Fic: Sky in a Box (1/?)
Title: Sky in a Box (1/?)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: Pre-slash (this chapter)
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,069
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: The start of my next multi-chaptered fic. If any of you are asking "why UK?", this is kind of like a homage to the Harry Potter fandom of which I was exclusively reading for 5-6 years, lol. Thanks to wiccachik for help with the Brit-speak, tastyeyeliner for the quick beta, jewels667 for making this fic sound cooler than I could do alone, and to mooyoo for being the BESTEST ever!
Summary: Sam and Dean attend Braxton University on the outskirts of London. An angsty first-time fic with an international twist, in which postgrad!Dean enthralls a naive, richbitch!Sam.
Braxton, England. On campus of Braxton University.
“C’mon, please? It’s on your way to the library.”
“Damon, you know I don’t go to that one,” Sam complains, scratching behind his ear. “Whatever, just stop looking at me like that. Give it here.”
“Knew I could count on you, Sammy,” Damon replies with a bright grin as he hands over his assignment. “I owe you one, yeah?”
“Yeah, you do. Now sod off before she leaves without you,” Sam says, plucking the white folder out of his friend’s hands and waving him off with it. A smile plays on his lips as Damon thumps him on the arm and Sam shoulders his messenger bag, then leaves in the other direction. Gonna be late for class, he groans inwardly, mapping out the detour he’ll have to take before making it to his criminology lecture.
He picks up the pace, striding through the Student’s Union as briskly as he can while dodging the kids streaming in and out.
“Sam!”
He turns around at the sound of his name, breaking out into a toothy grin as he catches sight of his best friend, Jessica Moore; slim and boyish, with long swaying blonde hair and a smile bright enough to wage war against Sam’s own, the two have been family friends since diapers.
Sam’s pleased to see her but he calls out, “In a bit of a rush, Jess!” as he maintains his pace. She jogs towards Sam and falls in step with him, albeit with difficulty.
“Where you off to?”
“Running errands for Damon. I’m just stopping by Kern to drop this off for him.”
Barely keeping up with the freakishly long strides, Jess jog-walks and says, “Again?”
Sam laughs. “Yeah, again.”
“Such a sucker,” she cheekily adds.
“But you love me anyway, don’t you,” Sam shoots back and Jess pouts.
“God knows why,” she mumbles. “So anyway, I’ve got time this week, how about we get everybody out for a night, maybe Sols Arms?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Sam says. “Not tomorrow though, I’ve got that thing, you know, the debate meeting.”
“Yeah, I remember. Friday then?” Jess jogs a few steps ahead again, letting Sam’s stride engulf her own as he makes an assenting noise. After a couple more minutes she finally sighs, “It’s like pacing a giraffe, I can’t keep up with you.” Jess slows down. “I’ll call you about Friday!”
“Alright, sounds good. Later Jess!”
Although she drops away, Jess has walked him halfway to Kern and Sam glances at his watch, hoping the professor will be in a forgiving mood that day. Not for the first time, he curses the sprawling size of Braxton University.
Situated on the outskirts of London, Braxton University was Sam’s top choice during the application process due to its highly competitive law program and proximity to the city; thus he entered the School of Law sans the deliberation that plagued his school chums. Now taking only law classes, Sam finds himself largely restrained to Trotter Hall. Unfortunately in this case, this means that his classes are clear across campus from Damon’s. But still, a favor’s a favor.
Ah, shortcut, he thinks as he spies Vitton, home to all the administrative offices and adjunct of the School of Architecture. It stands in front of Kern, nearly flush against it, and with any luck Sam can go through instead of circumventing the long, narrow building.
Sam pushes the tall glass doors of Vitton open and heads in the general direction of Kern, hoping for a direct route to the other building.
No, no, no, not this way, he groans as the hallway quickly bends away from his destination. Blimey, does this floor even have another exit?
Sam plows his way past classroom after classroom, finding himself deeply entrenched in the hallways that are decorated with students’ work; AutoCAD printouts and miniature models glorify the architecture wing but all Sam wants to see is a bright, beautiful way out.
