Orange Roughy - 2/2
Orange Roughy - 2/2
Rating: R, Gen (but if you believe in subtext clap your hands)
Characters: Sam/Jess, Dean, John
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchester dolls for the purposes of general amusement. Sorry about the holes!
Word Count: 7,190/11,326
A/N: Crack! fic written for spn_halloween, 2009. Prompt no. 27: Some of Stanford’s finest find out why Sam Winchester really *hates* Halloween.
A companion piece to Noise. Part of The Colour Chronicles.
Setting: Stanford, CA (& elsewhere.) October 2006-2005- (Flashbacks? What flashbacks?)
Summary: Wherein Sam Winchester is emo, prone to listmaking, confused, and alone. Unfortunately, neither the leather outfit nor the prison cell he’s presently stuck in is helping him solve the real problem. Oh yeah, and did he forget to mention that it’s October 31st? Sam really hates Halloween.
Part 1 | Part 2
Sam had this thing. And he can prove that it was all Dean’s fault.
Do not go directly to jail.
Madison, WI. October 2000
Sam’s plan definitely didn’t include jail.
One of these days Sam needed to get a better plan.
It was all Dean’s fault. Fucker. Sam had been sure of that for the past 2 hours, 19 minutes, and 7 seconds. Mostly because he’d been stuck in jail with nothing else to do but think about exactly how, and why this situation was all his brother’s fault.
On top of how and why, Sam could give details of where, and when, and when, and when Dean was to blame for all this. So many detailed details that they deserved to be rendered in point form.
1.
2.
3.
Although Sam was pissed (in all the ways one could be, including the headache), he was a generous (not geeky) guy who was prepared to let the aforementioned fucker-Fine! Alleged fucker:
Pick a style.
I.
II.
III.
Any style.
a)
b)
c)
Even bullets (because his laptop was locked and loaded with the latest version of Microsoft® Word, which-despite its inherently annoying MicrosoftnessPATENT POSSIBLY PENDING-allowed him to customize his plans with as many different typographical symbols as he damned well felt like. And Sam wasn’t even going to explain how the picture into bullet option gave him a possibly illicit thrill.) Though Sam was going to have to get out of fucking jail first, and hopefully free, in order to be reunited with… No he hadn’t named him… it… uh… his laptop. In the meantime Sam decided to use his highly developed (and slightly dizzy) mind to do all of the above, like… mentally.
Whoah!
Sam curled sideways on the cot and tried to rest his head against the soothing coolness of the wall. He nestled closer, but it was too hard for true comfort. Not that any of that was the wall’s fault.
‘Nice wall,’ he murmured, giving it a consolatory pat. Form was supposed to follow function after all. It couldn’t help it if its function wasn’t to be… cushy? Padded? Which reminded him of other kinds of cells. Warmer possibly, but ever so much more claustrophobic and sourly redolent of ‘You’re never getting out of here!’ Which now he came to think of it he was getting a strong whiff of right then.
Fuck…
Sam hated jails. He also had one other grievance; couldn’t the architects do something to counteract the tendency the walls had to keep swaying? Because, really, the cells were deep in the middle of the building, so surely the inside ones were protected from the wind? Dean, who was some kind of secret engineering genius, probably knew why walls did what they did, and could invent a way to fix it if he felt like it (or someone motivated him sufficiently with food.) Dean could do almost anything.
Sam stroked the wall lovingly. It didn’t seem to mind him grinding his teeth and whispering fratricidal comments that probably weren’t the wisest choice in jailhouse conversation. Especially as Sam was willing to bet the cells were bugged; it would only be sensible what with all the hardened criminals they usually had doing sleep-overs.
Sam was hardened. Tough even. Shame about the nails though. You try picking the lock on a pair of handcuffs with a fresh manicure and see what happens!
What was it with confiscating paperclips and tubes of lipsticks nowadays? Was nothing sacred? Not that his Spring Apricot semi-gloss would have helped him escape, unless the guards were particularly sympathetic to long-legged, floppy-haired, completely innocent of all charges (no way those security cameras along State Street had good enough resolution to be admissible as evidence,) dimpled students who just happened to accidentally get taken into custody on completely bogus charges while they were out enjoying Halloween.
Well, he had been trying to enjoy himself, right up until Fate saw fit to remind him that fucking jail time was a long-standing part of a Winchester Halloween.
Sam had a grudge against Fate. How many years did this make it now?
‘Grrrrr,’ he growled threateningly just in case Fate could be scared and bluffed.
Sam patted his close friend the wall again. ‘I didn’t mean you,’ he explained; because if plants could scream, and walls had ears (and bugs), surely they had feelings too?
Luckily the wall appeared to be amazingly empathetic. Or possibly Sam’s hiccups and his resultant nauseated whimper mid-growl had confused it?
Sam moaned again; he was so over the swaying thing. Where was Dean when he needed him?
Fucking Dean.
This was completely his fault in so many ways. In fact, Sam should make a list just to keep them straight, and use it against him at a later date if necessary.
Hah! That’d show him.
Sam could give details of where, and when, and when, and…
Huh.
Sam stopped fondling the wall. That was weird. He’d just had this surreal déjà vu flash thing.
Eep.
Maybe mixing Bourbon and Tequila wasn’t a good idea any more. It wasn’t like he was still sixteen and coul…
Oh.
It felt like déjà vu because…
Um.
Sam tried not to bang his head against the wall too hard because he didn’t want it (the wall, not his head. Duh!) to take it personally. After all he didn’t have any other objects (animate, inanimate, or unidentified) to talk to; at least until the guards did their next sweep.
As he struggled back up into a more dignified position (and one which couldn’t be misconstrued as being kinkily over-handsy with certain structural elements of the MPD’s headquarters) Sam did his best to get his only slightly tipsy mind back on track.
Bullets. That’s right. Dean could have his list numbered any which way, or bulleted if he wanted:•
•
•Sam was gonna let the fuckee… No that was wrong. Dean was the fucker, and Sam was the fuckee, or was he the fucked? Grammar was fucking confusing sometimes. Was there such a thing as a fuckor?
Nnnngh…
Sam’s brain hurt. And his eyeballs, and his freakin’ toenails. Everything hurt except his hair, which had the strength of ten, so that made Sam like Samson if you thought about it. Which was awesome (Sam could do awesome just as well as Dean could! And he was tall. Taller than his brother, so logically that made him awesomer), apart from being conned by a girl, and then the whole buried in rubble thing (that had to hurt.)
