Well, that’s Oklahoma weather for you,” Dean said with a laugh, and tugged his scarf over his head and swung it around Sam’s neck. He tugged up the collar of Sam’s jacked and looped the extra ends under the buttons. He should have switched earlier, he had his hood he could have pulled up, “There you go, that'll help a little.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, looking at him strangely, but tucking his chin under the gray and lightly pink striped wool to warm up his mouth and nose. He poked back out for just long enough to say, “I thought you were from Kansas, how'd you end up here?”
“Jayhawk blue and red clashed with my natural complexion,” Dean teased, elbowing Sam gently in the ribs before he turned his attention back to the kickoff. As an after thought, he added, “I spent most my childhood in Dodge City, but I had friends south of the border in the armpit of Oklahoma. Well, one really good friend. He came here, and I followed him.”
Dean shrugged, he didn't like talking about Chris. Growing up in the middle of cowboy and Indian territory, Dean never really thought he'd get his happily ever after. Not with the rednecks and gay bashers making the papers every other week. That didn't mean it hurt any less when it blew up in his face and Chris left him lying in the gutter. The next semester was when he got his reputation as the campus bicycle.
"Hey," Sam said softly, obviously knowing that he'd brought up some bad memories. He glanced at the scoreboard and leaned back into Dean's space, "So, what do we do when we win?"
The final seconds of the fourth quarter were counting down, and all around him, Dean could feel the student population straining forward ready to jump over the wall and onto the field. It wasn't every year, or decade for that matter, that they beat Texas. He grinned up at Sam, his previous mood forgotten. "Elementary, my dear Sammy," he said letting the nickname roll off his tongue as he grabbed hold of Sam's sleeve so that they wouldn't get separated. "Obviously, we party."
Dean started to get really worried on Monday when less than half of his officers arrived for the meeting. They suspended all official business and spent the next four hours trying to get ahold of anyone who had seen or talked to the missing people. At midnight, the Student Union closed and Dean sent everyone home with the warning that they should stick together going across campus. Of course, he wasn't very good at taking his own advice, waiting until they'd all rounded the corner before he locked up his office.
Nothing. He'd called almost every number in his cell phone, and there were a lot, but he couldn't find the slightest trace of anything. It was as if they'd disappeared. Tomorrow, he'd have to start calling their families to see if they knew what was happening. It was the least that he could do.
Outside, most the lights were off, Dean could just make out the soft blue glow of an emergency phone in the distance. Soft flakes of snow fell silently from the sky, melting before they'd even hit the ground. The ground was still too warm for any of it to stick, but the wind chill was well below freezing. He wished he would have grabbed the fuzzy pink earmuffs his family had sent as a gag gift.
The soft hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard the slightest rustling from the bush just ahead of him. The one that partially obscured the window from his office. Despite, or perhaps because of, his tough attitude, Dean had probably only been in a handful of fights in his life. He liked to go his own way, but he wasn't one of those guys that just kept shoving until the other guy had no choice but to swing.
He wasn't usually paranoid, but even the biggest anti-conspiracy theorist would be hard pressed not to find the connection between all the disappearances. His muscles all tensed, and his heart speed up as he made himself put one foot in front of the other. He twisted his fingers around his keys in his pockets and held his breath as he pulled up even with the bush. Then he saw it.
Underneath the bottom branches, hung one end of a scarf he knew like the back of his hand. Relief rushed through his body, and he almost missed his next step, scuffing the toe of his sneaker over a crack in the pavement. He went about another five feet before he called over his shoulder, "Dude, if you wanted to hang out, you could have just called my cell."
Sam unfolded his freakishly tall frame from where he'd been crouched in the shadows, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The knees of his jeans were wet and caked with dirt that fell off in small clumps as he moved. "Sorry man," he said, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just passing by."
Dean's heart went cold as he remembered that all his friends had gone missing only after he'd met Sam in the shadows of Old Central. He clutched his keys again, taking a step back. "Hey," he said, clearing his throat twice before he could get the word out. "Hey, I don't suppose you're some kinda psycho bent on hunting down and killing all the queers you can find, are you?"
