Fic: Sky in a Box (2/?)
Title: Sky in a Box (2/?)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: Pre-slash (this chapter)
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,338
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: The next part of my uni!AU. Thanks to krazykid197 for help with the Brit-speak, mooyoo for the deliciously fast and wonderful beta, and to homees for being absolutely sublime in his editing. You are the proofread bitch of the building for good reason, my friend *_*
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.
Previous
The thing is, Jess loves Sam. And all right, she knows, Sam loves Jess. But Sam doesn’t love Jess. And this wouldn’t really be a problem, hasn’t been for the past five odd years since she’s known her own feelings for certain, because she (and everybody else) had always sort of assumed they would end up together anyway.
Their friends believe it. Their parents certainly believe it, if the constant joking-but-not-really about marriage, and grandchildren, are anything to go by. Even the media has gone so far as to declare the It Kids (numbers 21 and 14 on ET’s list, with Jess ranked higher much to Sam’s chagrin) as rumored to be betrothed. So if everybody in the whole of bloody England believes it, well. There’s such thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Which is why Jess wasn’t worried about Sam’s restraint with her, his steadfast adherence to the land of Platonic. No, she wasn’t worried… at least, not until now.
Or rather, not until Green-Eyes-hooker-boy-with-a-“sexy rough accent”-Dean.
Having always been the requisite asexual of the group, Sam was never one to notice attractive people, nor to whine about celibacy. Which is what makes this recent infatuation all the more disturbing. No one, no one has ever teased such depths of insecurity out of the affable, untouchable Sam Winters, and it is bloody disturbing to witness Sam’s overdue flight into adolescence.
And damn it, it’s supposed to be her to bring it out of him, not some bloody Yank with dick-sucking lips (she has seen the guy, after all). It’s supposed to be Sam and Jess forever. And while she isn’t about to go turncoat and plot against her best friend, she just… well.
She just wishes Sam would look at her like that.
-----
“Oh Jess, you should’ve seen it, fantastic he was,” Sam says, one hand around Jess’s waist and the other gesturing madly.
“Just shut up and smile Sam, they’ll get you in all sorts of weird expressions if you keep talking,” she hisses through her plaster smile.
“Oh, right,” he says, stopping mid-flail and letting his hand drop. He leans down and puts his chin on Jess’s blonde hair, which glints off the flashing bulbs and into his eyes.
Finally the paparazzi move on to the next attendees who are pulling up in various transports, leaving Sam and Jess to shuffle their way into the hotel.
“God, every time,” he grumbles, blinking dazedly.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Jess says, shaking her own vision out a bit before twining a hand through Sam’s proffered arm.
“That’s just because it gives you a chance to show off how bloomin’ hot you are,” Sam smirks, tugging on the back cowl on her shimmering dress. Jess squeaks as she readjusts the low V-shaped neckline.
“Watch it, double-stick tape here!”
“Right, right,” Sam laughs, palm up in deference. Jess verifies her modesty one more time and once she’s deemed herself presentable, the two of them traverse the lobby and push through ceiling-high, rococo-decked doors into the Carnelian Room.
Immediately Sam’s senses are assaulted by the cloying scent of strong perfumes in an array of florals and fruits, the heady aroma of pungent foods as servers nimbly dash around the guests with stacked platters, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol which clings to the red-faced, portly male who cuts past Sam and Jess with a muttered “pardon.”
Eyes widened, Sam turns to Jess and confirms, “That was Oliver’s Dad, yeah?”
She attempts to stifle a snort, recovers quickly and replies, “Not even dinner yet and the man’s pissed!”
Sam chuckles and moves forward, dragging Jess along through the thickening party.
When they eventually come across the birthday girl, Martha Hammet (“It Kid number twelve, Jess. She beat you.” “Sod off, 21.”), they stop to coo their felicitations and compliment her spangly, off-shoulder dress.
“Oh that’s gorgeous, Martha, is that Elie Saab?”
“Actually no,” she says, flipping her gently curled locks. “It’s Dior. But you’d think so, wouldn’t you? He had quite the monopoly on gold this season.”
Sam’s keeping his gaze steady, but in his mind his eyes are rolled skyward. He impatiently shifts from foot to foot as the girls pick apart each other’s outfits, clutches to wedges, until an eternity later Jess says, “We’ll let you be a good host, now. Danny Plover’s looking a little bit lovesick for you.”