Hurting…
Bullets hurt. Sam was almost completely coherent enough to remember being shot enough times to know that bullets hurt.
But right now? Booze hurt more than bullets. Fucking Tequila. Sam blamed the Tequila.
Uh…
No, that wasn’t right. Sam blamed…?
Dean!
Sam blamed Dean.
Dean deserved bullets.
Silver fucking bullets even, if that was what it took to get the job done.•
•
•Yeah, bullets. That’s what he needed. Silver bullets:
‘It’ll be awesome!’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with…’
Yeah, right.
Sam had reviewed the facts (the ones that hadn’t gotten swept away in a tidal wave of shots) and come to a clear, unbiased decision.
This? Sam’s thing? No, not that thing! What’s wrong with you people? The other thing! The thing he never talked about?
That thing?
It was all Dean’s fault.
Oh, and the jail time.
Just this once Sam gave Fate a hall pass and told it to go take a leak and go home early. Because jail? That was Dean’s fault too.
Dean…
‘This is all your fault!’ Sam hissed.
‘That sounded less whiny in your head, didn’t it, Samantha?’ Dean asked, reaching over to pat him on the head.
Fucking smirking smirker who smirked. Make that a patronising, fucking smirking smirker who smirked.
‘Wow! Now that’s a bitchface!’
Sam managed to uncurl surprisingly quickly despite what he was wearing.
He was actually grateful for Dad’s, and Dean’s, fight training because he had no trouble slamming Dean against the opposite wall (second cousin to his friend he supposed, so he hoped it wouldn’t take it amiss that it was being used thus,) and holding him there in a choke hold while he used his other free hand to count off vital facts.
‘First off, Deirdre honey:
a) Samantha doesn’t whine
b) Samantha doesn’t pout.
c) Samantha’s a lady.
d) This is STILL ALL YOUR FAULT!’
‘Okay, Samantha baby,’ Dean said (once Sam had eased up on his throat a bit.) ‘Got yourself a nice little case of aggression going. That’s fine and dandy in a brawl, and you’re certainly working it, but it’s probably more José talking than Samantha, who I’ll agree is a lady, though she really needs to learn to hold her liquor better.’
Sometimes Dean never knew when to shut up, or when to take a breath in the middle of a convoluted run-on sentence.
Sam would have glared at his brother again, but standing up so quickly hadn’t been his most brilliant idea, and now the adrenaline burst was easing off he felt a little…
‘Dean, I’m going t…’
Oh God.
‘Guard! Can we get an escort to the Ladies? … Now!’
‘Ooops … Never mind.’
‘Clean up in Aisle 6!’
Bastard.
‘Dean?’
‘What, Sammy?’
‘You know I’m going to kill you as soon as I feel better?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Okay. Good.’
Oh God.
‘Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Next time you want to do Freakfest in style, do me a favour and go with Dad instead?’
‘Okay, Sammy.’
‘Good.’
Oh God. Oh God. Oh…
‘Gonna need a bucket in here!’
‘Sam?’
Urk. ‘Urk.’
‘Did you just say urk?’
Ugh. ‘Maybe?’
‘Okay … Sam?’
‘What?’
‘You totally forgot I was in here with you earlier, didn’t you?’
No. Yes. No. I… ‘The wall kind of distracted me for a bit.’
‘Sammy?
‘Yeah?’
‘You need to stop listening to those kind of walls. You never know where they’ve been, or who they’re working for.’
Huh. That made sense. Maybe the wall was like a … spy or… a spying spy who spied! Fucking traitorous wall…
‘Sam?’
‘Uh?’
‘So, you knew I was here, right? You know I wouldn’t ever leave you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’
Oh God. Not aga…
‘Gonna need more buckets!’
‘Dean?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’m going to die in here, aren’t I?’
Dean held him closer. ‘Nope. Just going to feel like it for another hour or so.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yup. No dying without me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Just okay?’
‘Okay. Good.’
‘Good.’
Tucked safe, Sam smiled, and tried to ignore the taste in his mouth. Yuck. Alcohol burned going down and coming back up. He could have lived without knowing that until after he’d graduated from high school.
Hitch your wagon to a car.
Midway, UT. October 1996.
Dean loved it when a plan came together.
Sam? Would rather he made all the plans from now on.
‘Sam? You listening to me?’
Sam just grunted expressively around the burger in his mouth, and pulled his plate closer. It never paid to leave any meal unguarded. Dean was totally capable of pulling a switch during a second’s distraction. Sam wanted each and every chip that remained (and possibly a few of those lettuce leaves too.) If he didn’t keep his eyes on the fries, Dean would end up happy (and full), and Sam would be left with the garnish that Dean despised on principle (which principle he never did explain.)
Sam glared at the suddenly unappetising lettuce on principle.
‘Sam?’
Sam swallowed. ‘What?’ he snapped, keeping his focus on his brother’s hands. Now you see them…
‘It says right here that we can enjoy a live presentation of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow!’ Dean announced excitedly.
What the fuck? Was Dean drugged-or more likely-drunk? This was weird even for him. Since when did Dean have a passion for early American literature?
Sam briefly considered digging his Star Wars flask out of his backpack and flinging holy water onto him, but quickly decided that it was unlikely that Dean was possessed by the spirit of Washington Irving, or by a depressed English teacher. That meant only one thing. Sam should have gone with the obvious answer first. Dean was…
‘Oh my God, Sam. It’s like your favourite bedtime story ever, come to life!’
Fucking with him.
‘Shut up, Dean!’
‘Nooooo, I can’t. I haven’t told you the best bit.’
Sam shuddered and changed his target to their father, willing him to turn away from the queue at the coffee percolator, and come back to rescue him before Dean…
‘Wagon rides!’ Dean squealed excitedly.
Too late.
Dean was literally bouncing in his chair as he began to attract the bemused attention of all of the Resort’s diners. Everyone except Dad, which was strange because even though Dad’s idea of heaven was undoubtedly a permanent caffeine drip he was normally more al…
Payback.
Damn it! Sam was only partly responsible for last night’s trial run. It was all Dean’s idea! Sam had just aided in the implementation. He was an accessory that was all. Who knew old people were so gullible, and easily spooked? And it wasn’t like either of them had been in any real danger of falling off the roof, even if it was hard to keep their balance, what with the wind, and the billowing robes, and the glow-in-the-dark pumpkins…
Mr O’Brien’s “stroke” had turned out to be a harmless panic attack, and even he had seen the funny side of it once the doctor had left. Talking about “kids these days” and how he could show Dean a thing or two about how to really scare people.
