Fic: The Return of Coach Roth (SPN/Glee, Sam/Dean, Kurt/Blaine, R)
The Return of Coach Roth: The Winchester Strikes Back
A Glee/Supernatural Cracktacular Crossover Sequel Bait
Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Kurt/Blaine, Ben/Other)
Rating: R
Spoilers: AU after SPN S3 The Kids are Alright, Glee S2 Blame It on the Alcohol
Warnings: Language, Sexual Content
Word Count: 2,390
Summary: The moments leading up to Dean's glorious return as Coach Roth in the Lima high school known as McKinley High. If one of these moments involves accidental crossdressing, Dean will deny it to his dying breath.
Author's Notes: Originally written on my tumblr due to halona influencing me with glorious pictures of Jensen Ackles in his Coach Roth outfit.
*
His sneakers hit the floorboards with the usual squeak against the worn varnish. His aviators are tucked in the front of his shirt.
He’s ready.
*
The pieces come together without a plan.
In a way, it shouldn’t be a freaking surprise since that’s how most things in a life lived as a Winchester tend to go.
He finds the red shorts while looking for a clean towel in the trunk of the Impala, pushed way in the back. They’re balled up with a couple random pieces from other random disguises: pinstriped pants so long that they’re clearly Sammy’s, a crushed cowboy hat that makes Dean whimper a little at the mistreatment, a leather vest (don’t ask), and a few basic generic white and blue button-down shirts meant to be worn under crappy suits when he and Sam take to playing nice safe legal enforcement types.
He tosses out everything but puts the shorts in a duffel bag, one that he uses for backup stuff. One that’s for keepsakes, but he doesn’t call it that, because he’s not fucking lame or sentimental, and if a few bygone scribbles of Ben might’ve gotten stuffed in there along with a few things that remind him of Sam, well, fuck you, maybe he’s getting to be a sap in his old age.
Plus it’s kind of a test, a promise he’s made not to go soft round the middle. If he can still fit into those shorts, then he can eat all the gut-busting burgers to his (not at all clogged artery) heart’s content.
*
The headband comes in the mail care of Bobby, the only real address that’s permanent to be worth a decent mailing location. It’s an actual care package from Ben; the address a messy scrawl in California. Palo Alto by the looks of it, he and his girl must be traveling something fierce this summer.
He’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t associate Palo Alto with the fire and Sam’s last shot of a normal life burning away. He doubts Sam ever will see it as anything different but he’s never gonna tell Dean that, so it’s just another wound that’s scabbed over, only noticeable if you’re looking hard enough.
Sam reads the note Ben attached to the headband, snorting and handing it over to Dean.
“Kurt told me these were great for facials. Sometimes it’s almost too easy. Love, Ben.” Dean almost drops the note, staring at horror at Sam. “He’s doing this so that I’ll never want to have sex again, isn’t he?”
“Don’t answer the phone when I’m blowing you,” Sam offers, holding back his laugh. “It looks a little like that headband you wore when you were an assistant coach.”
“Dude, I was head coach.”
“Wounding kids left and right. One of your finer moments.”
“Whatever, Janitor Lurch.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “You do realize you’re going to pay for that once we’re alone, right?”
“Bring it.”
Really the headband would look better on Sam, but hey, whatever floats his kinky boat.
*
“What are you wearing?”
Dean looks down at his now very stretched Catholic schoolgirl uniform. “Got hit with a whammy from that goddamn witch when I was trying to charm the school mistress. Only lasted for twenty four hours. Memory loss, too.”
Sam stares for a long time. “And the athletic socks?”
“We had field hockey today.” Before Sam can say anything else, Dean starts stripping off the clothes, which ought to be kind of kinky but it’s mostly disturbing. Okay, it’s a little hot. White cotton panties might not be all that exciting but they do make an impression, at least if Sam’s reaction is anything to go by.
Too bad the girl version of Dean didn’t wear a bra. That would’ve been real interesting.
(Dean tries not to think that apparently when in chick form, he might be a member of the itty bitty titty committee. It pretty much depresses him.)
Doesn’t matter, because Dean finds it’s a hell of a lot more fun smearing the remnants of his lip gloss all over Sam as he makes a direct beeline towards his cock, yanking and pulling off clothes blocking his path.