Martha’s eyes settle on a boy a few tables away, who clutches a cocktail and is determinedly not looking at her. She muffles a resigned sigh. “You’re right, I was absolutely awful to him the other night. Anyway I think we’ve tortured poor Sam enough, I’ll let him whisk you away,” she says, winking at Sam whose attention snaps back into the conversation.
“Did she just insult me?” Sam asks as Martha disappears behind a gaggle of bystanders.
Jess laughs, “No, silly boy. Come on, let’s go find our parents.”
The two of them steer through the large room, stopping for quick chats with friends and sampling of hors d’oeuvres, until they make their way to the round tables where most of the adults are seated. They find the Winters and Moores easily and maneuver between chairs decorated with expensive, hanging coats and purses until they reach their table.
“Mum, Dad! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Winters,” Jess says, leaning forward and exchanging kisses with the elegantly-dressed adults. Sam steps forward and greets them accordingly, and soon everybody is seated and sipping their drinks, chatting about school and catching up on the latest news. Before long, a colleague of Mr. Moore pops by and the adults get embroiled into a conversation about the political state of the Middle East, slowly easing Sam and Jess out of the spotlight.
Sam leans in. “I’ll race you through four drinks.”
Jess laughs, “Oh come off it, you said you weren’t getting smashed tonight. Something about an early morning tomorrow?”
Sam shrugs. Jess gives an exaggerated sigh, but grabs his hand and aims for the bar anyway. “Mum, Dad, we’re off to get drinks. Want anything?”
“We’re alright dear,” Mrs. Moore says with a wave of her hand.
“Keep a leash on that boy, Jess,” Sam’s mother chimes in. “Remember McArthur’s last year?“
“Yes, Mrs. Winters,” she laughs as Sam pulls his I-resent-that face.
“What?” Jess says as he feigns affront. “You were plastered that night.”
Sam can do nothing but grudgingly let the issue drop (because it was so true). When they reach the bar he gets a John Smith’s for himself and orders Jess her favorite drink: lemon drop, dash of Triple Sec. They clink glasses and Sam immediately knocks half of his lager back, Jess watching the amber liquid drain while she sips her martini.
Sam wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So like I was saying an hour ago,” Sam starts, and Jess sucks a mouthful of her drink. “I saw him again.”
“Yeah, we got to that part,” she says, a gentle current of dismay running through her. “Frisbee on the lawn?”
“Right. So right as I walk by, I’m watching the frisbee in the air, yeah? It almost hits me-“ Sam slants his eyes at Jess when she laughs- “and Dean jumps and catches it, like a sodding dog or something, he jumps like ten feet I swear, his abs are like, in my face-” he punctuates this with a splayed hand over his own face.
Jess is smiling and stirring the red straw in her drink when Sam trails off, suddenly adopting a slightly guilty expression.
“What?” she asks.
“Er, nothing.” Sam averts his gaze.
“Sam, it’s little early to be getting red in the face,” Jess starts, before realizing that oh. Sam’s blushing.
“I am not,” he says embarrassedly, draining his beer and beckoning the bartender for another. “Well, maybe it’s just hot in here.”
“Oh, Sammy-boy,” Jess grins evilly. “Just what is going on through that dirty little mind of yours?”
“Nothing! And don’t call me that,” Sam grimaces as Jess pulls out the big guns, resorting to childhood nicknames. “Makes me sound like a bloody poof.”
“Uh-huh. And your infatuation with Dean doesn’t?”
“What? That’s different,” Sam says defensively. “It’s just exciting you know, a new friend. It’s like when you were first getting on with Mandy. Everything was Mandy this, Mandy that.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to shag Mandy,” she teases lightly.
“Jess!” Sam looks so affronted that she can only laugh at his ridiculous expression. “I don’t want to shag Dean.” He pauses at her pointed silence. “I don’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Come off it Jess, you know you’re the only one for me,” Sam says, pulling her in at the waist and kissing her on the forehead. Jess’s residual chuckle fades into a lingering, polite smile.
“Don’t say that Sammy, you’ll break girls’ hearts.”
Sam relaxes as he settles back into his comfort zone, fingers playing with the condensation on his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, screw early-morning, weekend debate meetings, I say. Let’s get crunked tonight,” Sam growls, affecting an awful, bloated American accent which drags Jess into an inescapable fit of giggles. Sam flags the bartender down again and orders them another round of drinks.
-----
It’s Tuesday. Sam hates Tuesdays. Every week the unfortunate, eleven-hour school days have him itching to pitch himself over the top floor of Trotter Hall.
Sam straightens up in his squeaky seat, cricks his neck, and then settles his chin on a stack of textbooks. Good God, has it only been four minutes since he last checked the clock?