He’s looking up, completely oblivious to where he’s going as he searches for a green-lit exit sign, when he collides into something solid and pointy.
“Oof,” he grunts as the corners from three stacked textbooks jam into his stomach. The heavy books scatter to the ground in protest, empty whumps echoing against the walls. “Sorry,” Sam automatically says, bending down to help pick them up.
“Something interesting up there?”
Sam stops, his hand stilling on a thick tome that reads Neo-Classicism and its Many Incarnations. “I, ah…” Sam looks up.
The man in front of him is crouched down as well, gathering the thinner two of the three books and meeting Sam’s surprised gaze.
“…you’re American?” Sam asks, the question out of his mouth before he has a chance to rein it in.
“Born and raised,” the man replies, quirking a polite smile that reeks of over-use. He sits back on his haunches.
“Well yeah, you’ve got that um…” Sam trails off, wondering how to describe that slow, easy accent, almost exaggerated in its thick drawl, in a way that doesn’t sound stupid or redundant. Only, he soon realizes that there is none so Sam shuts his mouth and stares back.
The other man blinks, smile still playing on his lips as he looks expectantly at Sam.
“Oh!” Flustered, Sam finally picks up the textbook he has his hand on and thrusts it at the other man. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” the man says. He cradles the books against a black, T-shirt-clad chest and rises, eyes still amusedly trained on Sam.
When he finally makes to sidestep Sam, Sam blurts, “Wait.”
Wait, what? Sam asks himself in a mild panic. “Er.” The other man lifts an eyebrow, looking more comfortable in own his skin than anybody has the right to be. Especially when Sam is currently feeling a confusing mash-up of rushed, embarrassed, and intrigued.
The man slowly blinks again, and Sam skeptically wonders if those lashes are entirely natural. When full lips open to speak, Sam hastily interrupts, “Er, how do I get to Kern from here?”
Sam sees a flash of very straight teeth before he hears, “You passed the door a few classrooms back. It kind of blends in with the wall, but it’ll be on your left.”
“Right-o, thanks.” Right-o. Right-o??
“Don’t go running into anymore strangers, okay? They’re not all as nice as me,” the man teases and Sam wants to stop fidgeting, but he can’t. Instead he pulls his lips into a passable smile (he hopes, though he’s feeling vaguely sickly) and turns around, going back the way he came.
Unfortunately, the other man is going the same way and walks beside him, languid swagger in dark denims, and Sam spends an excruciating minute debating whether or not it would be rude to speed-walk (run) away before he finally spies the painted side door and pushes into it, hurtling out into the cool air.
Sam hears a small chuckle before the heavy door slams shut. He takes a moment to stare at the innocuous door, curses Damon so harshly he blushes himself, then checks his watch again.
Fuck. Ten minutes late and he hasn’t even dropped the damned folder off yet. Rounds of drinks, Damon, and lots of them, he thinks before dashing into Kern and maneuvering through the slightly more familiar territory.
Only after he’s slipped Damon’s assignment under the office door, power-walked through Kern and past Vitton with a generous, wide berth, does he give himself a moment to let the niggling thing at the back of his mind bubble to the surface.
Really, really green eyes, Sam thinks, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he outstrips any passerby with his hurried gait and long legs. He thinks about the color and clarity of them, thinks about the man’s languid accent and lopsided smirk, and the image spins like a reel through his mind until he’s reached his criminology class and is weakly shrugging at his professor’s annoyed gaze as he slinks in through the back.
There aren’t any empty seats in the last five or so rows so Sam awkwardly smushes past shifting legs to get to one near the front. He hears the girl behind him sigh with displeasure and so he slumps down, trying not to block the view of the presentation.
“As I was saying,” the professor pointedly continues. But although Sam eventually has his notebook out, pen diligently copying down the notes off the slides, his finds himself unable to pay proper attention. Instead he keeps half an ear out for the lecture, and the rest of his focus on sketching eyes and girly-looking lips in the margins of his notes.
-----
He thinks that by the weekend, he’ll have long forgotten that awkward encounter in the architecture wing. But he hasn’t.