The socks get stuffed in the duffel, but much later, after he’s done fucking Sam and telling him he’d pull Sam’s goddamn hair in pigtails, see how cute that would be, and no, they’re telling anyone about Dean’s brief stint as a teenage girl.
*
He’s wretched his knee but good and even his favorite pair of boots aren’t doing a damn thing to keep him steady and he’s refusing crutches, among other things.
“I don’t care if you carry me out to the car and you take over driving for a while, I am not wearing sneakers.”
Sam stares at him for a long moment before sighing and looking away. “Fine, Dean. Remember, you asked for it.”
The fireman’s carry is really fucking undignified when Sam stops every now and then to smack Dean on the ass under the guise of making sure Dean’s not slipping off his shoulder.
“You just wait until I get better,” Dean mutters the moment he’s settled in the passenger seat, wincing when Sam puts on a classical music station to further the point.
Sam kisses him rough and merciless and Dean nearly twists his knee all over again to rush forward, needing to keep him close.
The sneakers get tossed underneath the seats, nearly forgotten.
Well. Almost.
*
“We’ve been tracking this magic man over three states, you think we’re gonna catch up to him in Ohio?”
“We don’t even know if it’s a he, Dean,” Sam says, exasperated. “All I know is that it looks like the same pattern is building in Lima and if we’ve got any shot at stopping, uh, it, we need to go undercover.”
“Well. I’ve got the perfect cover. Think you can be hired as a janitor again?”
“Frankly, I’ll take anything they offer. So long as we can keep an eye on those kids.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, a little shakily, the last images of those wretched faces, screaming in agony, still rest a little sharply in his mind. “That’ a good plan.”
“Wait, what’s your cover?”
Dean smiles, even though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
*
Sue Sylvester, newly promoted to Overseer to McKinley’s Athletic, Music, and Supporting Arts Program, hands him the official McKinley coach shirt, pressed neatly, her eyes flicking disdainfully at him.
“Unfortunately for some perverse reason, all gym teachers must wear shorts. I look forward to shuddering in horror every time your bowlegs catch my eyesight, when they aren’t focused on your disturbingly pretty face.” Her eyes narrow. “You have freckles. Hideous.”
*
There’s a fine collection of whistles left over from two coaches back. The current coach is on her honeymoon, typical, although this coach got married to a guy, which hey, good for her.
He takes the one that sounds the loudest. Good. Now he will have absolute control.
*
There are basketballs neatly stacked up alongside one wall of the gym lockers. The class is already out in the gym, waiting for the new coach, probably thinking about whatever pranks they can play, which hey, good luck with that, Dean’s seen ‘em all and invented half a dozen along the way.
Running his hands over the balls, he picks the one that feels perfect, a little give, not too much, and as he faces his class, he remembers what Sam said the night before.
“Please don’t send any kids to the nurse.”
Well. He knows not to throw a basketball at a kid’s gut. A dodge ball’s another story.
He’s about to sound the whistle when he notices one of the kids, happily chatting about whatever kids these days are supposed to give a fuck about to another kid. They’re just like every other kid, young and make him miss Ben a little too much, only it’s worse, because they look familiar.
Both of them, he realizes, have met him before. Before he knows it, he’s flicking back to a dark day in his recent past, one that nearly scarred him for life had Sam not had the awesome idea to drag him off to nearby closet and give him head like Dean’s sanity was riding on it (and it totally was).
The day that Ben’s friends had the gall to serenade him and Sam with a fucking romantic duet.
Kurt. That was the kid’s name. And whatever the hell the other kid was called. Something preppy.
“Uh,” Dean says, and he’s lost it. The intangible fear needed to rule this gym class with an iron fist.
Kurt, meanwhile, is staring at Dean with a terrified expression, a flush to his cheeks that makes the kid look like he’s about to throw up. The other one is holding Kurt’s wrist, attention being paid to Kurt than to Dean, like a good, devoted, and totally whipped boyfriend.
Aww, it’s puppy love. Would be cute if these two former prep school kids weren’t about to blow his cover.
“I’m Coach Roth,” he says, a little quickly, trying to get the authority back in his voice, a quick nod to Kurt. “Any ballers wanna show me what they got?”