Besides, the Manager had finally said he wouldn’t sue, hadn’t he?
As he slipped him a thick wad of cash, Dad had assured the Manager that he would be meting out a suitably stern punishment in the morning.
Sam had been praying that whatever it involved wouldn’t start with a 20-mile run around the grounds.
Now? 20 miles? No problem. He was even prepared to throw in 100 crunches.
Damn, Dad. It was amazing how he was able to push Sam along a plank to his doom, even with his back turned, and still not spill a drop of the sacred brown fluid. Fucking Marine training.
Maybe now was a good time to go back to bed?
‘Horses, Sammy!’
Dean was now tossing his head back with gleeful abandon. Any minute now he was going to start moaning.
Sam refused to be baited. He’d had a lot of practice at it. Every time that damned movie came on television Dean insisted on gleefully re-enacting his favourite scene for days afterwards.
Sam wished Harry had never met Sally.
‘Wild horses! Probably wild, wicked, and wanton horses!’
Funny how Dean knew so many words relating to sexual behaviour. It was probably the only reason he hadn’t ever thrown Sam’s favourite dictionary away liked he’d often threatened to over the years.
Oh, Christ. Sam wished he hadn’t taken another glance across the table.
Dean had indeed escalated his actions. Writhing was the only word to describe what he was doing.
Sam bit back his own moan, and pushed all the plates to the other end of the table. He didn’t need his brother adding food porn to his already extensive repertoire.
Perhaps if he shut his eyes this would all go away? Or at the very least his hyperactive and depraved brother might get bored soon?
Sam vowed to start keeping car magazines in his backpack in case he ever needed an emergency fraternal distraction in the future.
Sam came to the conclusion that life was better lived blind. And deaf. Oh, God. Forget about Dad being sued; the moaning was going to get them arrested.
‘Mmmn… Oh! Oh! Oh, Sammy! Wild horses with wagons! You know how much room there is in a wagon? I bet country girls really know about wagons. Wild and wicked country girls. Mmmn…’
Sam kept his eyes squeezed shut and wished, not for the first time, that his brother wasn’t an exhibitionist. Please, God, let Dad decide Sam’s sentence was up. Sam swore it was the last time he’d ever take part in one of his brother’s plans.
Oh no! He’d brought out the whimpering! Forget an X rating. Dean Winchester had sped past that and was now busy creating a whole new definition for the letter Z.
‘Uhhh… Ohhhhhhh… Gives you a whole new appreciation for the simple life. Oh, bab… Fuck, Dad! What did you do that for?’
Forget blindness. Sight was better after all. Dean was on the floor, while their father stood next to him calmly holding his coffee cup and Dean’s chair aloft.
Sam’s time of humiliation hell was finally up. Thank you, Jesus!
Sam took advantage of his brother’s discomfort to cackle maliciously and make the universal sign for “Loser!”
If there was any justice in the world Dad’s plans for Dean would be equally harsh. He couldn’t wait to see them.
Dean scrambled to his feet, seemingly unabashed. He bowed to their stunned audience, waving graciously when he received some scattered claps from the younger visitors.
‘Dean! Room! Now!’
‘But wait! There’s more!’ he protested as their father marched them all out of the restaurant before Dean continued his tribute to Meg Ryan.
Sam hoped it was free steak knives because they’d come in handy the next time he felt like stabbing his brother to death.
‘My kingdom for another knife! A silver one would be nice.’ Sam complained as they hunched down beside the wagon again. He made a note to always double everything in future. His knife had gone through its target, and was still stuck in a tree fifteen feet too far away under these conditions. And he’d run out of bullets early on covering Dean when the horses had sensibly decided they didn’t need a close encounter of the supernatural kind and they’d made a break for freedom. Fortunately it turned out all those cowboy movies were full of useful facts such as how to cut the traces before your mode of transport hurtles off a track and tumbles its occupants down a steep cliff to a messy death in a picturesque canyon below. Movies were more fun to watch than to actually be a part of.
‘Huh. I think I tried to propose the same deal for a paperclip once,’ Dean answered breathlessly (admittedly he was busy trying to shoot the Homestead Resort’s new resident if somewhat peripatetic poltergeist, and duck the rocks it was tossing with too fine an aim in their direction.)
‘Did you offer to throw in the princess to get upgraded to silver?’ Sam queried, honestly curious (in his spare seconds between all the ducking, and throwing, and swearing.)
‘Nah! You know I’d never trade you in, Sammy. Least not for precious metals, although if I might be tempted with Led Zeppelin tickets.’
‘Jerk.’
‘Yeah, but never in public,’ Dean said with a smirk that showed his amazingly still scarlet lipstick to good effect. ‘Didn’t I ever teach you anything about modesty?’
Sam would have ground his teeth, or better yet, slapped his brother silly for that lewd remark (because that was an image he wasn’t getting out of his mind in a hurry,) but he decided his time would be more usefully spent returning those rocks with a vengeance.
‘Right back at you, Casper!’ Dean screamed helpfully on his behalf.
‘Jasper, idiot! His name was Jasper!’
‘I know that, Sam.’ Dean shot off another few rounds at what had been Jasper Eriksson (nice kindly member of the local church, and one of the Resort’s guides who used to give horseback tours of the Wasatch Mountain State Park when he wasn’t busy carving people up like turkeys between Thanksgiving and Halloween.) ‘But, seriously? Can you blame me? He’s a freaking ghost! What’s an initial when you’re dead?’
Sam didn’t bother stopping himself from rolling his eyes over Dean’s … Deanness as he volleyed more rocks back and forth with good old Jasper (a.k.a. Bad old Casper.) Dean was right; it did have more of a ghostly ring of confidence, so who cared if it was plagiarism?
‘Goddamn dude ranch preacher. What is it with Bible thumpers hating the letters G.L.B.T., and always wanting to kill boys who just want to have fun (and look pretty)? Religious nutters!’
‘Better not let Pastor Jim hear you say that, Dean.’
‘Pastor Jim loves me!’
‘That’s not what he said when you streaked through the congregation seven years ago.’
‘It was a heatwave! How was I to know they were having a special service? Besides, I got a standing ovation!’