Finally, finally, the professor shuts off his overhead presentation and flips the lights on. A chorus of shuffling and zippers, popping knees and yawns spill through the air and Sam joins in, shaking his numb arm in attempts of imbuing any feeling back into it.
Sandwiched between four hours of lecture and a debate club meeting is a one-hour break that Sam normally uses to grab a bite to eat at the Student Union or a nearby deli, though as of late his free hours/minutes/seconds are spent visiting very particular locations.
Sam is carried downstream out of Trotter Hall with a throng of other law students and once he hits the cool, moist air outside, he immediately veers towards Westborough.
I really ought to do some research before the meeting, Sam thinks, envisioning strong biceps stretched beneath faded cotton. He catches himself mid-daydream and feels a twinge of embarrassment. Alright, and maybe Dean will be there too.
He hasn’t seen Dean since last Thursday, not since striding over the wide lawn in front of Vitton (there was an errand to run at Admin, honest) and stepping into the trajectory of a frisbee. Sam still remembers Dean catching the plastic disc just millimeters from his face, heat radiating from his outstretched body. Underneath fresh sweat, Dean smelled like soap, and grass.
So yeah, it’s been a long weekend and he just wants to get the ball rolling on this maybe-friendship; that is, if Dean even sees him as more than a familiar face or just a “kid.” Sam is not a kid, goddamnit. Kids are not 6’4” with hair skimming the tops of smaller doorframes, nor do they study very serious things like law and political science. Sam frowns and kicks a rock.
He enters the giant double-doors of Westborough Library quickly makes his way up to the fifth floor. When Sam steps off the lift he heads straight for the desks that are submerged in natural light, extending like a string of rafts on water. He plunks his bag down on the desk where Dean sat two weeks ago and settles himself in with his texts, notebook, and pen out. He puts his pen in his mouth and looks out the window.
It’s a dreary day and everything’s washed in muted colors; burgundy and greys, russet and shadows. He sees students roaming the school like crawling dots and from this vantage point he feels a disconnect form, a yawning canyon between him and them. In the relatively vacant floor of the library, there’s the hum of catalogue computers and the faraway shuffles of other people, but otherwise it’s just Sam and a view through the glass.
Some days Sam thinks all there is is this; the view through the glass.
Jess calls it his time of the month, though in actuality it only happens about once a year or so. Sam doesn’t know how or why, but sometimes the life he leads feels a little strange, a little off like a blazer that’s too tight at the shoulders. Some days his shoes don’t fit him and Sam wonders if he’ll ever grow into them, if he’ll ever become what people seem to think he already is.
Some days Sam feels like this, but contemplative weather notwithstanding, this is not, will not become one of those days. He stretches his arms, flips open to the reading assignment of his criminology text and starts to take notes.
Halfway through “Positivist School of Thought,” a sharp ding causes Sam to look up. His eyes dart to the elevators, which are concealed behind about six rows of reference materials and a white plaster wall, but the sound is unmistakable.
The loud, clunky roll of sliding metal reaches Sam’s ears, followed by sharp, echoing footsteps. Sam chews on the cap of his ballpoint pen.
Seclusion is great and all, but Sam hears the footsteps grow louder and he kind of wishes for a clear view of the floor instead of just a stupid window and stacks of musty books.
He hears the footsteps turn down the aisle just diagonal from Sam, its bearer still infuriatingly invisible, and he watches the end cap anxiously to see if...
“Hey,” Sam says, pulling the mangled pen cap out of his mouth and furtively wiping it on his sleeve. “Dean.”
“Hey, kiddo. This spot taken?” Dean uncurls a smile, slow and easy, with his hand on the chair opposite Sam.
“Go ahead,” Sam says, shoving his belongings over. After a pause, “And don’t call me kiddo, we’re the same age.”
“I’m here for the graduate program, which means that you’re definitely younger than me. Despite your size,” Dean says cheekily, falling into his chair and unzipping his laptop case.
“Come off it, you can’t be that much older than me. What are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
Dean remains quiet, ever-present smile hovering over his lips, and replies, “Fine, so not ‘kiddo.’ What should I call you then?”
Sam shifts in his seat. “Everybody calls me Sam.”
“How about this, we compromise,” Dean says, powering his laptop on and flipping the monitor up. “Sammy.”
Sam is about to utter an indignant retort; he’s always detested that childish nickname and his friends only use it to piss him off. But.