In fact, Sam is so far removed from forgetting about it that he finds himself doing a double-take at every dark-haired crew cut, every echo of an American accent, and it gets to the point that even his friends have become subjected to his recent… preoccupation.
“What are you talking about Sam?”
“You know, like… do you ever just hang out at Vitton?”
Damon looks at Sam like he’s daft, then takes another bite out of his sandwich. “No,” he mumbles between lettuce and ham.
“Ever seen a guy, an American? Kinda yay-high-“ he waves his hand over his own shoulder- “Green eyes. Tight shirt and denims, maybe.”
“For the love of- look mate, I haven’t seen the guy. So stop asking and let me finish my lunch.”
“Alright, alright, no need to get snippy,” Sam huffs. He pokes at his curry with a plastic spork, but is less interested in the brown goop than in finding somebody who will stop patronizing him already.
Jess arrives at the boys’ table, throwing down her backpack on the bench and slumping in.
“I hate fucking Mythology in Ancient Mycenaean Culture,” she says in a high falsetto that is probably supposed mimic her professor. “Worst class. Ever.” She folds her arms and buries her face in them, golden hair streaming over hunched shoulders.
Sam perks up. “Jess, hey Jess.”
“What,” comes the muffled reply.
“Oh god, not this again,” Damon groans, warily eyeing his friend who leans forward and narrowly misses planting his elbow in the plate of curry.
Sam ignores him and proceeds to unleash a barrage of questions at Jess, who looks up only after he offers food as bribery.
“C’mon Jess, chin up, eat this. So you have seen him around?”
The blonde girl unfolds her arms and agreeably takes the largely uneaten meal, digging in. “Mmm… I love it when they use real ginger.” Sam makes pleading eyes. “Okay, okay. Yeah, I think I’ve seen him a couple times before. Kind of hard to miss the bloke, looking like that-“ she punctuates with a coy lick of her spork. “I think it was at Westborough. Yeah, Westborough, I remember the books. Awfully dull-looking, the ones he had.”
Something akin to giddiness, only manlier, rushes through Sam like a volt. “I study at Westborough sometimes,” he gushes.
Jess rolls her eyes. “Sam, love. It’s the largest library on campus. Hardly a sign of cosmic intervention, sorry.”
“No worries,” Sam replies, oblivious to the sarcasm. He suddenly feels the void in his stomach like a punch to the gut, remembering that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. He tugs the Styrofoam plate back.
“Hey-“
“I’m famished,” Sam says, reaching for the plastic utensil that Jess twists away from his grabby hands. She snaps up one more bite before relinquishing it.
“Indian giver,” she pouts.
“Oh, belt up. You ate half of it already,” Sam says through a mouthful of rice as Jess scrunches her face up in distaste. Damon watches the exchange with vague disinterest, utterly accustomed and immune to their childish banter.
“So,” Damon says as he brushes sandwich crumbs off his rugby shirt. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Does the guy owe you money or something?”
Sam chews thoughtfully, taking a moment to let the words sink in. Good question, he eventually realizes with a little pang of alarm. “It’s not like that,” he eventually says. His friends watch him chew through three more spoonfuls before he elaborates, “He’s ah, he’s got something of mine. When we bumped into each other, I think he accidentally took my notebook. I have an exam on Wednesday, so I’ve got to find him.” Sam swallows the last of his lunch and leans back, tossing the empty plate and spork into a nearby bin.
“I see,” Jess muses, though Sam can tell she doesn’t quite believe him. Twenty years of close friendship will hone the radar, and Jess is no exception to the rule. Sam plasters on his best facsimile of a reassuring smile, but this only makes her neatly shaped eyebrow raise. He can almost hear her saying oh, c’mon in his head.
“Alright girls, I’ve got to go,” Sam says with discomfort as Jess’s pinning gaze doesn’t let up. Damon mumbles something that sounds like not the one with bangs as Sam stands up and hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Drinks later, yeah?”
They quickly confirm a time to meet and then Sam is off, scuffed Converses briskly carrying him towards Westborough Library.
It’s just studying, is all. Sam has a bit of paperwork to do before his next class anyway, so why not in a suitable environment? Green Eyes, as he’s dubbed him, may or may not be there but that is entirely beside the point. Entirely, entirely.
