Sport, Sam/Dean, for hkath
In the Show Me! verse. Something of a prequel.
It’s rare for Sam to come home and find Dean doing his homework. But he has a hard on for his English teacher, a Ms. Lipton or something. He’s actually trying these days. Although Sam is still pretty sure that Dean read every other section of Grapes of Wrath, and watched the Demi Moore version of the Scarlet Letter. He knows that Dean at least attempted Gatsby, because they had a conversation about it last week that went like so:
“Holy shit, this Nick dude is a homo!”
Sam who’d read Gatsby when he saw it appeared on the advanced reading list in 7th grade lifted his brows. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t realize they wrote about shit like that back then!”
Sam snorted. “Man, you’re going to love Brideshead Revisited when you get to it.”
Dean looked up. “Who was that by? Eve something? Nah that was last year, not even going to bother.”
Sam sighed and said, “You can be the most merciless bonehead, sometimes.”
Dean had popped his gum at the back of his teeth and grinned. “You know it.”
Today Dean leafs through some old leather-spined volume of poetry he probably got from the library.
Sam makes himself a PB & J with the last of the chunky peanut butter. “What you up to?” he calls from the kitchen.
“I gotta memorize a fuckin’ poem for class.”
Sam gets himself a glass of milk and then sits down across the table. “What’d you choose?”
“It’s Marvell, ‘To His Coy Mistress.’”
“Never heard of it,” Sam says and leans back in his seat. He sort of thinks he can figure out the appeal just from the title. “Well, read it to me?”
Dean huffs out a sigh. “Why?”
“You’re never going to memorize it if you just stare at it.”
“I’m going through it in my head!” He says back.
“Now do it out loud,” Sam cajoles, “C’mon, I want to hear it.
“Just so you know? I hate you,” Dean says and sighs again. “ ‘Had we but world enough, and time,/This coyness, lady, were no crime./We would sit down and think which way/To walk, and pass our long love's day—’”
“Whoa, slow down, Speed Racer!” Sam interrupts. “I can barely understand you.”
Dean flushes but goes slower, “ ‘Thou by the Indian Ganges' side/Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide/Of Humber would complain. I would/Love you ten years before the Flood;/And you should, if you please, refuse/Till the conversion of the Jews.’”
Sam grabs the book out of his hands and scans the text. “There’s no pause after side or refuse.”
Dean pulls it back. “What? Do you want me to read it or not?”
“I’m just giving you some pointers, you only pause with the punctuation, a line break is just for like rhyme scheme or whatever,” Sam says and then takes a long drink of his glass of milk. “You should keep going though.”
Dean expression could kill a rabid bear. Sam grins back. “Fine! ‘My vegetable love should grow/Vaster than empires, and more slow./An hundred years should go to praise/ Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.”
Dean has a nice reading voice, deep and even. Sam props his chin on his fist and listens for more.
“ ‘Two hundred to adore each breast.’” He pauses to look up and grin at Sam. It spreads across his face quickly, a flash of teeth before he ducks down again. “ ‘But thirty thousand to the rest;/An age at least to every part,/And the last age should show your heart./For, lady, you deserve this state,/Nor would I love at lower rate.’”
Sam tries to imagine Dean using this on some girl and it occurs to him he probably will if it doesn’t work on Ms. Lipton. He shakes his head and snorts.
Dean shoots him a quick look but continues on. “ ‘But at my back I always hear/Time's winged chariot hurrying near;/And yonder all before us lie/Deserts of vast eternity.’ ” And then Dean leans forward very deliberately in his seat, eyes on Sam the entire time. “ ‘Thy beauty shall no more be found,/Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound/My echoing song; then worms shall try/That long preserv'd virginity,/And your quaint honour turn to dust,/And into ashes all my lust.’”
Sam wonders briefly if his cheeks are burning as hot as they feel. “That’s terrible! That’s really terrible.”
Sam gets to his feet. “I’m totally serious!”
Dean bends his head over the book and laughs harder. “Do you—want me—to go on?” he asks between laughs.
“No, read it in your head!”
a’ druidhidh, Time-Stamp for Behind The God Given Face forestei
Sam’s asleep when they pull up to the new house. It’s not great, but it’s all right. It has a scrubby patch of yard and porch swing.
Dad tells him they teach catechism in the public school just before dinner, says if Dean’s going to skip any class it shouldn’t be that one, because you never did know when that was going to be useful.
“All right,” Dean says and swallows.
Sam had crawled right out of the car and onto the bare mattress in his new room. He didn’t come out for the fried chicken and biscuits Dad picked up at some nameless diner.
Dean goes to find him when the silence from Sam’s room becomes unbearable.
“Hey,” he says from the doorway, watching as Sam tacks his map up on the wall with scotch tape. He’s already made the mark for Maryland. Sam is not quite thirteen and there are more marks on that map than he has years.
“We’ll be here for awhile, Sammy,” Dean tells him, shutting the door behind him.
Sam stares at him for a long moment like he’s weighed out what to say. He settles with, “Yeah?”
Dean flashes his best smile. “Yeah, I’ve gotta finish high school at some point.”
Sam throws himself on the bed. “You better not skip too much, this time.” He directs his eyes to the ceiling. “You won’t get into college, if you keep on.”
Dean’s throat feels filled with cement. “Don’t worry about it, Sam,” Dean whispers around the sudden clog.
Sam never looks away from the ceiling. “I think they have glow-in-the-dark stars pasted up there.”
“Really?” Dean clicks out the light and lies flat on the bed next to Sam. It’s already a tight squeeze, razor elbows tucking into the burgeoning muscle on Dean’s frame. “Oh yeah, look, Orion.”