‘Dean, they were standing up so they could run away screaming in horror.’
‘Bitch!’
‘Bite me, Dean!’
Dean blew him a kiss that he morphed into a raspberry because he was just that good at multi-tasking under pressure.
Bastard. Sam had no idea how his brother managed to keep his makeup so perfect under battle conditions. It was a complete mystery to him. Some secrets were never shared.
Dean threw another annoying grin over his shoulder as he thumbed in the last of his ammunition. ‘Not till later, sweethea… SHIT!!!’
As he dragged Dean back to safety Sam was more than ready for them to stop being the bait while Dad got to Jasper… fuck it… Casper the not-so dearly departed’s bones.
‘Christ on a stick, that hurt!’ Dean complained as Sam put pressure on his shoulder wound.
‘God’ll get you for that!’ a maddened Casper shrieked.
‘Wasn’t talking to you!’ Dean popped free of Sam’s hold to yell. ‘But I’m standing right here. God can bring it!’
‘BLASPHEMER!’
Casper was winding up for another throw. Fucker had the velocity of a major league baseball pitcher.
‘Blaspheme this!’ Dean said; tossing a gesture which even long-dead Mormon serial killers should be able to recognise without channelling a medium with a dictionary of sign language.
‘Dean!’ It was as hopeless as trying to control a demented Jack-in-a-box. Brothers.
‘UNBELIEVER!’
‘Tour guide!’
‘Dean!’
‘What?’
‘Tour guide?’
‘I’m running out of insults,’ Dean said with shame. ‘We’ve been out here dressed up as bait for ages. If Dad doesn’t nuke his bones soon, the next wagon on the schedule’s going to be up our asses, and we’ll have civilians to worry about on top of everyth...’
‘GOD-FORSAKEN CREATURE OF STRANGE PERVERSIONS!’
‘I thought you said God was going to get me? How’s he going to do that if he’s fors… Hey! Who are you calling a pervert?’
‘ROUGED HARPY!’
‘Chanel, bitch!’ Dean shot back with his last bullet. When all else fails, name drop.
‘Dean, was that?’
‘Yep. I’m out, and we can’t wait for Dad. We need to take this fucker out ourselves. Time for Plan B.’
Oh fuck.
‘Dean, are you sure about this?’
‘Sure!’ Dean answered blithely.
‘Liar.’ Lying liar who lies.
‘Shut up! You know you love me.’
‘Nope. I only want you for your shoes,’ Sam snarked back.
Dean grinned. ‘Well they are awesome. Who knew red was my colour?’
In the end, by some capriciously positive twist of Fate, Dean’s plan actually worked.
Turns out that iron-heeled stilettos not only look hot, and are a good investment, but if you get two people to ram them simultaneously into a ghost, while one of you yells, ‘Karma, baby!’ they do a totally awesome job of getting to the slightly opaque, but still black, heart of the problem and banishing it once and for all.
Huh.
it also turns out that no matter how mad, bad, and dangerous Plan B was to know and carry out, you should just suck it up, stop wishing you (or your fake I.D.) were old enough to block it all out with shots, and learn to shut up, and be grateful it worked.
And you should never, ever ask your brother afterwards what his backup-backup plan was.
Because, if it so happened that the first step in Dean’s Plan C was:
1. Hitch your wagon to a 67 Chevy Impala
Then, if your name happened to be Sam Winchester, you might consider:
a) The gradient of the slope.
b) The speed of the car, its weight, and the momentum that would develop.
c) The distance to the floor of the canyon below.
d) And how mad your father was going to be…’
And you might faint in your brother’s arms, totally crushing your frock in the process.
Stilettos are a guy’s best friend.
Anoka, MN. October 1999.
Sam had a plan.
It was just hard to walk in.
Sweet sixteen, never been… What did they know? Okay, Sam did have a lot of firsts that year:
Ankles were a bitch. As were heels (but it turned out that they did amazing things for the definition of his calves.)
Sam added a (temporary) point to his plan.- Learn to how to look like you’re walking on sunshineThen some sub-points:- Full length mirrors are your friend.
- Fear is not your friend.
- Stand before you walk.
- One small step for Samkind.Hard floors (not shiny), or low carpet are best.
Shagpile is hard to balance on, and so very tacky.- One. Two. Three small steps.
- Always remember to indicate.Try a turn. Steady… steady!- Safety first.Holding your big brother’s hand is not girly.
Smacking him on the cheek and calling him a jerk when he snickers at you is.- Remember the 3Ps:
Point your feet forwards at all times!Ducks are not your role model.Posture. (a.k.a. Position, position, position.)Legs straight, thighs close together!
It’s good for your balance, and it’s modest.Practice. Practice. Practice.- Slow is smooth.
- Mix it up.Change your starting point (you’ll be surprised how that can throw you when you think you’ve got it down pat.)
‘Wobbles are for wusses.’
‘Fuck off, Dean!’- Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. (a.k.a. Practice 201)Learn it.
Do it.
Do it again. With attitude, darling!- Embrace diversity.Got it? Now try different floor surfaces. Hah!
Now repeat (as above.)- Learned to walk? Feeling awesome (and really hot tall)? Now try living in heels!Stairs. Up and down are very different experiences.
Walks. Long, long walks (but not in the rain unless you have treated your shoes with an appropriate protectant.)
Shopping.
Driving.Forget about it. Slip a nice fluffy pair of mules into your handbag and swap into them for the journey. Trust me on this one. A moment taken is worth a fortune lost due to the upkeep of damaged heels.Queuing.
Busing.
Running (but only for the bus, or if you aspire to be Emma Peel.)
Dancing.- So, you think you can dance?Now try raising the height of the heel.
Then higher!- Pedicures are your second-best friend.As are: Shoe inserts.
Invisible bandaids.
And… Sweet heaven above… foot massages. Mmmmmm….You now have a lot of second-best friends. Learn to play nice.
- Whoever said ‘imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’ was an idiot. Whilst it is advisable to watch and learn from your brother, remember it is always wise to develop one’s own style. Just because Dean can walk like an Egyptian in his heels (and has been seen to do so on the top of a bar on more than one occasion for tips) that is no reason for you to do the same.
Sam’s plan?
The one that said:
1. Leave.
That plan?
It needed heavy duty gel inserts.
Evidence is futile.