-----
Only, two weeks later when Sam finally meets Green Eyes again, he kind of can’t bring himself to actually make eye contact, much less attempt coherent conversation. Which would maybe help in solving that all-consuming question of why the hell he even cares so much, but seeing as how he can barely manage to hold it together while the guy just stands there, hip casual against Sam’s table, Sam reckons that the answer will just have to wait.
It figures that after two weeks of unsuccessful reconnaissance, two weeks of wanting to at least know the guy’s name, that the first day Sam actually goes to the library to get some work done is the day he shows up. Of course.
“Was it all it was cracked up to be?”
“M’sorry?” Sam guiltily lifts his head from behind his textbook. Damned political science courses and their little paperbacks. No proper coverage at all.
“Kern. That’s where you were going, right?”
“Oh right, yeah. It was, er, just fine. Thanks,” Sam frowns as he listens to himself.
Green Eyes smiles, too amused for Sam’s comfort, and says, “It’s just that you looked a little lost. Thought I’d follow up on you.” He pushes himself off Sam’s table with his hip in one smooth undulation, arms still crossed, and smiles down at Sam.
Probably practiced that at home, Sam thinks as he feels his ears warm. Bloody poser.
“Well okay, I’ll leave you alone with-“ the man peers down and reads, “The Powers of War and Peace. See you around, kid.” He nods his head goodbye as Sam blinks in bewilderment, then walks past him to venture further into the library.
Considering how thoroughly and often Sam had envisioned this exact incident over the past couple weeks, when it actually happens he wonders if he had just imagined it (although this would have definitely registered as one of the more undesirable scenarios). Belatedly, Sam jerks around to look over his shoulder and spies the retreating back of a worn, olive green T-shirt that dips between shoulder blades and skims below the waistband of distressed jeans. Unfortunately, it would appear that Sam really had just made a bumbling fool of himself.
Bloody hell. Sam turns back around, disengages his fingernails from the pages of his book, and sets it facedown. Only hesitating for a moment, Sam soon eschews whatever schoolwork needs to be done in favor of reclaiming the honor of owning any balls, and gathers his belongings.
He vaguely wonders if he’s lost his mind as he follows along the narrow aisle that the American turned down.
It takes a minute or two, but Sam finds him by a large, clear-paned window with a PowerBook set up and rimless glasses perched on his straight nose. Sam swallows.
“Hey uh-” Green Eyes looks up. “I was just, um, thinking about how, well, I don’t know your name, um, or anything,” he says smoothly. Sam kind of wants to cry by this point, but he takes a breath and says, “I’m Sam.”
A pleased grin in place, the man replies, “Dean.” He takes his right hand off the keyboard and holds it out.
Firm grip, but not too hard, Sam instructs himself as he takes it, letting the heat of Dean’s palm pool into his own. He tries not to feel bereft when the handshake ends.
“I’ve got class now,” Sam says, proud when his voice holds steady. Dean leans back in his chair and his smile dims ever-so-slightly, and Sam wants to cheer when he sees the disappointment etched on Dean’s face. Feeling slightly more courageous, he says, “But I’m here all the time.” At least I will be. “Alright, that’s all. Cheers.”
“Bye, Sam,” Dean says, husky voice savoring his name and Sam feels something like thrill course through him.
Later on that night, amidst a group of four or five of their friends, Damon gets the first round of drinks for everybody. By Sam’s fourth stout, he’s telling everybody and everything that will listen about Dean, American-accented Dean and how he kind of looks like a hooker, but he’s smart because he has glasses and a laptop and by the seventh drink, everybody at Sols Arms that night knows that Sam is completely head over heels.
Not that they think it’s legitimate; no, everybody at Braxton University pretty much assumes that Sam Winters, son of network television mogul John Winters, is dating heiress Jessica Moore. The two of them never really bothered to correct the general misconception so while everybody indulges Sam’s little crush with amusement, only Jess gets the honor of realizing the truth.
The truth being, her best friend Sam is utterly smitten for a man named Dean, and this worries her. This worries her a lot.