"Hunting?" Sam repeated weakly, raising his eyebrows like Dean had just insisted that the President of the United States was a tutu-wearing hermaphrodite. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right," Dean drawled, backing further away and wishing he would have made Tiny (Fire and Emergency Management grad student 3 percent SODA membership) walk him to his car. "Just do me a favor and if you know what's going on then tell me. Otherwise just keep your distance, weird stalker guy."
A kicked puppy had nothing on the expression on Sam's face right before Dean turned and power walked into the parking garage. His gut twisted the further he went aching and he just hoped that he was doing the right thing. He looked back once, and Sam was still standing there, alone on the sidewalk watching him.
"Campus security is a fucking joke!" Dean yelled, slamming the phone down into its cradle. He let his head fall down and bang into his desk. He hadn't been to class in two days, but he still hadn't made any headway on finding anyone. There was a tentative knock on his door and he didn't bother to raise his head before growling, "What?"
"Hey, I was wondering if I could come in?"
Dean sat up, and had to reach up to tear off a piece of paper stuck to his forehead before he could see Sam standing nervously in his doorway. He had Dean's scarf bundled in his hands, wringing it slightly while he shuffled his feet.
"You're not a student here," Dean said suddenly, shoving away from his desk and standing up. "I've checked with everyone and no one in the Political Science department, or even the University has ever heard of a 'Samuel Winchester'."
He was very conscious that even though it was the middle of the afternoon, his section of the Student Union basement dried up like the Sooner bandwagon fans after a loss. He hadn't even heard the janitors in the last thirty minutes. If Sam tried anything Dean would have to hope he could reach the phone and that the police station would actually pick up after all the names he'd called them.
"You're right," Sam said softly, shaking his head to move his bangs out of his eyes while he tried to hold Dean's gaze. "I lied to you, and I'm not a student here. Actually, I've never gone to any college. But if you'll let me, I want to help you."
Dean felt his own face react in surprise, and he slumped back in his chair, his limbs splaying wide as he cocked his head up to stare at the ceiling. The fluorescent lighting didn't do the cheap building materials any favors at all. Sometimes when he was really tired, and stared at the cracks and crannies until his eyes crossed, the ceiling tiles would take on a weird glow, and shimmer like they were on fire.
He looked back at Sam who had inched his way into the room until he was close enough to loom over the desk. "What's in it for you? Why bother?" he asked tiredly, he probably hadn't had more than ten hours of sleep for the past three days. "What exactly do you think you can do to help?"
"Wow, that's a lot of questions. It's just what I do. I could feed you a line, but I don't want to. Believe me when I say that you can trust me," Sam said earnestly, laughing a little under his breath nervously. He tilted his head in a way that made Dean want to spill his guts about everything that had happened to him since he started kindergarten. "Can you think of anyone who'd want to hurt you? Anyone who would have a grudge against SODA?"
"God, do you want it alphabetically or categorically?" Dean yelled, shoving the binder with SODA's roll on the ground so that the papers spiraled everywhere. "I'm president of one of the largest associations on campus full of loud, obnoxious, wonderful people who make it a habit to annoy and challenge anyone who doesn't see eye to eye with them. Yeah, we've got people who would love nothing more than if the whole lot of us disappeared off the face of the planet."
He thumped his elbows back down on his desk, and dropped his head, rubbing his hands over his face and into his hair. Dean knew he was about one bad thing away from a full meltdown unlike anything seen outside a freshman councilor's office. He'd taken the stress management course, twice in fact, but all he could remember was the instructor's measurements. Somehow he didn't think 36-24-32 was going to be much of a help now.
"I think you might be next," Sam said, reaching out and offering the scarf back.
Dean threw his head back and laughed.
"So, what are we doing here?" Dean asked frowning as Sam pulled his car behind a taped off building. He still wasn't quite convinced that Sam was just a good ole boy trying to help out. How would he have known so much about the disappearances if he were just a Joe Blow?
The car had been a pleasant surprise; it wasn't that often a person saw classic cars like the Impala around that part of the country. It needed a good wash, and the inside was littered with fast-food wrappers, but she was a gorgeous machine. He sank into the passenger seat as if it was molded for his butt and no other, even if his fingers did twitch to wrap around the steering wheel.
Sam put the car in park and turned off the ignition; the sudden silence seemed to blast into the still of the night. He looked over and grinned. "Just keeping you out of harm's way," he said, and grinned opening up his door and stepping out.