“Sammy,” Dean says again, trying the name out. He says it seriously, effortlessly, with no trace of the usual glee that hides behind the nickname. For once in his life Sam likes the way the name sounds, likes the extra syllable on Dean’s tongue. When Sam just nibbles at his pen and stares at him, Dean quirks a slightly self-conscious smile and leans back. He teeters the wooden chair on two legs and asks, “Better than kiddo?”
Sam’s playing with his blue-ink pen, tapping it against his chin and worrying it with his lips. He desperately wants to gnaw on the end of it but physically restrains himself by setting the writing utensil down, flat on the table (he’s learned his lesson; no way in hell Sam is going to spend the next forty-five minutes with Dean, blue ink splotch on his face and teeth). He finally says, “Yeah, alright.”
Dean’s stiff smile grows into one that reaches his eyes (hazel in this light, Sam thinks) before tipping his chair back down with a smart clack. He fishes through his laptop case, pulls out a satin drawstring bag and pulls his glasses out of it. “I’d love to chat Sam, but I really have to get this thing done,” he says, unfolding and slipping on the same glasses Sam saw him wearing before. Dean looks up and Sam wonders if his eyelashes ever get in the way of the lens.
“Oh,” Sam says. “That’s alright. I have schoolwork as well.” Sam picks his pen back up and goes back to reading.
After the thirtieth reading of the same sentence, Sam realizes how edgy and suffocated he feels. He glances up at the other man and spies Dean’s hand curled over an Apple mouse, finger idly rubbing the little gray scroll ball which, for the record, Sam has always found disturbingly sexual. Sam feels his face warm and he abruptly pushes his chair back, standing up.
“I’ve got to go look something up. Watch my stuff?”
“’Course,” Dean says. Sam tells himself he isn’t trying to sneak a peek at Dean’s monitor, but he catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar program as he heads toward the bookshelves.
Once he’s appropriately far away and snug between two narrow aisles of multilingual reference books, Sam leans forward and rests his forehead on a dictionary.
Jesus Christ. What the bloody fuck is wrong with me? Sam thunks his head against the spine of the dictionary. He’s just a bloke. A very cool, older, well-dressed bloke, but just… Sam takes a deep breath and stops to collects himself. After a minute or two, he straightens his back and quickly skims the shelves, grabbing the cleanest-looking book.
When he gets back to the table Dean’s still working on whatever it is he’s working on. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sam asks, “So what do you read, anyway?”
“What?” Dean cranes his neck to look at Sam, who’s standing beside him.
“I mean, what do you study,” Sam elaborates, gesturing at the unfamiliar program that fills the screen of Dean’s PowerBook.
“Oh. Architecture,” Dean replies. “Emphasis on engineering, but I’m designing a building for this project.”
“I see,” Sam says uncertainly. He blinks down at the screen, seeing bulbous shapes and thousands of shortcut icons. “Looks complicated.”
“C’mere,” Dean says and turns the laptop towards Sam. Sam cautiously leans over but still can’t see anything so he drops to his knees and puts his arms on the table.
“It’s just Maya. It’s a 3D animation program, and I’m making a short video of the building I designed. When it’s done it’s going to be like a tour, like you’re walking through the building,” Dean explains as he removes his glasses and wipes the lens with the hem of his cotton shirt. Sam nods, inhaling deeply. Today Dean smells like soap, and earth.
“Do you have pictures of the building you designed?” Sam asks, interested in what the abstract images in Maya would eventually conjure.
“Sure,” Dean breaks into a grin as he minimizes the program and pulls up folders with strange labels like “metallicars” and “funky town.” Sam kind of desperately wants to know where the names come from and if there are stories behind them, but in the meantime he’ll settle for looking at Dean’s schoolwork.
They spend the rest of Sam’s free time talking about studies but when Sam reluctantly leaves Westborough an hour later, all he can think about is Dean’s arm against his elbow, and how neither of them moved away.
-----
Two hours later, Sam fishes through his schoolbag for an eraser but feels something silky against his fingers. He pulls out the slipcover for Dean’s glasses, which must have gotten mixed up with Sam’s belongings at the library.
The bag is made of dark, slate colored fabric with a soft suede-like lining. Sam idly cinches and opens the bag, playing with the smooth drawstring cord as he listens to his last lecture of the day.
Of course, he can’t keep the slipcover. No, Sam will just have to find some way of getting it back to Dean.