No one answers. Finally, he returns to the standby, the whistle, blowing three sharp hits before saying in his best growing I’m the boss so deal with it voice, “Drills. Now.”
Just as Kurt and the other kid are about to walk away, he grabs them right quick, nearly by the scruff of their necks. “You two. Uh. Stay after class. Or it’s detention.”
“You can’t give us detention,” scoffs the one he really can’t remember, although he vaguely recalls him jumping on furniture during Dean’s most horrifying day ever and he works in the business of hunting monsters, so yeah, that’s real terror.
“No, it’s okay, Blaine,” Kurt says and ah, finally a name to place to the prepster’s face. And man, what a name. “After class, Coach Winchester? Sorry. I mean Roth.”
Dammit.
*
Both of those kids are too smooth for their own good. After Dean manages to get them to keep his undercover work a secret, by basically lying in the most ridiculous way possible (honestly who looks at Dean and thinks FBI?), he heads straight to Sam to let him in on the new twist.
“Man, you’re working that look,” Dean says, sidling up next to Sam as he dumps a giant pan of tots in the lunch line.
“Hairnets. Apron. Guess that’s why you were always walking funny after lunch back at, what was it, Grant High?”
“Junior high,” Dean says, trying to sneak a tot but Sam’s quicker, his plastic-covered hand slapping him away. “And that was ‘cause of the social studies teacher. Ms. Sullivan. Damn. You think she’s still single?”
Sam ignores that comment, heading back into the kitchen area. Dean follows.
"We got a problem.”
It’s so much easy now. They can be total idiots sometimes but when it comes to work, there’s no need to transition, it’s always there between them. So Sam picks up on it, and making sure they’re alone (at least that they can’t be overheard, and says, “What happened?”
“Two kids made me.”
“What?”
“Uh. You remember back at Dalton?”
“Ben’s old school in Westerville? Yeah. Rings a bell,” Sam says, a little sarcastically, as if they hadn’t had a beautiful moment in a supply closest there before having to run after Ben who thoughtfully decided to ditch his own graduation party in favor of chasing after his girl.
Which honestly, Dean understood, even though it felt most days that Ben delighted in shaving years off of Dean by making him worry.
“Well. You see, these two, Kurt and Blaine-”
“Oh, Ben’s friends?”
“What?”
“Ben’s friends,” Sam repeats. “The ones he’s always talking about? The only normal people he talks to, outside of his mom and Noelle.”
“We’re not normal?”
“I thought you’d take that as a compliment,” Sam says. “So they’re going to school here now, huh. Well, I think Kurt’s from here originally.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“When Ben and I talk, we use our words.”
“Shut up,” Dean says, but he can’t help a small crooked smile. “So what are we going to do about it? I got them thinking I’m sort of workin’ an FBI angle, ‘cause Ben knows better than to explain what’s really going on, but uh, even if they bought it, once mister magic man starts going wild, they’re bound to figure things out.”
“If they’re not targeted,” Sam says. He mulls it over, reaching up to push away some hair off his forehead before realizing it’s trapped under the hairnet. “We’ll have to let Ben know.”
“He might haul ass back here. You think that’s a good idea?”
“Not really, but he’ll be pissed if we keep something like this from him.”
“He’s been wanting to work on this job with us. But you know how we deal with shit when it’s personal. Good way to lose focus.”
Sam nods. “But we don’t have much of a choice.”
“Damn, we gotta make the mature decisions now, huh?” Dean sighs. “Being an adult blows.”
“We can add extra protective signs around the campus.”
“Fat lot of good that’s done at the other schools,” Dean says, but it’s not even a full bitch out, just stating the facts. “Okay. I’ll take the east side of the school before my next class. God, those kids. I really hope they don’t start doing that gross stuff in front of us again.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You know.” Dean drops his voice to a whisper. “The singing.”
“Really? That’s what you’re worried about? That they’ll sing at you again?”
“Rather make out with a siren in its natural glory before dealing with boys singing to me about, that stuff.”
“Love, Dean. It’s called love.”
Dean backs away, because the expression on Sam’s face is making Dean want to kiss him and sure, Sam’s hot no matter how Dean gets him, but he’s never sticking his tongue down a lunch lady’s throat.