"I thought all this was on the table to be demolished," Dean said, getting out and following Sam through the back door. He craned his neck around, looking at the desolate neighborhood. "The college is tearing all this down to make room for the new stadium."
"Yeah," Sam said distracted as he led Dean through the kitchen and living room to the smaller back bedroom. He checked each area with a glance, keeping one hand close to his back where Dean was more and more sure he kept a weapon. "Which means it's vacant and no one will look for us here."
The back room was empty except for a backpack, blanket, and sleeping bag rolled up and sitting just inside the closet where casual observation would have left it hidden. Dean frowned when he saw a small space-heater sitting next to the bundle and experimentally walked over to flick the light switch up. The room was bathed in pale golden light, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and ancient carpeting.
"Hey!" Sam yelled and rushed back to turn the light off. He glared at Dean and ushered him back to the middle of the room. "What part of 'squatting for your safety' don't you understand?"
"Dude," Dean raised his hands up, and took a step back trying to turn his nervous grin into a genuine smile. "You're just full of surprises."
Sam snorted and walked over to kneel in the closet. "It wasn't that hard to hack the wiring from a live feed," he said harshly, tossing out the sleeping bag and an extra blanket. He twisted the space heater around and plugged it into the wall. "I'm just a regular true blue freak."
"Actually, I'd say it was pretty cool," Dean said, letting his eyes slide over Sam's obvious discomfort. It didn't take a psych major to figure out that he'd hit a button there with his comment. Even if it was true, Sam was a bit freaky; he'd only been friendly to Dean so far, even when Dean was practically accusing him of murder. "So, what's the plan, MacGyver?"
"Keep your head down, see what happens," Sam said absently, walking over the carpet on his knees to straighten out the blankets. He had the tip of his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth when he looked back up at Dean. "I've got a few leads, but I was too distracted watching out for you to follow them up."
A slow and honeyed smile spread over Dean's face, and he fell back into his posed slouch. This was familiar territory, much more so then rampaging lunatics bent on his death and destruction. "Are you trying to tell me you've been checking out my ass?" he asked softly.
Sam froze, but then grinned hesitantly as Dean just cocked his leg out and tipped his hips down with a raised eyebrow. "Jerk," Sam said as his own lips twitched into a grin and the soft lines around his eyes crinkled.
"Bitch," Dean replied and then knelt down to help Sam unzip the sleeping bag.
He woke up hot and boxed in. Dean was pushed almost face first into the crumbling plaster wall while Sam was a snoring inferno of heat curled behind him. There was just enough light peeking in through the dusty mini-blinds to tell him that it was at least after dawn. Hot breath rushed down his collar every time Sam exhaled, and Dean squirmed a bit in his discomfort.
Sam's arm pulled him back from the wall and tighter in against his chest, snuffling in his sleep and nudging his nose into the back of Dean's neck.
"Snuggle much?" Dean asked wiggling to escape before he finally gave up and just rolled over on top of Sam's body and off the other side. It wasn't that he actually minded the contact, but he really needed to pee, and he was way too old to start making out on the floor.
Sam grunted as Dean's weight hit him and slid over, and he opened his eyes, blinking quickly and scrunching his face in an entirely endearing way. "What?" he asked, voice sleep rough and catching in his throat. "What's going on?"
Dean rolled his eyes and tugged his clothing straight. "Tinkle break," he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder where he guessed he'd find some sort of bathroom. "Think you can make it five minutes without me, cuddle-monster?"
Without waiting for an answer, Dean twisted around and walked down the barren hallway. He could see the lighter patches on the wall where pictures had hung, and was mad all over again at the eminent domain clause that threw so many people out of their homes. The bathroom was to the left, and it was just as empty as the rest of the house. There wasn't even any water in the toilet bowl.
He finished his business and headed back to the bedroom. He met Sam in the hallway and there was an awkward moment where they each tried first to move to the right to pass each other, and then to the left. Finally, Sam reached out, grabbed Dean's shoulders and levered them around until he was on the side closest to the bathroom. He grunted success and turned around.