Back | Next
Visual Aides
The infamous clit!mouse. I hate using this thing in the computer lab because I feel like I'm masturbating in public :P
Glasses! But for the purposes of this fic, Dean would be wearing casual clothes.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: Pre-slash (this chapter)
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,338
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: The next part of my uni!AU. Thanks to krazykid197 for help with the Brit-speak, mooyoo for the deliciously fast and wonderful beta, and to homees for being absolutely sublime in his editing. You are the proofread bitch of the building for good reason, my friend *_*
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.
Previous
The thing is, Jess loves Sam. And all right, she knows, Sam loves Jess. But Sam doesn’t love Jess. And this wouldn’t really be a problem, hasn’t been for the past five odd years since she’s known her own feelings for certain, because she (and everybody else) had always sort of assumed they would end up together anyway.
Their friends believe it. Their parents certainly believe it, if the constant joking-but-not-really about marriage, and grandchildren, are anything to go by. Even the media has gone so far as to declare the It Kids (numbers 21 and 14 on ET’s list, with Jess ranked higher much to Sam’s chagrin) as rumored to be betrothed. So if everybody in the whole of bloody England believes it, well. There’s such thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Which is why Jess wasn’t worried about Sam’s restraint with her, his steadfast adherence to the land of Platonic. No, she wasn’t worried… at least, not until now.
Or rather, not until Green-Eyes-hooker-boy-with-a-“sexy rough accent”-Dean.
Having always been the requisite asexual of the group, Sam was never one to notice attractive people, nor to whine about celibacy. Which is what makes this recent infatuation all the more disturbing. No one, no one has ever teased such depths of insecurity out of the affable, untouchable Sam Winters, and it is bloody disturbing to witness Sam’s overdue flight into adolescence.
And damn it, it’s supposed to be her to bring it out of him, not some bloody Yank with dick-sucking lips (she has seen the guy, after all). It’s supposed to be Sam and Jess forever. And while she isn’t about to go turncoat and plot against her best friend, she just… well.
She just wishes Sam would look at her like that.
-----
“Oh Jess, you should’ve seen it, fantastic he was,” Sam says, one hand around Jess’s waist and the other gesturing madly.
“Just shut up and smile Sam, they’ll get you in all sorts of weird expressions if you keep talking,” she hisses through her plaster smile.
“Oh, right,” he says, stopping mid-flail and letting his hand drop. He leans down and puts his chin on Jess’s blonde hair, which glints off the flashing bulbs and into his eyes.
Finally the paparazzi move on to the next attendees who are pulling up in various transports, leaving Sam and Jess to shuffle their way into the hotel.
“God, every time,” he grumbles, blinking dazedly.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Jess says, shaking her own vision out a bit before twining a hand through Sam’s proffered arm.
“That’s just because it gives you a chance to show off how bloomin’ hot you are,” Sam smirks, tugging on the back cowl on her shimmering dress. Jess squeaks as she readjusts the low V-shaped neckline.
“Watch it, double-stick tape here!”
“Right, right,” Sam laughs, palm up in deference. Jess verifies her modesty one more time and once she’s deemed herself presentable, the two of them traverse the lobby and push through ceiling-high, rococo-decked doors into the Carnelian Room.
Immediately Sam’s senses are assaulted by the cloying scent of strong perfumes in an array of florals and fruits, the heady aroma of pungent foods as servers nimbly dash around the guests with stacked platters, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol which clings to the red-faced, portly male who cuts past Sam and Jess with a muttered “pardon.”
Eyes widened, Sam turns to Jess and confirms, “That was Oliver’s Dad, yeah?”
She attempts to stifle a snort, recovers quickly and replies, “Not even dinner yet and the man’s pissed!”
Sam chuckles and moves forward, dragging Jess along through the thickening party.
When they eventually come across the birthday girl, Martha Hammet (“It Kid number twelve, Jess. She beat you.” “Sod off, 21.”), they stop to coo their felicitations and compliment her spangly, off-shoulder dress.
“Oh that’s gorgeous, Martha, is that Elie Saab?”
“Actually no,” she says, flipping her gently curled locks. “It’s Dior. But you’d think so, wouldn’t you? He had quite the monopoly on gold this season.”
Sam’s keeping his gaze steady, but in his mind his eyes are rolled skyward. He impatiently shifts from foot to foot as the girls pick apart each other’s outfits, clutches to wedges, until an eternity later Jess says, “We’ll let you be a good host, now. Danny Plover’s looking a little bit lovesick for you.”
Martha’s eyes settle on a boy a few tables away, who clutches a cocktail and is determinedly not looking at her. She muffles a resigned sigh. “You’re right, I was absolutely awful to him the other night. Anyway I think we’ve tortured poor Sam enough, I’ll let him whisk you away,” she says, winking at Sam whose attention snaps back into the conversation.