Time to be Coach Roth again. He slips the aviators over his eyes, because why the fuck not?
end
A Glee/Supernatural Cracktacular Crossover Sequel Bait
Author: Regala Electra
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Kurt/Blaine, Ben/Other)
Rating: R
Spoilers: AU after SPN S3 The Kids are Alright, Glee S2 Blame It on the Alcohol
Warnings: Language, Sexual Content
Word Count: 2,390
Summary: The moments leading up to Dean's glorious return as Coach Roth in the Lima high school known as McKinley High. If one of these moments involves accidental crossdressing, Dean will deny it to his dying breath.
Author's Notes: Originally written on my tumblr due to halona influencing me with glorious pictures of Jensen Ackles in his Coach Roth outfit.
*
His sneakers hit the floorboards with the usual squeak against the worn varnish. His aviators are tucked in the front of his shirt.
He’s ready.
*
The pieces come together without a plan.
In a way, it shouldn’t be a freaking surprise since that’s how most things in a life lived as a Winchester tend to go.
He finds the red shorts while looking for a clean towel in the trunk of the Impala, pushed way in the back. They’re balled up with a couple random pieces from other random disguises: pinstriped pants so long that they’re clearly Sammy’s, a crushed cowboy hat that makes Dean whimper a little at the mistreatment, a leather vest (don’t ask), and a few basic generic white and blue button-down shirts meant to be worn under crappy suits when he and Sam take to playing nice safe legal enforcement types.
He tosses out everything but puts the shorts in a duffel bag, one that he uses for backup stuff. One that’s for keepsakes, but he doesn’t call it that, because he’s not fucking lame or sentimental, and if a few bygone scribbles of Ben might’ve gotten stuffed in there along with a few things that remind him of Sam, well, fuck you, maybe he’s getting to be a sap in his old age.
Plus it’s kind of a test, a promise he’s made not to go soft round the middle. If he can still fit into those shorts, then he can eat all the gut-busting burgers to his (not at all clogged artery) heart’s content.
*
The headband comes in the mail care of Bobby, the only real address that’s permanent to be worth a decent mailing location. It’s an actual care package from Ben; the address a messy scrawl in California. Palo Alto by the looks of it, he and his girl must be traveling something fierce this summer.
He’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t associate Palo Alto with the fire and Sam’s last shot of a normal life burning away. He doubts Sam ever will see it as anything different but he’s never gonna tell Dean that, so it’s just another wound that’s scabbed over, only noticeable if you’re looking hard enough.
Sam reads the note Ben attached to the headband, snorting and handing it over to Dean.
“Kurt told me these were great for facials. Sometimes it’s almost too easy. Love, Ben.” Dean almost drops the note, staring at horror at Sam. “He’s doing this so that I’ll never want to have sex again, isn’t he?”
“Don’t answer the phone when I’m blowing you,” Sam offers, holding back his laugh. “It looks a little like that headband you wore when you were an assistant coach.”
“Dude, I was head coach.”
“Wounding kids left and right. One of your finer moments.”
“Whatever, Janitor Lurch.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “You do realize you’re going to pay for that once we’re alone, right?”
“Bring it.”
Really the headband would look better on Sam, but hey, whatever floats his kinky boat.
*
“What are you wearing?”
Dean looks down at his now very stretched Catholic schoolgirl uniform. “Got hit with a whammy from that goddamn witch when I was trying to charm the school mistress. Only lasted for twenty four hours. Memory loss, too.”
Sam stares for a long time. “And the athletic socks?”
“We had field hockey today.” Before Sam can say anything else, Dean starts stripping off the clothes, which ought to be kind of kinky but it’s mostly disturbing. Okay, it’s a little hot. White cotton panties might not be all that exciting but they do make an impression, at least if Sam’s reaction is anything to go by.
Too bad the girl version of Dean didn’t wear a bra. That would’ve been real interesting.
(Dean tries not to think that apparently when in chick form, he might be a member of the itty bitty titty committee. It pretty much depresses him.)
Doesn’t matter, because Dean finds it’s a hell of a lot more fun smearing the remnants of his lip gloss all over Sam as he makes a direct beeline towards his cock, yanking and pulling off clothes blocking his path.