Snorting, Dean guessed that Sam wasn't much of a morning person. He stretched his arms over his head, hoping to work out some of the kinks that sleeping on the floor had left him with. It hadn't actually been so bad, he'd woken up cold once, and realized that Sam was hogging the blanket. He'd shifted closer and yanked both blanket and Sam back to his side, and that had turned out to be plenty warm.
The familiar opening notes of AC/DC's Hell's Bell's' sent Dean scrambling over to the corner where he'd thrown his coat last night. It took too long though, and by the time he'd pulled his coat away from Sam's and found the right pocket his voicemail was beeping. Sam walked in right when he heard the message.
"It's Dewy," Dean said, clicking the phone shut and shoving it in his front pocket. He felt desperation unfurling its wings in his belly and looked up at Sam, "he's missing."
"What are we doing at Old Central?" Dean grumbled, his impatience getting the better of him as he kicked the red brick wall in front of him. He would have slammed his fist into the wall if he thought it would do any good. He hated not being able to do something to stop this. "I thought you were going to help me!"
Sam had followed him around all day as he pounded on doors and called every phone number in the database looking for Dewy. He hadn't really said anything, just supplied a comforting presence at Dean's back while his world spun out of control. Then at just after sundown when the campus was empty except for the most socially-retarded grad students, Sam had steered him off the beaten track until he was looking up at the steeple of Old Central.
The lampposts barely put a dent in the twilight dimness, making it so that Dean could just barely see what Sam was doing at the doorway. He couldn't follow all the movements anyway, but a moment later when the door opened and Sam looked around guiltily, he had a pretty good idea what happened. Sam pulled him in by the elbow and shut the door behind them, locking them in darkness.
"I am trying to help you," Sam said, whispering even though his voice still echoed across the small entry room they were standing in. The gloom was all persuasive inside the building, the only light came from the red exit signs scattered through the room. "This is the only way I know how to help you."
"Okay," Dean said doubtfully, shuffling his feet and looking around. Truthfully, the building had always given him the creeps when he had to be there. It was old, and full of old things with weird decorations on the outside walls. After their first inspection, he'd left all the winter formal plans in the hands of the committee. "So, why exactly are we here?"
Sam was pacing the hallway, craning his neck from left to right to look all around him. He stopped and pulled his bag around on his shoulder, digging around in the main compartment until he triumphantly pulled out two flashlights. He tossed one to Dean and flicked his on, "Looking for something weird," he answered lifting his eyebrows and jerking his head for Dean to follow him into the next weird.
"'Something weird'?" Dean repeated, rolling his eyes and clucking his tongue. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his flashlight on, following Sam. He sneezed at the dusty air and wiped his nose with his jacket sleeve. "Well, it's a good thing that we're not being condescendingly vague or anything."
The main room was a giant empty cavern, perfect for a group to crowd together for a dance but good for little else. Just a bunch of dusty cases lining the walls, spanning the decades when the college was known as the Oklahoma State University of Agriculture and Mechanics. There were pictures of horses hitched to a post while one of the first classes was being held inside the same building he was standing in now. Gold for the history buffs, but he was already bored.
He had left the door open behind him when he followed Sam, paying only partial attention to his surroundings while he watched Sam's jean clad ass bend. He wished that Sam really had been a PoliSci transfer, they could have gone to the Winter Formal together. They could have dated, moved in together, and a lot of really hot sex. Mostly the sex. Because behind Sam's awkward weirdness, Dean was sure he'd be smokin' in bed.
The first thing Dean noticed outside his daydream of bending Sam over the Impala was the drop in temperature. He shivered and then jumped as the door behind them slammed hard enough to shatter the windowpane. They both spun around as one, shining their flashlights at the broken glass. The beam from his light bounced a little more than Sam's did and he swallowed nervously.
"Well," Dean said into the sudden silence, feeling the short hairs on the back of his neck lift along with the goosebumps on his forearms. "That's a little weird."
"Oh, it gets weirder," Sam said quickly, striding over to where Dean was standing and putting a hand on his shoulder. He pulled out a handgun, and twisted his head looking for something or someone. "Be careful Dean."
Dean was only slightly relieved that Sam didn't point the weapon at him, but even that went away when a gust of wind came out of nowhere and blasted them as if it came from every direction at once. The lights flared on, blasting them with light before half of them burst, the light bulbs splintering into the walls.