“Did she just insult me?” Sam asks as Martha disappears behind a gaggle of bystanders.
Jess laughs, “No, silly boy. Come on, let’s go find our parents.”
The two of them steer through the large room, stopping for quick chats with friends and sampling of hors d’oeuvres, until they make their way to the round tables where most of the adults are seated. They find the Winters and Moores easily and maneuver between chairs decorated with expensive, hanging coats and purses until they reach their table.
“Mum, Dad! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Winters,” Jess says, leaning forward and exchanging kisses with the elegantly-dressed adults. Sam steps forward and greets them accordingly, and soon everybody is seated and sipping their drinks, chatting about school and catching up on the latest news. Before long, a colleague of Mr. Moore pops by and the adults get embroiled into a conversation about the political state of the Middle East, slowly easing Sam and Jess out of the spotlight.
Sam leans in. “I’ll race you through four drinks.”
Jess laughs, “Oh come off it, you said you weren’t getting smashed tonight. Something about an early morning tomorrow?”
Sam shrugs. Jess gives an exaggerated sigh, but grabs his hand and aims for the bar anyway. “Mum, Dad, we’re off to get drinks. Want anything?”
“We’re alright dear,” Mrs. Moore says with a wave of her hand.
“Keep a leash on that boy, Jess,” Sam’s mother chimes in. “Remember McArthur’s last year?“
“Yes, Mrs. Winters,” she laughs as Sam pulls his I-resent-that face.
“What?” Jess says as he feigns affront. “You were plastered that night.”
Sam can do nothing but grudgingly let the issue drop (because it was so true). When they reach the bar he gets a John Smith’s for himself and orders Jess her favorite drink: lemon drop, dash of Triple Sec. They clink glasses and Sam immediately knocks half of his lager back, Jess watching the amber liquid drain while she sips her martini.
Sam wipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So like I was saying an hour ago,” Sam starts, and Jess sucks a mouthful of her drink. “I saw him again.”
“Yeah, we got to that part,” she says, a gentle current of dismay running through her. “Frisbee on the lawn?”
“Right. So right as I walk by, I’m watching the frisbee in the air, yeah? It almost hits me-“ Sam slants his eyes at Jess when she laughs- “and Dean jumps and catches it, like a sodding dog or something, he jumps like ten feet I swear, his abs are like, in my face-” he punctuates this with a splayed hand over his own face.
Jess is smiling and stirring the red straw in her drink when Sam trails off, suddenly adopting a slightly guilty expression.
“What?” she asks.
“Er, nothing.” Sam averts his gaze.
“Sam, it’s little early to be getting red in the face,” Jess starts, before realizing that oh. Sam’s blushing.
“I am not,” he says embarrassedly, draining his beer and beckoning the bartender for another. “Well, maybe it’s just hot in here.”
“Oh, Sammy-boy,” Jess grins evilly. “Just what is going on through that dirty little mind of yours?”
“Nothing! And don’t call me that,” Sam grimaces as Jess pulls out the big guns, resorting to childhood nicknames. “Makes me sound like a bloody poof.”
“Uh-huh. And your infatuation with Dean doesn’t?”
“What? That’s different,” Sam says defensively. “It’s just exciting you know, a new friend. It’s like when you were first getting on with Mandy. Everything was Mandy this, Mandy that.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to shag Mandy,” she teases lightly.
“Jess!” Sam looks so affronted that she can only laugh at his ridiculous expression. “I don’t want to shag Dean.” He pauses at her pointed silence. “I don’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Come off it Jess, you know you’re the only one for me,” Sam says, pulling her in at the waist and kissing her on the forehead. Jess’s residual chuckle fades into a lingering, polite smile.
“Don’t say that Sammy, you’ll break girls’ hearts.”
Sam relaxes as he settles back into his comfort zone, fingers playing with the condensation on his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, screw early-morning, weekend debate meetings, I say. Let’s get crunked tonight,” Sam growls, affecting an awful, bloated American accent which drags Jess into an inescapable fit of giggles. Sam flags the bartender down again and orders them another round of drinks.
-----
It’s Tuesday. Sam hates Tuesdays. Every week the unfortunate, eleven-hour school days have him itching to pitch himself over the top floor of Trotter Hall.
Sam straightens up in his squeaky seat, cricks his neck, and then settles his chin on a stack of textbooks. Good God, has it only been four minutes since he last checked the clock?