Palo Alto Police Dept. Palo Alto, CA. November 1st 2005 (2.09 a.m.)
Sam’s plan?
Was fucked.
As he scrabbled helplessly at the concrete walls Sam’s alcohol-infused brain was struggling to remember, and amend, his old friend Plan J (How to survive jail without really dying.)
Unfortunately he was hindered by Thad moaning, ‘I’m going to die! I’m going to lose my scholarship! I’m going to get booted out of Stanford! I’m going to prison! I’m going to become someone’s bitch! I’m going to die!’ on repeat throughout the whole booking procedure.
Jessica, on the other hand, initially seemed to view it as an interesting learning experience, and kept muttering that she wished she had her camera. She also spent a lot of time giggling, petting Sam’s hair, and blinking confusedly up at the fluorescent lights exclaiming, ‘But they’re so pretty…’
Of the two, Sam wasn’t sure who was going to be the hardest to handle.
He blamed himself, and the shots. And tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that kept jumping up and down and waving for attention.
Finally (because the jumping wasn’t helping his headache) he hissed, ‘What?’ under his breath.
The voice bitched, ‘About time you, great big drunken lout!’ before dropping its pink pom-poms in a tangled mess next to its prettily shod feet. It swayed unsteadily, and burped vulgarly twice before managing to continue.
‘Don’t forget Dean. This is another fine mess he’s gotten us into!’
A police station was not the best place to lose one’s temper. Sam knew that.
But despite the fact that these officers were calm, courteous, and clear (even when Sam had to occasionally ask them to repeat themselves when things got fuzzy) in their requests, Sam was mad.
Sam knew the headquarters of the P.A.P.D. was definitely not the best place to have a tantrum. He knew that. He did.
But he (and the voice in his head) had thought about it rationally and decided so fucking what?
‘What do you mean, “we’ll have to separate you?” We came together; we’re staying together; and we’re … hic! … leaving together!’
‘Jess!’
Fucking cops. “Stanford’s finest,” my ass!
Sam was going to fix this. Just as soon as the floor stopped moving.
‘Officer!’
…
‘Why can’t I trade Thad for Jess?’
…
‘What if I throw in my… Hey, what happened to my watch?’
‘What do you mean, “confiscated?” It’s a watch, not a bomb!’
A word to the wise. Never mention explosives whilst in custody.
'Arson? What arson?'
'I "used a flaming torch to set the Quad on fire?"'
Uh.
Torch? Torch... oh... Oops.
'Would would believe it was an accident?'
'No?'
'Would you believe...?'
'"Incitement to riot?"'
‘But it was just the one song…’
‘Is it just me, or is it hot in here?’
…
‘I’m sure that’s a contravention of one of our basic human rights. Thad, we need to start making a li… Thad?’
…
‘Didn’t I warn you not to eat the carrots at CoHo?’
‘Officer!’
…
‘What do you mean, “She’s under investigative detention?”’
‘Oh! “only under.” I feel so much better now, don’t you?’
…
‘Thad? Oh God, how much did you have for dinner anyway?’
‘Officer!’
…
“Limited restriction of personal mobility for a brief period of time?”
‘Thad? Why are you clapping?’
…
‘No, Thad. It isn’t like Jess getting told she can’t walk on the grass any more.’
…
‘Thad. I know you were only trying to help. But can you help by sitting in the corner for a minute?’
‘No! Not that cor… ewww, Thad.’
‘Officer!’
…
‘But you arrested all of us!’
…
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I’m sure we were arrested.’
…
‘I remember being arrested.’
He could certainly recall being patted down (in a very friendly manner) by a well-built officer. Such a shame he didn’t have freckles. Sam remembered liking freckles. If only he could remember why…
Damned shots!
…
‘I certainly wouldn’t have climbed into your paddy wagon voluntarily! No matter how good your pick-up line was.’
…
‘Thad! You remember being ARRESTED, don’t you?’
…
‘Thad?’
‘It’s okay, Thad. I’m going to get us out of here.’
…
‘What do you mean, “how?” I’m pre-law, Thad. It’ll be fine.’
‘Officer! I want to make a statement!’
‘What do you mean, “No formal statement is required if custody takes place.” Don’t I have a right to make a statement?’
‘Oh, a “right to remain silent…” Well, I waive that right. Now can I make a statement?’
‘No?’
‘I’m being argumentative?’
‘No, I’m not!’
It was a plot. Sam was sure it was a plot. Jail seemed more complicated and confusing than when he was a kid. But then he’d had Dean.
Dean.
Fucker should be here. Dean could show them argumentative, he had it inscribed inside the barrel of his favourite pistol.
Jeez it was quiet in here. Luckily Sam had always liked the quiet life. He was much better suited to being stuck in jail temporarily than his brother.
Plenty of time to meditate, and think about his assignments. It was almost like a vacation when you thought about it.
Assignments. History. Fuck it. It was due on the 3rd. Goodbye great GPA (and his scholarship-if Thad wasn’t right and this particular Day of the Dead hadn’t killed off both their academic careers already,) if he didn’t get that giant piece of his assessment in on time.
And yeah, Stanford’s policy of non-interference over student arrests was going to be no help whatsoever in this situation.
Sam wondered if he could bribe the guards to bring him a final bottle of Tequila. He might as well go out on a Mexican wave. Ole!
Quiet.
‘Thad?’
Too quiet.
‘Officer!’
…
‘Officer…?’
‘Officer… Fred?’
…
‘Fred, did I ever tell you about my big brother? He’s the b…’
‘Then there was the time that he…’
‘Fucking families! They’ll do it to you every time, Fred.’
‘You look like a nice, understanding guy…’
‘Tell me, are the pearls too much?’
‘The kind of person who really listens to people…’
‘First thing that comes into your head. Eye shadow or lipstick. Or, eye shadow and lipstick? More or less?’
…
‘Really?’ Huh.
…
‘No, I’m okay. I appreciate your honesty, Fred.’
…
‘Can I borrow a tissue?’
‘Fuck! My stilettos are killing me.’
‘“Why?” Uh…’
‘Can you keep a secret, Fred?’
…
‘Fred?’
…
‘What do you mean, “I’m not your therapist?”’
…
“Build a bridge and get over it?”
…
‘And orange is soooo too my colour!’
…
‘Heartless uniformed minion of an uncaring justice system! It’s situations like this that made me want to become a lawyer in the first place. I wanted to protect people. People like me. My…’
‘Did you know that, Fred?’