"GIVE IT BACK!" a voice howled like echoing hollowly like the wind on a straight shot of prairie land. It sounded like an old man, broken with age.
"S-Sam?" Dean said, backing up until he bumped into the body behind him. The beam from his flashlight wobbled madly as he waved it all over the display cases in front of him. "I don't suppose that was you, was it?"
Just by luck, Dean was pointing his light in the far corner when an antique pair of spurs vibrated up off the shelf and shot through the air right at them.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, shoving him violently, "Duck!"
Dean went down hard on his knees, slapping his palms against the floor and losing his flashlight. He heard the air rip over his head as the spur spun over him and embedded in the far wall. The lights flared up again, even without intact light bulbs, and stayed bright enough that Dean could see the other aged instruments beginning to rattle against their bindings.
"There's something you're not telling me!" Dean yelled, ducking as a scythe vibrated off the wall and straight at his head. He barely made it behind another display case when he heard it thunk into the wood where he'd just been sprawled.
He heard glass shatter across the room, and popped up just long enough to see Sam roll over broken glass trying to stay out of the way of a pissed off settler's dress. The off-white fabric rolled and boiled twisting as if caught in tornado level winds. It would have been funny if the left sleeve wasn't trying to wrap itself around his throat and choke the life out of him.
It took too long for Dean to find his feet and clamber across the floor, ducking shards of glass and ropes shaped into lassos. He skidded to a stop next to Sam on the floor and ripped the dress away, the fabric going lax in his hands until it let go of Sam's neck. He hauled Sam against his chest and tried to shield him from the flying debris until they could get their breath back.
"Um, ghosts and spirits are real?" Sam said plaintively looking up at Dean and cradling his wrist to chest as he pressed his shoulder into Dean's body. "And apparently very angry."
"You know," Dean said hooking his hands underneath Sam's armpits and hauling until Sam could get his feet steady on the floor. Around them the objects where whirring faster than ever, but seemed to always swerve to miss them at the last second. "I kinda hate you right now."
Sam scrambled after him and gave him a push to clear the door that sent them both falling down the stairs outside and into the grass. The door slammed shut behind them and all the lights went off. He looked over at Dean and panting said, "I get that a lot."
Inside Dean's office, Dean tried to bandage Sam's arm as best he could. It wasn't really like he had much experience at being Florence fucking Nightingale or anything. Sam sat still with his arm extended over Dean's desk and hissed as Dean dabbed at his cuts with a cotton swab full of antiseptic.
"So," Sam said, clearing his throat awkwardly as he spoke for the first time since they entered the office. He was dirty and the glass he'd rolled through had taken it's toll on his exposed skin as well as his jacket. "Do you know what he was talking about?"
"Who?" Dean asked, distracted as he finished taping some gauze over Sam's wrist. He frowned at the desk and walked around the other side so he could get a better angle for the scratch over Sam's eye.
It probably wasn't completely necessary, but Dean never could pass up an opportunity to put himself in a compromising position, so he straddled Sam's thighs and inched his way toward Sam's chest. He used one hand to tilt Sam's head back so he could swab gently over Sam's eyebrow. Sam brought his arms up and lightly rested his hands on the back of Dean's thighs.
"The ghost said that he wanted something back," Sam said softly, his eyes darting in quick movements over Dean's face. His chest was rising and falling steadily and his fingers moved over Dean's jeans. "Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"
Dean shook his head without really listening to the question and let his fingers drop to trace over Sam's cheekbones. He tossed the cotton into the nearby trashcan and turned back to Sam. He bent over, letting his back bow as he reached closer to their first kiss. He could feel Sam's breath against his lips and Sam's fingers tightening around the seams on the inside of his jeans. What would they have taken from Old Central anyway? It wasn't like there was anything in there except some very dated cowboy –
"Oh," Dean said, straightening so fast and Sam jarred against the empty air as he tried to lean forward into a kiss that wasn't there anymore. "What kind of 'something' are we talking about?"
Sam glared up at Dean, his face scrunched at the sudden change in mood, but answered Dean anyway, "It could be anything. Some kind of personal object that is tying the ghost to this world so that it can't move on."