Finally, finally, the professor shuts off his overhead presentation and flips the lights on. A chorus of shuffling and zippers, popping knees and yawns spill through the air and Sam joins in, shaking his numb arm in attempts of imbuing any feeling back into it.
Sandwiched between four hours of lecture and a debate club meeting is a one-hour break that Sam normally uses to grab a bite to eat at the Student Union or a nearby deli, though as of late his free hours/minutes/seconds are spent visiting very particular locations.
Sam is carried downstream out of Trotter Hall with a throng of other law students and once he hits the cool, moist air outside, he immediately veers towards Westborough.
I really ought to do some research before the meeting, Sam thinks, envisioning strong biceps stretched beneath faded cotton. He catches himself mid-daydream and feels a twinge of embarrassment. Alright, and maybe Dean will be there too.
He hasn’t seen Dean since last Thursday, not since striding over the wide lawn in front of Vitton (there was an errand to run at Admin, honest) and stepping into the trajectory of a frisbee. Sam still remembers Dean catching the plastic disc just millimeters from his face, heat radiating from his outstretched body. Underneath fresh sweat, Dean smelled like soap, and grass.
So yeah, it’s been a long weekend and he just wants to get the ball rolling on this maybe-friendship; that is, if Dean even sees him as more than a familiar face or just a “kid.” Sam is not a kid, goddamnit. Kids are not 6’4” with hair skimming the tops of smaller doorframes, nor do they study very serious things like law and political science. Sam frowns and kicks a rock.
He enters the giant double-doors of Westborough Library quickly makes his way up to the fifth floor. When Sam steps off the lift he heads straight for the desks that are submerged in natural light, extending like a string of rafts on water. He plunks his bag down on the desk where Dean sat two weeks ago and settles himself in with his texts, notebook, and pen out. He puts his pen in his mouth and looks out the window.
It’s a dreary day and everything’s washed in muted colors; burgundy and greys, russet and shadows. He sees students roaming the school like crawling dots and from this vantage point he feels a disconnect form, a yawning canyon between him and them. In the relatively vacant floor of the library, there’s the hum of catalogue computers and the faraway shuffles of other people, but otherwise it’s just Sam and a view through the glass.
Some days Sam thinks all there is is this; the view through the glass.
Jess calls it his time of the month, though in actuality it only happens about once a year or so. Sam doesn’t know how or why, but sometimes the life he leads feels a little strange, a little off like a blazer that’s too tight at the shoulders. Some days his shoes don’t fit him and Sam wonders if he’ll ever grow into them, if he’ll ever become what people seem to think he already is.
Some days Sam feels like this, but contemplative weather notwithstanding, this is not, will not become one of those days. He stretches his arms, flips open to the reading assignment of his criminology text and starts to take notes.
Halfway through “Positivist School of Thought,” a sharp ding causes Sam to look up. His eyes dart to the elevators, which are concealed behind about six rows of reference materials and a white plaster wall, but the sound is unmistakable.
The loud, clunky roll of sliding metal reaches Sam’s ears, followed by sharp, echoing footsteps. Sam chews on the cap of his ballpoint pen.
Seclusion is great and all, but Sam hears the footsteps grow louder and he kind of wishes for a clear view of the floor instead of just a stupid window and stacks of musty books.
He hears the footsteps turn down the aisle just diagonal from Sam, its bearer still infuriatingly invisible, and he watches the end cap anxiously to see if...
“Hey,” Sam says, pulling the mangled pen cap out of his mouth and furtively wiping it on his sleeve. “Dean.”
“Hey, kiddo. This spot taken?” Dean uncurls a smile, slow and easy, with his hand on the chair opposite Sam.
“Go ahead,” Sam says, shoving his belongings over. After a pause, “And don’t call me kiddo, we’re the same age.”
“I’m here for the graduate program, which means that you’re definitely younger than me. Despite your size,” Dean says cheekily, falling into his chair and unzipping his laptop case.
“Come off it, you can’t be that much older than me. What are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
Dean remains quiet, ever-present smile hovering over his lips, and replies, “Fine, so not ‘kiddo.’ What should I call you then?”
Sam shifts in his seat. “Everybody calls me Sam.”
“How about this, we compromise,” Dean says, powering his laptop on and flipping the monitor up. “Sammy.”
Sam is about to utter an indignant retort; he’s always detested that childish nickname and his friends only use it to piss him off. But.