Sam turns on his side, his warm breath washes over Dean’s neck. “You wanna go exploring in the woods by the creek tomorrow?”
“It’s football tryouts tomorrow,” Dean says.
Sam sounds so forlorn, Dean turns his head to look at him. “Hey, maybe after? We can grab something at that diner?”
“No, Dean, you should make friends on the team.” Sam’s lips quirk, he pokes Dean just under his ribs. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
Dean yanks Sam’s pillow out from under him, smacks him with it, and never thinks there’ll be a day that isn’t true.
Flat Contradiction, Sam/Dean, for spinfrog, set somewhere after the events of Accidents Like These
Dean’s been robbing from the rich and giving to the poor so long he may have gotten a little cocky, but honestly he’s good at what he does. He’s really good. He’d put his service to the crown during the crusades to pretty good use.
And truly, if everybody who comes down the road is a complete dullard, how can he fail? Quite frankly every last one of them seems to be magnificently dim, because if they’re traveling down Dean’s road and they tithe their serfs more than the church, they either think they have the angels on their side or they can’t have a lot of sense. That might just be the same thing, sense-having and angel-believing that is. Because clearly, Dean has the angels on his side, because when have his men run afoul of the law? Never. When have they failed as they are clearly doing now? Never.
Except. Er. Well, except for now.
The Knight in silver and black livery manages to completely avoid every one of Dean’s traps like he’d a hand drawn map directing him around. He knocks the two hapless idiot’s heads open when they decide to go after him with his full male, atop of his unhobbled horse. And, just when Dean suspects his entire day is going to shite, he lops off the tip of Ash’s finger with his very pointy sword.
Dean does not like it.
“Winchester,” the knight shouts, wheeling his horse around to stave off attack from Dean’s loyal foot soldiers. “Winchester, show yourself!”
He kicks poor Ruby in his blond head, and Dean’ll catch hell for that later.
“All right, all right, little lordling!” Dean calls, revealing himself, crossbow aimed and ready to fire. “No need to make such a fuss.”
The knight looks surprisingly unperturbed. He swings himself down off his horse. Ruby, no doubt addle pated from the blow to the head from a large armored foot, reaches behind the knight for his saddlebag and gets boxed on the ear. “Oh, will you stop!” the Knight says, sounding extremely irritated.
“Well, if you’re quite done inflicting violence upon my men—” Dean lowers the crossbow, although he really thinks putting an arrow into this sapskull would do the world good.
“No, don’t start, I can’t stand one of your speeches right now.” The knight pulls off his dented helmet and stares at Dean.
Dean stares back. He suddenly notices how the black and silver knight stands almost as high as his horse. Dean blinks. “Brother!”
“Yes, yes, brother and all that.” He crosses his arms. “I hope you know what you’ve put me through!”
Dean glares. “Well, I don’t know, I figured you were doing quite fine and dandy serving as King Richard’s lily maid!”
“Ugh—” he interrupts himself to knock the feet out from under another bandit who still hasn’t gotten the point, and then he clubs yet another under the chin with a rather worrying clang as that dom noddy goes for the horse’s reins. “Do stop that at once! I’ll poke your eyes out with my wooden spoon! No, really! I mean it.”
They finally back off, and Dean sighs. It’s clearly a testament to his sheer genius that he’s the most sought after bandit and he’s working with such idiots. Ruby is moaning on the ground.
“Right,” Sam says, “Where was I? Oh yes! Dean, you are coming home, for the last time I’m not King Richard’s ‘flower girl’ or whatever vile euphemism you used.”
“See, I can’t really do that,” Dean says, “I’m doing good stuff round these parts, suddenly nobody’s starving anymore, seems like a powerful good reason to stay.”
Sam throws up his hands. “Oh for the love of all that is holy! Dean, you are not bloody Robin Hood!”
“What a thing to say! Of course I’m not, I’m Dean Winchester.”
Sam sends a warning look to all the men before moving closer to Dean. He needn’t bother, they’re quite cowed already. Before Dean can maneuver out of the way, he throws aside his metal gauntlets and puts both bare hands on Dean’s shoulders. “Yes exactly, and you’re born about eight centuries from now, so can we please leave already?”
Dean goes to protest again, how can he leave his men and all the poor people—they’d starve without him, good lord, they’d have trouble walking in a straight line without him, but…
“Christ! My head,” he clutches at it and tumbles to the grass. They’re standing on the side of the road next to the Impala.
Sam collapses next to him. “Thank god!” he whispers fervently.
“Ow, ow, ow,” Dean moans, “what happened?”
Sam sighs. “We got tossed into this time shuttle, only you actually thought you really were part of that time, and I could remember everything. It took me fifteen tries to get you out!”
Dean widens his eyes. “Er, oops?”
“Yeah, the time before last you were going on about how I was Alexander the Great’s bed mistress, and the time before that I was Hadrian’s leg warmer—boy was that a mess I had to clear up with Antinuous…” Sam trails off. “Got yourself stuck on a bit of theme, did you?”
Dean asks, “Why are you still talking like that?”
Sam pokes him hard in the side and rolls up to his feet. “Oh shut up! I had to learn to put on armor for you!”
“No, you don’t get to complain!” Dean shouts. “Last time we traveled back in time I wore tights! I wore a ten pound wig! I wore high heels! And a beauty mark!”
Sam crosses his arms. “Yes, and then you kissed me in front of the entire royal court and I went down in history as the gay incestuous bastard stable boy!”
Dean coughs. “I’m sure nobody noticed!”