The socks get stuffed in the duffel, but much later, after he’s done fucking Sam and telling him he’d pull Sam’s goddamn hair in pigtails, see how cute that would be, and no, they’re telling anyone about Dean’s brief stint as a teenage girl.
*
He’s wretched his knee but good and even his favorite pair of boots aren’t doing a damn thing to keep him steady and he’s refusing crutches, among other things.
“I don’t care if you carry me out to the car and you take over driving for a while, I am not wearing sneakers.”
Sam stares at him for a long moment before sighing and looking away. “Fine, Dean. Remember, you asked for it.”
The fireman’s carry is really fucking undignified when Sam stops every now and then to smack Dean on the ass under the guise of making sure Dean’s not slipping off his shoulder.
“You just wait until I get better,” Dean mutters the moment he’s settled in the passenger seat, wincing when Sam puts on a classical music station to further the point.
Sam kisses him rough and merciless and Dean nearly twists his knee all over again to rush forward, needing to keep him close.
The sneakers get tossed underneath the seats, nearly forgotten.
Well. Almost.
*
“We’ve been tracking this magic man over three states, you think we’re gonna catch up to him in Ohio?”
“We don’t even know if it’s a he, Dean,” Sam says, exasperated. “All I know is that it looks like the same pattern is building in Lima and if we’ve got any shot at stopping, uh, it, we need to go undercover.”
“Well. I’ve got the perfect cover. Think you can be hired as a janitor again?”
“Frankly, I’ll take anything they offer. So long as we can keep an eye on those kids.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, a little shakily, the last images of those wretched faces, screaming in agony, still rest a little sharply in his mind. “That’ a good plan.”
“Wait, what’s your cover?”
Dean smiles, even though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
*
Sue Sylvester, newly promoted to Overseer to McKinley’s Athletic, Music, and Supporting Arts Program, hands him the official McKinley coach shirt, pressed neatly, her eyes flicking disdainfully at him.
“Unfortunately for some perverse reason, all gym teachers must wear shorts. I look forward to shuddering in horror every time your bowlegs catch my eyesight, when they aren’t focused on your disturbingly pretty face.” Her eyes narrow. “You have freckles. Hideous.”
*
There’s a fine collection of whistles left over from two coaches back. The current coach is on her honeymoon, typical, although this coach got married to a guy, which hey, good for her.
He takes the one that sounds the loudest. Good. Now he will have absolute control.
*
There are basketballs neatly stacked up alongside one wall of the gym lockers. The class is already out in the gym, waiting for the new coach, probably thinking about whatever pranks they can play, which hey, good luck with that, Dean’s seen ‘em all and invented half a dozen along the way.
Running his hands over the balls, he picks the one that feels perfect, a little give, not too much, and as he faces his class, he remembers what Sam said the night before.
“Please don’t send any kids to the nurse.”
Well. He knows not to throw a basketball at a kid’s gut. A dodge ball’s another story.
He’s about to sound the whistle when he notices one of the kids, happily chatting about whatever kids these days are supposed to give a fuck about to another kid. They’re just like every other kid, young and make him miss Ben a little too much, only it’s worse, because they look familiar.
Both of them, he realizes, have met him before. Before he knows it, he’s flicking back to a dark day in his recent past, one that nearly scarred him for life had Sam not had the awesome idea to drag him off to nearby closet and give him head like Dean’s sanity was riding on it (and it totally was).
The day that Ben’s friends had the gall to serenade him and Sam with a fucking romantic duet.
Kurt. That was the kid’s name. And whatever the hell the other kid was called. Something preppy.
“Uh,” Dean says, and he’s lost it. The intangible fear needed to rule this gym class with an iron fist.
Kurt, meanwhile, is staring at Dean with a terrified expression, a flush to his cheeks that makes the kid look like he’s about to throw up. The other one is holding Kurt’s wrist, attention being paid to Kurt than to Dean, like a good, devoted, and totally whipped boyfriend.
Aww, it’s puppy love. Would be cute if these two former prep school kids weren’t about to blow his cover.
“I’m Coach Roth,” he says, a little quickly, trying to get the authority back in his voice, a quick nod to Kurt. “Any ballers wanna show me what they got?”