"So, like maybe a hat?" Dean asked backing away and walking over to the far side of his office and bending over to dig through a big box of bric-a-brac he'd managed to accumulate. He pulled out a black felt hat and held it as far away from his body as he could.
"Wait," Sam scoffed, baffled as he stood up and walked over to Dean and the hat, "so you're telling me that you stole a cowboy hat and it was here the whole time?"
"The brim was already shaped," Dean said defensively, passing the hat onto Sam gladly. His face flushed though, as he tried to shrug off Sam's amusement, "I thought it would make a good prop for the winter formal."
Sam reached up to tug the ends of his hair out of his face, and grinned, making the dried blood on his chin flake and fall away. "Oh my god," he said, throwing the hat in the trashcan and reaching for his backpack. He pulled out what looked like a can of salt and dumped that in with the hat too before he stuck a match. "You are so gay."
The hat and paper caught fire instantly, burning until only a few tattered remains of black felt quickly melted into ash. Dean put his hand out to the flame, warmth curling over his palm. He pulled Sam's elbow around and grabbed him by the belt loops, drawing him closer. "I think you like it," he said feeling a warmth in his belly that had little to do with the fire.
A day later, they were up on the top level of the parking garage with an empty blue Oklahoma sky stretching away into eternity over their heads. The Impala looked just as good in the daylight, and Dean found himself running his fingers down the sleek lines almost unconsciously. His insides felt stretched tight as if he couldn't quite find enough to fill up his ribcage when a month before he never would have realized the deficit.
"You know what I still don't get?" Dean asked suddenly, with his hip pushed tight to the curve of the rear wheel well, and continued before Sam could reply, "I don't get how you even knew that anything was going on? Why'd you come here?"
Sam winced and straightened from where he was shifting the contents of the trunk into some sort of order that made absolutely no sense to Dean. "I had a nightmare," he said, almost gritting the words out through his teeth as he threw a bag roughly against the bottom. "A really bad nightmare and you were in it. I had to come."
"Oh," Dean didn't think he'd known anyone else in his life who would have gone so far out of their way for him. He didn't know that he would have done it for any of them, either. "Well, at least everyone's all right."
Some of them were a little skinnier than normal but Dean and Sam had found every single missing member of SODA locked in the basement of Old Central. They'd all been scared and confused but seemed to buy Sam's story of them being kidnapped by a cult. Dewy had characteristically latched on to the lie and ran, promising to call the newspapers and local stations. Dean had laughed, but Sam had gone suddenly pale and made a hasty exit.
"Yeah, it doesn't usually turn out that way, but I'm glad it did this time," Sam stopped, suddenly very intent on shoving his backpack into the trunk. He blew out a large breath and ran his hand through his hair. He looked up at Dean with an open expression and finished, "You can- You could come with me if you wanted. On the road. We could help people. Together."
It only took a second to think through the future of what could be his life. Dean thought about what it would be like once he graduated with a B.A in Leisure Service Management qualified to do exactly – not much. His dad had already shown more initiative than Dean to line him up with a job in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas. He doubted whether there would be much salting or burning necessary in that line of work.
No saving people. No Sam.
"Really?" he asked, shifting his feet and straightening up from the Impala. He thought about his apartment full of things he wouldn't miss and smirked at how irritated his landlady would be to clean out his room. She'd always hated renting to gay people, it'd serve her right to have to clean out his collection of porn.
Of course, maybe he'd have Sam swing by him place so he could pick up a few of his favorite pieces. He'd write his resignation notice on the back of a take out menu from Leo's and sadly enough his life would mostly be in order to leave it all behind. The sky didn't seem as far away as it had a moment ago.
"You're right. Stupid idea, I guess," Sam said, totally misunderstanding Dean's tone. He blushed and tried to shove his hands in his pocket, and hissed when he put pressure on his bandage. He ended up slamming the trunk shut to cover up his indecision with what to do with his hands and poking at the ground with his toe. "I'll just head out then. I've got a lead on a cursed necklace over in Colorado."
Sliding over, and up on top of the trunk, Dean let his knees fall apart and grabbed Sam by the front of his jacket, pulling him in. "That's not what I meant," he said softly, forcing Sam to lean in closer to hear him. He leaned back, placing his palms flat on the top of the trunk. "Where'd you learn all this stuff? Hotwiring, killing fashion-victim spirits, and Latin?"