Next
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: Pre-slash (this chapter)
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,069
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: The start of my next multi-chaptered fic. If any of you are asking "why UK?", this is kind of like a homage to the Harry Potter fandom of which I was exclusively reading for 5-6 years, lol. Thanks to wiccachik for help with the Brit-speak, tastyeyeliner for the quick beta, jewels667 for making this fic sound cooler than I could do alone, and to mooyoo for being the BESTEST ever!
Summary: Sam and Dean attend Braxton University on the outskirts of London. An angsty first-time fic with an international twist, in which postgrad!Dean enthralls a naive, richbitch!Sam.
Braxton, England. On campus of Braxton University.
“C’mon, please? It’s on your way to the library.”
“Damon, you know I don’t go to that one,” Sam complains, scratching behind his ear. “Whatever, just stop looking at me like that. Give it here.”
“Knew I could count on you, Sammy,” Damon replies with a bright grin as he hands over his assignment. “I owe you one, yeah?”
“Yeah, you do. Now sod off before she leaves without you,” Sam says, plucking the white folder out of his friend’s hands and waving him off with it. A smile plays on his lips as Damon thumps him on the arm and Sam shoulders his messenger bag, then leaves in the other direction. Gonna be late for class, he groans inwardly, mapping out the detour he’ll have to take before making it to his criminology lecture.
He picks up the pace, striding through the Student’s Union as briskly as he can while dodging the kids streaming in and out.
“Sam!”
He turns around at the sound of his name, breaking out into a toothy grin as he catches sight of his best friend, Jessica Moore; slim and boyish, with long swaying blonde hair and a smile bright enough to wage war against Sam’s own, the two have been family friends since diapers.
Sam’s pleased to see her but he calls out, “In a bit of a rush, Jess!” as he maintains his pace. She jogs towards Sam and falls in step with him, albeit with difficulty.
“Where you off to?”
“Running errands for Damon. I’m just stopping by Kern to drop this off for him.”
Barely keeping up with the freakishly long strides, Jess jog-walks and says, “Again?”
Sam laughs. “Yeah, again.”
“Such a sucker,” she cheekily adds.
“But you love me anyway, don’t you,” Sam shoots back and Jess pouts.
“God knows why,” she mumbles. “So anyway, I’ve got time this week, how about we get everybody out for a night, maybe Sols Arms?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Sam says. “Not tomorrow though, I’ve got that thing, you know, the debate meeting.”
“Yeah, I remember. Friday then?” Jess jogs a few steps ahead again, letting Sam’s stride engulf her own as he makes an assenting noise. After a couple more minutes she finally sighs, “It’s like pacing a giraffe, I can’t keep up with you.” Jess slows down. “I’ll call you about Friday!”
“Alright, sounds good. Later Jess!”
Although she drops away, Jess has walked him halfway to Kern and Sam glances at his watch, hoping the professor will be in a forgiving mood that day. Not for the first time, he curses the sprawling size of Braxton University.
Situated on the outskirts of London, Braxton University was Sam’s top choice during the application process due to its highly competitive law program and proximity to the city; thus he entered the School of Law sans the deliberation that plagued his school chums. Now taking only law classes, Sam finds himself largely restrained to Trotter Hall. Unfortunately in this case, this means that his classes are clear across campus from Damon’s. But still, a favor’s a favor.
Ah, shortcut, he thinks as he spies Vitton, home to all the administrative offices and adjunct of the School of Architecture. It stands in front of Kern, nearly flush against it, and with any luck Sam can go through instead of circumventing the long, narrow building.
Sam pushes the tall glass doors of Vitton open and heads in the general direction of Kern, hoping for a direct route to the other building.
No, no, no, not this way, he groans as the hallway quickly bends away from his destination. Blimey, does this floor even have another exit?
Sam plows his way past classroom after classroom, finding himself deeply entrenched in the hallways that are decorated with students’ work; AutoCAD printouts and miniature models glorify the architecture wing but all Sam wants to see is a bright, beautiful way out.
He’s looking up, completely oblivious to where he’s going as he searches for a green-lit exit sign, when he collides into something solid and pointy.