…
‘Fred?’
Fuck Fred! There were plenty of other useful things Sam could be doing with his time. He had people to see. Locks to pick…
Damned nails never stood up to this challenge. How harsh was it that they didn’t let you bring your nail polish in with you?
‘Fr… Officer!’
…
‘Officer?’
…
Anyone?
‘Officer Bueller?’
The hell with it. It was just him and…
Sam looked over at the snoring heap that was Thad-The-Carrot-Killer in the adjoining cell.
Right. Count Thad out of the mission.
Sam didn’t need anyone’s help (although he wouldn’t say no to a good shoemaker, damned heels kept biting into him.) He’d tried to be normal, and keep it honest, but now it was time to play by the Winchester rules ©1983 (Rev. & enl. ed.)
That ought to do it.
The voice in his head (who’d obviously just woken up from a drunken nap) slurred, ‘Take that fuckerssssssss!’
And while Sam appreciated the solidarity he’d rather it kept quiet for now. He didn’t want to draw any extra attention until exactly the right…
‘Son of a bitch!’ How many volts was that?
Sam touched his head gingerly, and hoped partial amnesia wasn’t a side effect of the powerful current. Surely he hadn’t had bangs before today, had he?
On the positive side, after the momentary (damn that backup generator) power shortage had fused some of the cells’ locks they were moved to a carrot-free block of the LEF, and Thad (thankfully conscious again, and clad in a clean but unflattering paper jumpsuit) was now ensconced in a separate cell where the Stanford prison experiment seemed to be weighing heavily on his mind.
Sam wished he’d never insisted Thad re-write that History of Psych paper in his own writing before submitting it to Professor Deacon. Who knew his friend had that good a memory?
‘Winchester. You get one call. You got someone to call?’
No.
Yes.
‘No.’
Now the voice was singing, ‘Here I am alone and blue…’
Sam concluded that the voice was both emo, and selfish.
Putting the comforting image of his brother standing guard over him aside, he decided to ask the voice one last question.
‘Do you take requests?
‘Kearney! Winchester! Look alive and put your faces on, we’ve got some like-minded company for you.’
‘Winchester?’
No! ‘Professor… Donoghue?’
Shit. Shit. Shit on a brick. It was. Harold “Puddy-Duddy” Peachem Donoghue. B.A. M.Lit., double Ph.D. Member of every academic society in the nation that would still accept both his fees and pedantic complaints about the ways things should be done these days.
Professor Donoghue. Here. In jail. And not just in jail, there he was getting ushered into Thad’s room with a view. Locked into.
Professor Donoghue in the big house. With him. Wearing…
Sam had a sudden, and completely understandable coughing fit.
‘Professor Donoghue. Nice… tutu.’ And it was, even if it had giant, eye-searingly fluorescent…
Well, purple polka-dots were definitely a bold fashion choice. Right about then Sam wished he hadn’t left his phone at home (it always made such an unsightly bulge in his garter belt.)
Photos. He so needed hard evidence. There was no way his study group was ever going to believe this story.
Professor Donoghue in a tutu!
Suddenly Sam realised that (forgetting for a moment the whole issue re: the ethics of blackmail,) getting that extension on his History assignment might be easier than he’d anticipated. If only he could have this kind of luck with the rest of the week’s work, his incarceration (angst aside) might almost be worth it.
‘Dr Frank-N-…Winchester?’
No way!
Way.
As a large percentage of Stanford’s Government and History faculty staff proceeded to be ushered into the “special needs” wing of the detention area, Sam and an equally astonished Thad just stared in amazement.
Every single one was creatively dressed in the wildest (and in some cases raunchiest-even taking Sam’s outfit into consideration) assortment of Halloween costumes that Sam had ever set eyes on (and he’d seen Dean’s copy of Debbie does Halloween II at least 5 times.)
Forget the officers of the P.A.P.D. His professors had just seized the sparkly crown of “Stanford’s finest.” Staid old Stanford, and its staff rocked!
Who’d have guessed it?
Of course, as Fate would (predictably) have it, that’s when things started to get really weird…
So, forget worrying about Sam’s thing. His seasonal pattern of behaviour. The thing he never talked about. The thing he tucked inside himself and only let out once a year. Yeah, forget that thing.
Because, those heels? Those (toe-pinching, heel-biting,) fucking gorgeous 5-inch high fabulously coloured stilettos that he’d finally edged out 3 other bidders to snap up from a mysterious British “lady collector of curiosities” on eBay?
They were possessed!
Yes! Literally!
Turns out; that it is asking too much to just want to run away from home to feel pretty, and witty, and normal, in this day and age.
Isn’t life a bitch?
So, if Sam got some increasingly strange looks from his kinky (but awesome) professors as he proceeded to salt and burn his blood-stained and still snarling stilettos with extreme prejudice?
So what?
Sam was too busy cursing and silently wishing his absent brother a ‘Happy fucking Halloween, Dean! Wherever you are.’
Naturally (because Fate is still a bitch who really hates Sam Winchester, and knows how to make leather chafe in the most uncomfortable places), that’s when the smouldering remains of his $125.99 toxic tangerine pumps started twitching and cackling maniacally back to life.
And then the police station’s smoke alarms went off…
Just do it!
Palo Alto, CA. October 31st 2006 (11.58 p.m.)
Sam had a plan.
This year really was going to be different.
Sam didn’t need to prove anything to his brother. He’d broken the pattern, and was doing fine all on his own.
He had Jessica, he had Stanford, and he had a law school interview.
Sam also had a new plan.
1. Don’t think about Dean.
1. Orange Roughy Part 1 | Part 2
2. The Rainbow Connection
3. Pink Me!
Rating: R, Gen (but if you believe in subtext clap your hands)
Characters: Sam/Jess, Dean, John
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchester dolls for the purposes of general amusement. Sorry about the holes!
Word Count: 7,190/11,326
A/N: Crack! fic written for spn_halloween, 2009. Prompt no. 27: Some of Stanford’s finest find out why Sam Winchester really *hates* Halloween.
A companion piece to Noise. Part of The Colour Chronicles.
Setting: Stanford, CA (& elsewhere.) October 2006-2005- (Flashbacks? What flashbacks?)
Summary: Wherein Sam Winchester is emo, prone to listmaking, confused, and alone. Unfortunately, neither the leather outfit nor the prison cell he’s presently stuck in is helping him solve the real problem. Oh yeah, and did he forget to mention that it’s October 31st? Sam really hates Halloween.