No one answers. Finally, he returns to the standby, the whistle, blowing three sharp hits before saying in his best growing I’m the boss so deal with it voice, “Drills. Now.”
Just as Kurt and the other kid are about to walk away, he grabs them right quick, nearly by the scruff of their necks. “You two. Uh. Stay after class. Or it’s detention.”
“You can’t give us detention,” scoffs the one he really can’t remember, although he vaguely recalls him jumping on furniture during Dean’s most horrifying day ever and he works in the business of hunting monsters, so yeah, that’s real terror.
“No, it’s okay, Blaine,” Kurt says and ah, finally a name to place to the prepster’s face. And man, what a name. “After class, Coach Winchester? Sorry. I mean Roth.”
Dammit.
*
Both of those kids are too smooth for their own good. After Dean manages to get them to keep his undercover work a secret, by basically lying in the most ridiculous way possible (honestly who looks at Dean and thinks FBI?), he heads straight to Sam to let him in on the new twist.
“Man, you’re working that look,” Dean says, sidling up next to Sam as he dumps a giant pan of tots in the lunch line.
“Hairnets. Apron. Guess that’s why you were always walking funny after lunch back at, what was it, Grant High?”
“Junior high,” Dean says, trying to sneak a tot but Sam’s quicker, his plastic-covered hand slapping him away. “And that was ‘cause of the social studies teacher. Ms. Sullivan. Damn. You think she’s still single?”
Sam ignores that comment, heading back into the kitchen area. Dean follows.
"We got a problem.”
It’s so much easy now. They can be total idiots sometimes but when it comes to work, there’s no need to transition, it’s always there between them. So Sam picks up on it, and making sure they’re alone (at least that they can’t be overheard, and says, “What happened?”
“Two kids made me.”
“What?”
“Uh. You remember back at Dalton?”
“Ben’s old school in Westerville? Yeah. Rings a bell,” Sam says, a little sarcastically, as if they hadn’t had a beautiful moment in a supply closest there before having to run after Ben who thoughtfully decided to ditch his own graduation party in favor of chasing after his girl.
Which honestly, Dean understood, even though it felt most days that Ben delighted in shaving years off of Dean by making him worry.
“Well. You see, these two, Kurt and Blaine-”
“Oh, Ben’s friends?”
“What?”
“Ben’s friends,” Sam repeats. “The ones he’s always talking about? The only normal people he talks to, outside of his mom and Noelle.”
“We’re not normal?”
“I thought you’d take that as a compliment,” Sam says. “So they’re going to school here now, huh. Well, I think Kurt’s from here originally.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“When Ben and I talk, we use our words.”
“Shut up,” Dean says, but he can’t help a small crooked smile. “So what are we going to do about it? I got them thinking I’m sort of workin’ an FBI angle, ‘cause Ben knows better than to explain what’s really going on, but uh, even if they bought it, once mister magic man starts going wild, they’re bound to figure things out.”
“If they’re not targeted,” Sam says. He mulls it over, reaching up to push away some hair off his forehead before realizing it’s trapped under the hairnet. “We’ll have to let Ben know.”
“He might haul ass back here. You think that’s a good idea?”
“Not really, but he’ll be pissed if we keep something like this from him.”
“He’s been wanting to work on this job with us. But you know how we deal with shit when it’s personal. Good way to lose focus.”
Sam nods. “But we don’t have much of a choice.”
“Damn, we gotta make the mature decisions now, huh?” Dean sighs. “Being an adult blows.”
“We can add extra protective signs around the campus.”
“Fat lot of good that’s done at the other schools,” Dean says, but it’s not even a full bitch out, just stating the facts. “Okay. I’ll take the east side of the school before my next class. God, those kids. I really hope they don’t start doing that gross stuff in front of us again.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You know.” Dean drops his voice to a whisper. “The singing.”
“Really? That’s what you’re worried about? That they’ll sing at you again?”
“Rather make out with a siren in its natural glory before dealing with boys singing to me about, that stuff.”
“Love, Dean. It’s called love.”
Dean backs away, because the expression on Sam’s face is making Dean want to kiss him and sure, Sam’s hot no matter how Dean gets him, but he’s never sticking his tongue down a lunch lady’s throat.
Time to be Coach Roth again. He slips the aviators over his eyes, because why the fuck not?
end