Sam breathed out his mouth, twitching his fingers and shuffling the tiniest bit in to push against Dean's thighs. "My uncle Bobby," he answered, ducking down so that while Dean was looking up their faces were only inches apart. "After my dad died, Uncle Bobby raised me and taught me everything he knew about hunting. The car used to belong to my dad, and now I hunt the thing that killed him."
"Really?" Dean asked again, stretching his back up so that his lips just brushed against Sam's. He smiled at the thought that maybe he'd get his happy ending after all. "I was adopted too. What a small world, huh?"
Any reply Sam was going to make was lost as their lips met and their tongues slid together.
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Date: 2008-01-26 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 02:29 am (UTC)I appreciate you dropping a line!
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Date: 2008-01-27 02:43 am (UTC)I so understand. I've only written a few SPN stories because I'm just not yet comfortable enough in the fandom (and I tend to be mean to Sam, who I adore. I don't know why!).
This was awesome, though! It may be AU, but I thought you stayed true to the essence of the characters, which is the hallmark of a good author. They might not have been canon Sam'n'Dean, but I recognized them nonetheless. ^_^
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Date: 2008-01-27 04:07 am (UTC)I really want to rip out Sam's heart, just so I can put it back better than ever. When I first started watching, I didn't like Sam at all, and now I just love him to pieces. He's such an interesting character unlike any other I've ever been involved with. I want to see what makes him tick. : )
Seriously, I had to sit back and take a lot of the dialog or actions and ask myself 'what makes this Dean and not John Sheppard?" (from Stargate Atlantis). I really concentrated on making sure that I could hear it coming from his mouth. I'm very excited to know that it was time well spent!
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Date: 2008-01-26 07:43 am (UTC)Awesome, awesome fic!
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Date: 2008-01-27 02:30 am (UTC)Thank you very much!
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Date: 2008-01-26 01:20 pm (UTC)Plus, Dean as head of SODA. Can't get any better than that, really.
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Date: 2008-01-27 02:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 03:57 am (UTC);)
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Date: 2008-01-26 09:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 02:38 am (UTC)Thank you so much, and I'm very glad that you enjoyed this!
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Date: 2008-01-27 08:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 09:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-28 03:40 pm (UTC): )
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Date: 2008-01-28 06:22 am (UTC)"Um, ghosts and spirits are real?" Sam said plaintively looking up at Dean and cradling his wrist to chest as he pressed his shoulder into Dean's body. "And apparently very angry."
"You know," Dean said hooking his hands underneath Sam's armpits and hauling until Sam could get his feet steady on the floor. Around them the objects where whirring faster than ever, but seemed to always swerve to miss them at the last second. "I kinda hate you right now."
XD God I love that part!
"Really?" Dean asked again, stretching his back up so that his lips just brushed against Sam's. He smiled at the thought that maybe he'd get his happy ending after all. "I was adopted too. What a small world, huh?"
Uh? Any chance that they're brothers here too? O_O (sequel?) ^_______^
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Date: 2008-01-28 04:25 pm (UTC)I'd love to do a sequel where they go see Bobby and then all hell breaks loose. : ) Buuuuuuuuut it'll have to wait until I finish about another million projects.
Thank you for letting me know that you enjoyed the fic!
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Date: 2008-01-29 12:16 am (UTC)A lot of really small touches that just make the whole universe seem tangible. And I meant to ask if this was a real campus where you attended, because some of the things you described were very vivid and detailed.
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Date: 2008-01-29 02:22 am (UTC)Yeah, that's my campus! I walk past Old Central every time I go to class. I love it here so much, and I kinda wanted to share it with other people. It might be cheating a little bit, but I enjoyed myself.
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Date: 2008-04-17 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 05:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 05:53 pm (UTC)This was fun, and sweet, and full of that connection between Sam and Dean. Thanks so much for reccing it to me!
Hugs,
Arlad
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Date: 2008-04-21 07:36 pm (UTC)The idea of Dean in SODA was just too good to resist. OSU's SODA just did their Mr. Dragonfly drag pageant, and I smiled every time I saw the posters thinking about what SODA!Dean would say.
I'm glad you enjoyed! Thanks so much for dropping me a note, I really appreciate it!