“Oof,” he grunts as the corners from three stacked textbooks jam into his stomach. The heavy books scatter to the ground in protest, empty whumps echoing against the walls. “Sorry,” Sam automatically says, bending down to help pick them up.
“Something interesting up there?”
Sam stops, his hand stilling on a thick tome that reads Neo-Classicism and its Many Incarnations. “I, ah…” Sam looks up.
The man in front of him is crouched down as well, gathering the thinner two of the three books and meeting Sam’s surprised gaze.
“…you’re American?” Sam asks, the question out of his mouth before he has a chance to rein it in.
“Born and raised,” the man replies, quirking a polite smile that reeks of over-use. He sits back on his haunches.
“Well yeah, you’ve got that um…” Sam trails off, wondering how to describe that slow, easy accent, almost exaggerated in its thick drawl, in a way that doesn’t sound stupid or redundant. Only, he soon realizes that there is none so Sam shuts his mouth and stares back.
The other man blinks, smile still playing on his lips as he looks expectantly at Sam.
“Oh!” Flustered, Sam finally picks up the textbook he has his hand on and thrusts it at the other man. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” the man says. He cradles the books against a black, T-shirt-clad chest and rises, eyes still amusedly trained on Sam.
When he finally makes to sidestep Sam, Sam blurts, “Wait.”
Wait, what? Sam asks himself in a mild panic. “Er.” The other man lifts an eyebrow, looking more comfortable in own his skin than anybody has the right to be. Especially when Sam is currently feeling a confusing mash-up of rushed, embarrassed, and intrigued.
The man slowly blinks again, and Sam skeptically wonders if those lashes are entirely natural. When full lips open to speak, Sam hastily interrupts, “Er, how do I get to Kern from here?”
Sam sees a flash of very straight teeth before he hears, “You passed the door a few classrooms back. It kind of blends in with the wall, but it’ll be on your left.”
“Right-o, thanks.” Right-o. Right-o??
“Don’t go running into anymore strangers, okay? They’re not all as nice as me,” the man teases and Sam wants to stop fidgeting, but he can’t. Instead he pulls his lips into a passable smile (he hopes, though he’s feeling vaguely sickly) and turns around, going back the way he came.
Unfortunately, the other man is going the same way and walks beside him, languid swagger in dark denims, and Sam spends an excruciating minute debating whether or not it would be rude to speed-walk (run) away before he finally spies the painted side door and pushes into it, hurtling out into the cool air.
Sam hears a small chuckle before the heavy door slams shut. He takes a moment to stare at the innocuous door, curses Damon so harshly he blushes himself, then checks his watch again.
Fuck. Ten minutes late and he hasn’t even dropped the damned folder off yet. Rounds of drinks, Damon, and lots of them, he thinks before dashing into Kern and maneuvering through the slightly more familiar territory.
Only after he’s slipped Damon’s assignment under the office door, power-walked through Kern and past Vitton with a generous, wide berth, does he give himself a moment to let the niggling thing at the back of his mind bubble to the surface.
Really, really green eyes, Sam thinks, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he outstrips any passerby with his hurried gait and long legs. He thinks about the color and clarity of them, thinks about the man’s languid accent and lopsided smirk, and the image spins like a reel through his mind until he’s reached his criminology class and is weakly shrugging at his professor’s annoyed gaze as he slinks in through the back.
There aren’t any empty seats in the last five or so rows so Sam awkwardly smushes past shifting legs to get to one near the front. He hears the girl behind him sigh with displeasure and so he slumps down, trying not to block the view of the presentation.
“As I was saying,” the professor pointedly continues. But although Sam eventually has his notebook out, pen diligently copying down the notes off the slides, his finds himself unable to pay proper attention. Instead he keeps half an ear out for the lecture, and the rest of his focus on sketching eyes and girly-looking lips in the margins of his notes.
-----
He thinks that by the weekend, he’ll have long forgotten that awkward encounter in the architecture wing. But he hasn’t.