Part 1 | Part 2
Sam had this thing. And he can prove that it was all Dean’s fault.
Do not go directly to jail.
Madison, WI. October 2000
Sam’s plan definitely didn’t include jail.
One of these days Sam needed to get a better plan.
It was all Dean’s fault. Fucker. Sam had been sure of that for the past 2 hours, 19 minutes, and 7 seconds. Mostly because he’d been stuck in jail with nothing else to do but think about exactly how, and why this situation was all his brother’s fault.
On top of how and why, Sam could give details of where, and when, and when, and when Dean was to blame for all this. So many detailed details that they deserved to be rendered in point form.
1.
2.
3.
Although Sam was pissed (in all the ways one could be, including the headache), he was a generous (not geeky) guy who was prepared to let the aforementioned fucker-Fine! Alleged fucker:
Pick a style.
I.
II.
III.
Any style.
a)
b)
c)
Even bullets (because his laptop was locked and loaded with the latest version of Microsoft® Word, which-despite its inherently annoying MicrosoftnessPATENT POSSIBLY PENDING-allowed him to customize his plans with as many different typographical symbols as he damned well felt like. And Sam wasn’t even going to explain how the picture into bullet option gave him a possibly illicit thrill.) Though Sam was going to have to get out of fucking jail first, and hopefully free, in order to be reunited with… No he hadn’t named him… it… uh… his laptop. In the meantime Sam decided to use his highly developed (and slightly dizzy) mind to do all of the above, like… mentally.
Whoah!
Sam curled sideways on the cot and tried to rest his head against the soothing coolness of the wall. He nestled closer, but it was too hard for true comfort. Not that any of that was the wall’s fault.
‘Nice wall,’ he murmured, giving it a consolatory pat. Form was supposed to follow function after all. It couldn’t help it if its function wasn’t to be… cushy? Padded? Which reminded him of other kinds of cells. Warmer possibly, but ever so much more claustrophobic and sourly redolent of ‘You’re never getting out of here!’ Which now he came to think of it he was getting a strong whiff of right then.
Fuck…
Sam hated jails. He also had one other grievance; couldn’t the architects do something to counteract the tendency the walls had to keep swaying? Because, really, the cells were deep in the middle of the building, so surely the inside ones were protected from the wind? Dean, who was some kind of secret engineering genius, probably knew why walls did what they did, and could invent a way to fix it if he felt like it (or someone motivated him sufficiently with food.) Dean could do almost anything.
Sam stroked the wall lovingly. It didn’t seem to mind him grinding his teeth and whispering fratricidal comments that probably weren’t the wisest choice in jailhouse conversation. Especially as Sam was willing to bet the cells were bugged; it would only be sensible what with all the hardened criminals they usually had doing sleep-overs.
Sam was hardened. Tough even. Shame about the nails though. You try picking the lock on a pair of handcuffs with a fresh manicure and see what happens!
What was it with confiscating paperclips and tubes of lipsticks nowadays? Was nothing sacred? Not that his Spring Apricot semi-gloss would have helped him escape, unless the guards were particularly sympathetic to long-legged, floppy-haired, completely innocent of all charges (no way those security cameras along State Street had good enough resolution to be admissible as evidence,) dimpled students who just happened to accidentally get taken into custody on completely bogus charges while they were out enjoying Halloween.
Well, he had been trying to enjoy himself, right up until Fate saw fit to remind him that fucking jail time was a long-standing part of a Winchester Halloween.
Sam had a grudge against Fate. How many years did this make it now?
‘Grrrrr,’ he growled threateningly just in case Fate could be scared and bluffed.
Sam patted his close friend the wall again. ‘I didn’t mean you,’ he explained; because if plants could scream, and walls had ears (and bugs), surely they had feelings too?
Luckily the wall appeared to be amazingly empathetic. Or possibly Sam’s hiccups and his resultant nauseated whimper mid-growl had confused it?
Sam moaned again; he was so over the swaying thing. Where was Dean when he needed him?
Fucking Dean.
This was completely his fault in so many ways. In fact, Sam should make a list just to keep them straight, and use it against him at a later date if necessary.
Hah! That’d show him.
Sam could give details of where, and when, and when, and…
Huh.
Sam stopped fondling the wall. That was weird. He’d just had this surreal déjà vu flash thing.
Eep.
Maybe mixing Bourbon and Tequila wasn’t a good idea any more. It wasn’t like he was still sixteen and coul…
Oh.
It felt like déjà vu because…
Um.
Sam tried not to bang his head against the wall too hard because he didn’t want it (the wall, not his head. Duh!) to take it personally. After all he didn’t have any other objects (animate, inanimate, or unidentified) to talk to; at least until the guards did their next sweep.
As he struggled back up into a more dignified position (and one which couldn’t be misconstrued as being kinkily over-handsy with certain structural elements of the MPD’s headquarters) Sam did his best to get his only slightly tipsy mind back on track.
Bullets. That’s right. Dean could have his list numbered any which way, or bulleted if he wanted:•
•
•Sam was gonna let the fuckee… No that was wrong. Dean was the fucker, and Sam was the fuckee, or was he the fucked? Grammar was fucking confusing sometimes. Was there such a thing as a fuckor?
Nnnngh…
Sam’s brain hurt. And his eyeballs, and his freakin’ toenails. Everything hurt except his hair, which had the strength of ten, so that made Sam like Samson if you thought about it. Which was awesome (Sam could do awesome just as well as Dean could! And he was tall. Taller than his brother, so logically that made him awesomer), apart from being conned by a girl, and then the whole buried in rubble thing (that had to hurt.)
Hurting…
Bullets hurt. Sam was almost completely coherent enough to remember being shot enough times to know that bullets hurt.
But right now? Booze hurt more than bullets. Fucking Tequila. Sam blamed the Tequila.
Uh…
No, that wasn’t right. Sam blamed…?
Dean!
Sam blamed Dean.
Dean deserved bullets.
Silver fucking bullets even, if that was what it took to get the job done.•
•
•Yeah, bullets. That’s what he needed. Silver bullets:
- Bang!
- Bang!
- BANG!
‘It’ll be awesome!’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with…’
Yeah, right.
Sam had reviewed the facts (the ones that hadn’t gotten swept away in a tidal wave of shots) and come to a clear, unbiased decision.