“Sammy,” Dean says again, trying the name out. He says it seriously, effortlessly, with no trace of the usual glee that hides behind the nickname. For once in his life Sam likes the way the name sounds, likes the extra syllable on Dean’s tongue. When Sam just nibbles at his pen and stares at him, Dean quirks a slightly self-conscious smile and leans back. He teeters the wooden chair on two legs and asks, “Better than kiddo?”
Sam’s playing with his blue-ink pen, tapping it against his chin and worrying it with his lips. He desperately wants to gnaw on the end of it but physically restrains himself by setting the writing utensil down, flat on the table (he’s learned his lesson; no way in hell Sam is going to spend the next forty-five minutes with Dean, blue ink splotch on his face and teeth). He finally says, “Yeah, alright.”
Dean’s stiff smile grows into one that reaches his eyes (hazel in this light, Sam thinks) before tipping his chair back down with a smart clack. He fishes through his laptop case, pulls out a satin drawstring bag and pulls his glasses out of it. “I’d love to chat Sam, but I really have to get this thing done,” he says, unfolding and slipping on the same glasses Sam saw him wearing before. Dean looks up and Sam wonders if his eyelashes ever get in the way of the lens.
“Oh,” Sam says. “That’s alright. I have schoolwork as well.” Sam picks his pen back up and goes back to reading.
After the thirtieth reading of the same sentence, Sam realizes how edgy and suffocated he feels. He glances up at the other man and spies Dean’s hand curled over an Apple mouse, finger idly rubbing the little gray scroll ball which, for the record, Sam has always found disturbingly sexual. Sam feels his face warm and he abruptly pushes his chair back, standing up.
“I’ve got to go look something up. Watch my stuff?”
“’Course,” Dean says. Sam tells himself he isn’t trying to sneak a peek at Dean’s monitor, but he catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar program as he heads toward the bookshelves.
Once he’s appropriately far away and snug between two narrow aisles of multilingual reference books, Sam leans forward and rests his forehead on a dictionary.
Jesus Christ. What the bloody fuck is wrong with me? Sam thunks his head against the spine of the dictionary. He’s just a bloke. A very cool, older, well-dressed bloke, but just… Sam takes a deep breath and stops to collects himself. After a minute or two, he straightens his back and quickly skims the shelves, grabbing the cleanest-looking book.
When he gets back to the table Dean’s still working on whatever it is he’s working on. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sam asks, “So what do you read, anyway?”
“What?” Dean cranes his neck to look at Sam, who’s standing beside him.
“I mean, what do you study,” Sam elaborates, gesturing at the unfamiliar program that fills the screen of Dean’s PowerBook.
“Oh. Architecture,” Dean replies. “Emphasis on engineering, but I’m designing a building for this project.”
“I see,” Sam says uncertainly. He blinks down at the screen, seeing bulbous shapes and thousands of shortcut icons. “Looks complicated.”
“C’mere,” Dean says and turns the laptop towards Sam. Sam cautiously leans over but still can’t see anything so he drops to his knees and puts his arms on the table.
“It’s just Maya. It’s a 3D animation program, and I’m making a short video of the building I designed. When it’s done it’s going to be like a tour, like you’re walking through the building,” Dean explains as he removes his glasses and wipes the lens with the hem of his cotton shirt. Sam nods, inhaling deeply. Today Dean smells like soap, and earth.
“Do you have pictures of the building you designed?” Sam asks, interested in what the abstract images in Maya would eventually conjure.
“Sure,” Dean breaks into a grin as he minimizes the program and pulls up folders with strange labels like “metallicars” and “funky town.” Sam kind of desperately wants to know where the names come from and if there are stories behind them, but in the meantime he’ll settle for looking at Dean’s schoolwork.
They spend the rest of Sam’s free time talking about studies but when Sam reluctantly leaves Westborough an hour later, all he can think about is Dean’s arm against his elbow, and how neither of them moved away.
-----
Two hours later, Sam fishes through his schoolbag for an eraser but feels something silky against his fingers. He pulls out the slipcover for Dean’s glasses, which must have gotten mixed up with Sam’s belongings at the library.
The bag is made of dark, slate colored fabric with a soft suede-like lining. Sam idly cinches and opens the bag, playing with the smooth drawstring cord as he listens to his last lecture of the day.
Of course, he can’t keep the slipcover. No, Sam will just have to find some way of getting it back to Dean.
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Visual Aides
The infamous clit!mouse. I hate using this thing in the computer lab because I feel like I'm masturbating in public :P
Glasses! But for the purposes of this fic, Dean would be wearing casual clothes.