In fact, Sam is so far removed from forgetting about it that he finds himself doing a double-take at every dark-haired crew cut, every echo of an American accent, and it gets to the point that even his friends have become subjected to his recent… preoccupation.
“What are you talking about Sam?”
“You know, like… do you ever just hang out at Vitton?”
Damon looks at Sam like he’s daft, then takes another bite out of his sandwich. “No,” he mumbles between lettuce and ham.
“Ever seen a guy, an American? Kinda yay-high-“ he waves his hand over his own shoulder- “Green eyes. Tight shirt and denims, maybe.”
“For the love of- look mate, I haven’t seen the guy. So stop asking and let me finish my lunch.”
“Alright, alright, no need to get snippy,” Sam huffs. He pokes at his curry with a plastic spork, but is less interested in the brown goop than in finding somebody who will stop patronizing him already.
Jess arrives at the boys’ table, throwing down her backpack on the bench and slumping in.
“I hate fucking Mythology in Ancient Mycenaean Culture,” she says in a high falsetto that is probably supposed mimic her professor. “Worst class. Ever.” She folds her arms and buries her face in them, golden hair streaming over hunched shoulders.
Sam perks up. “Jess, hey Jess.”
“What,” comes the muffled reply.
“Oh god, not this again,” Damon groans, warily eyeing his friend who leans forward and narrowly misses planting his elbow in the plate of curry.
Sam ignores him and proceeds to unleash a barrage of questions at Jess, who looks up only after he offers food as bribery.
“C’mon Jess, chin up, eat this. So you have seen him around?”
The blonde girl unfolds her arms and agreeably takes the largely uneaten meal, digging in. “Mmm… I love it when they use real ginger.” Sam makes pleading eyes. “Okay, okay. Yeah, I think I’ve seen him a couple times before. Kind of hard to miss the bloke, looking like that-“ she punctuates with a coy lick of her spork. “I think it was at Westborough. Yeah, Westborough, I remember the books. Awfully dull-looking, the ones he had.”
Something akin to giddiness, only manlier, rushes through Sam like a volt. “I study at Westborough sometimes,” he gushes.
Jess rolls her eyes. “Sam, love. It’s the largest library on campus. Hardly a sign of cosmic intervention, sorry.”
“No worries,” Sam replies, oblivious to the sarcasm. He suddenly feels the void in his stomach like a punch to the gut, remembering that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. He tugs the Styrofoam plate back.
“Hey-“
“I’m famished,” Sam says, reaching for the plastic utensil that Jess twists away from his grabby hands. She snaps up one more bite before relinquishing it.
“Indian giver,” she pouts.
“Oh, belt up. You ate half of it already,” Sam says through a mouthful of rice as Jess scrunches her face up in distaste. Damon watches the exchange with vague disinterest, utterly accustomed and immune to their childish banter.
“So,” Damon says as he brushes sandwich crumbs off his rugby shirt. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Does the guy owe you money or something?”
Sam chews thoughtfully, taking a moment to let the words sink in. Good question, he eventually realizes with a little pang of alarm. “It’s not like that,” he eventually says. His friends watch him chew through three more spoonfuls before he elaborates, “He’s ah, he’s got something of mine. When we bumped into each other, I think he accidentally took my notebook. I have an exam on Wednesday, so I’ve got to find him.” Sam swallows the last of his lunch and leans back, tossing the empty plate and spork into a nearby bin.
“I see,” Jess muses, though Sam can tell she doesn’t quite believe him. Twenty years of close friendship will hone the radar, and Jess is no exception to the rule. Sam plasters on his best facsimile of a reassuring smile, but this only makes her neatly shaped eyebrow raise. He can almost hear her saying oh, c’mon in his head.
“Alright girls, I’ve got to go,” Sam says with discomfort as Jess’s pinning gaze doesn’t let up. Damon mumbles something that sounds like not the one with bangs as Sam stands up and hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Drinks later, yeah?”
They quickly confirm a time to meet and then Sam is off, scuffed Converses briskly carrying him towards Westborough Library.
It’s just studying, is all. Sam has a bit of paperwork to do before his next class anyway, so why not in a suitable environment? Green Eyes, as he’s dubbed him, may or may not be there but that is entirely beside the point. Entirely, entirely.
-----
Only, two weeks later when Sam finally meets Green Eyes again, he kind of can’t bring himself to actually make eye contact, much less attempt coherent conversation. Which would maybe help in solving that all-consuming question of why the hell he even cares so much, but seeing as how he can barely manage to hold it together while the guy just stands there, hip casual against Sam’s table, Sam reckons that the answer will just have to wait.
It figures that after two weeks of unsuccessful reconnaissance, two weeks of wanting to at least know the guy’s name, that the first day Sam actually goes to the library to get some work done is the day he shows up. Of course.
“Was it all it was cracked up to be?”
“M’sorry?” Sam guiltily lifts his head from behind his textbook. Damned political science courses and their little paperbacks. No proper coverage at all.
“Kern. That’s where you were going, right?”
“Oh right, yeah. It was, er, just fine. Thanks,” Sam frowns as he listens to himself.
Green Eyes smiles, too amused for Sam’s comfort, and says, “It’s just that you looked a little lost. Thought I’d follow up on you.” He pushes himself off Sam’s table with his hip in one smooth undulation, arms still crossed, and smiles down at Sam.
Probably practiced that at home, Sam thinks as he feels his ears warm. Bloody poser.
“Well okay, I’ll leave you alone with-“ the man peers down and reads, “The Powers of War and Peace. See you around, kid.” He nods his head goodbye as Sam blinks in bewilderment, then walks past him to venture further into the library.
Considering how thoroughly and often Sam had envisioned this exact incident over the past couple weeks, when it actually happens he wonders if he had just imagined it (although this would have definitely registered as one of the more undesirable scenarios). Belatedly, Sam jerks around to look over his shoulder and spies the retreating back of a worn, olive green T-shirt that dips between shoulder blades and skims below the waistband of distressed jeans. Unfortunately, it would appear that Sam really had just made a bumbling fool of himself.
Bloody hell. Sam turns back around, disengages his fingernails from the pages of his book, and sets it facedown. Only hesitating for a moment, Sam soon eschews whatever schoolwork needs to be done in favor of reclaiming the honor of owning any balls, and gathers his belongings.
He vaguely wonders if he’s lost his mind as he follows along the narrow aisle that the American turned down.
It takes a minute or two, but Sam finds him by a large, clear-paned window with a PowerBook set up and rimless glasses perched on his straight nose. Sam swallows.
“Hey uh-” Green Eyes looks up. “I was just, um, thinking about how, well, I don’t know your name, um, or anything,” he says smoothly. Sam kind of wants to cry by this point, but he takes a breath and says, “I’m Sam.”
A pleased grin in place, the man replies, “Dean.” He takes his right hand off the keyboard and holds it out.
Firm grip, but not too hard, Sam instructs himself as he takes it, letting the heat of Dean’s palm pool into his own. He tries not to feel bereft when the handshake ends.
“I’ve got class now,” Sam says, proud when his voice holds steady. Dean leans back in his chair and his smile dims ever-so-slightly, and Sam wants to cheer when he sees the disappointment etched on Dean’s face. Feeling slightly more courageous, he says, “But I’m here all the time.” At least I will be. “Alright, that’s all. Cheers.”
“Bye, Sam,” Dean says, husky voice savoring his name and Sam feels something like thrill course through him.
Later on that night, amidst a group of four or five of their friends, Damon gets the first round of drinks for everybody. By Sam’s fourth stout, he’s telling everybody and everything that will listen about Dean, American-accented Dean and how he kind of looks like a hooker, but he’s smart because he has glasses and a laptop and by the seventh drink, everybody at Sols Arms that night knows that Sam is completely head over heels.
Not that they think it’s legitimate; no, everybody at Braxton University pretty much assumes that Sam Winters, son of network television mogul John Winters, is dating heiress Jessica Moore. The two of them never really bothered to correct the general misconception so while everybody indulges Sam’s little crush with amusement, only Jess gets the honor of realizing the truth.
The truth being, her best friend Sam is utterly smitten for a man named Dean, and this worries her. This worries her a lot.
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