This? Sam’s thing? No, not that thing! What’s wrong with you people? The other thing! The thing he never talked about?
That thing?
It was all Dean’s fault.
Oh, and the jail time.
Just this once Sam gave Fate a hall pass and told it to go take a leak and go home early. Because jail? That was Dean’s fault too.
Dean…
‘This is all your fault!’ Sam hissed.
‘That sounded less whiny in your head, didn’t it, Samantha?’ Dean asked, reaching over to pat him on the head.
Fucking smirking smirker who smirked. Make that a patronising, fucking smirking smirker who smirked.
‘Wow! Now that’s a bitchface!’
Sam managed to uncurl surprisingly quickly despite what he was wearing.
He was actually grateful for Dad’s, and Dean’s, fight training because he had no trouble slamming Dean against the opposite wall (second cousin to his friend he supposed, so he hoped it wouldn’t take it amiss that it was being used thus,) and holding him there in a choke hold while he used his other free hand to count off vital facts.
‘First off, Deirdre honey:
a) Samantha doesn’t whine
b) Samantha doesn’t pout.
c) Samantha’s a lady.
d) This is STILL ALL YOUR FAULT!’
‘Okay, Samantha baby,’ Dean said (once Sam had eased up on his throat a bit.) ‘Got yourself a nice little case of aggression going. That’s fine and dandy in a brawl, and you’re certainly working it, but it’s probably more José talking than Samantha, who I’ll agree is a lady, though she really needs to learn to hold her liquor better.’
Sometimes Dean never knew when to shut up, or when to take a breath in the middle of a convoluted run-on sentence.
Sam would have glared at his brother again, but standing up so quickly hadn’t been his most brilliant idea, and now the adrenaline burst was easing off he felt a little…
‘Dean, I’m going t…’
Oh God.
‘Guard! Can we get an escort to the Ladies? … Now!’
‘Ooops … Never mind.’
‘Clean up in Aisle 6!’
Bastard.
‘Dean?’
‘What, Sammy?’
‘You know I’m going to kill you as soon as I feel better?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Okay. Good.’
Oh God.
‘Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Next time you want to do Freakfest in style, do me a favour and go with Dad instead?’
‘Okay, Sammy.’
‘Good.’
Oh God. Oh God. Oh…
‘Gonna need a bucket in here!’
‘Sam?’
Urk. ‘Urk.’
‘Did you just say urk?’
Ugh. ‘Maybe?’
‘Okay … Sam?’
‘What?’
‘You totally forgot I was in here with you earlier, didn’t you?’
No. Yes. No. I… ‘The wall kind of distracted me for a bit.’
‘Sammy?
‘Yeah?’
‘You need to stop listening to those kind of walls. You never know where they’ve been, or who they’re working for.’
Huh. That made sense. Maybe the wall was like a … spy or… a spying spy who spied! Fucking traitorous wall…
‘Sam?’
‘Uh?’
‘So, you knew I was here, right? You know I wouldn’t ever leave you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’
Oh God. Not aga…
‘Gonna need more buckets!’
‘Dean?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’m going to die in here, aren’t I?’
Dean held him closer. ‘Nope. Just going to feel like it for another hour or so.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yup. No dying without me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Just okay?’
‘Okay. Good.’
‘Good.’
Tucked safe, Sam smiled, and tried to ignore the taste in his mouth. Yuck. Alcohol burned going down and coming back up. He could have lived without knowing that until after he’d graduated from high school.
Hitch your wagon to a car.
Midway, UT. October 1996.
Dean loved it when a plan came together.
Sam? Would rather he made all the plans from now on.
‘Sam? You listening to me?’
Sam just grunted expressively around the burger in his mouth, and pulled his plate closer. It never paid to leave any meal unguarded. Dean was totally capable of pulling a switch during a second’s distraction. Sam wanted each and every chip that remained (and possibly a few of those lettuce leaves too.) If he didn’t keep his eyes on the fries, Dean would end up happy (and full), and Sam would be left with the garnish that Dean despised on principle (which principle he never did explain.)
Sam glared at the suddenly unappetising lettuce on principle.
‘Sam?’
Sam swallowed. ‘What?’ he snapped, keeping his focus on his brother’s hands. Now you see them…
‘It says right here that we can enjoy a live presentation of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow!’ Dean announced excitedly.
What the fuck? Was Dean drugged-or more likely-drunk? This was weird even for him. Since when did Dean have a passion for early American literature?
Sam briefly considered digging his Star Wars flask out of his backpack and flinging holy water onto him, but quickly decided that it was unlikely that Dean was possessed by the spirit of Washington Irving, or by a depressed English teacher. That meant only one thing. Sam should have gone with the obvious answer first. Dean was…
‘Oh my God, Sam. It’s like your favourite bedtime story ever, come to life!’
Fucking with him.
‘Shut up, Dean!’
‘Nooooo, I can’t. I haven’t told you the best bit.’
Sam shuddered and changed his target to their father, willing him to turn away from the queue at the coffee percolator, and come back to rescue him before Dean…
‘Wagon rides!’ Dean squealed excitedly.
Too late.
Dean was literally bouncing in his chair as he began to attract the bemused attention of all of the Resort’s diners. Everyone except Dad, which was strange because even though Dad’s idea of heaven was undoubtedly a permanent caffeine drip he was normally more al…
Payback.
Damn it! Sam was only partly responsible for last night’s trial run. It was all Dean’s idea! Sam had just aided in the implementation. He was an accessory that was all. Who knew old people were so gullible, and easily spooked? And it wasn’t like either of them had been in any real danger of falling off the roof, even if it was hard to keep their balance, what with the wind, and the billowing robes, and the glow-in-the-dark pumpkins…
Mr O’Brien’s “stroke” had turned out to be a harmless panic attack, and even he had seen the funny side of it once the doctor had left. Talking about “kids these days” and how he could show Dean a thing or two about how to really scare people.
Besides, the Manager had finally said he wouldn’t sue, hadn’t he?
As he slipped him a thick wad of cash, Dad had assured the Manager that he would be meting out a suitably stern punishment in the morning.
Sam had been praying that whatever it involved wouldn’t start with a 20-mile run around the grounds.
Now? 20 miles? No problem. He was even prepared to throw in 100 crunches.
Damn, Dad. It was amazing how he was able to push Sam along a plank to his doom, even with his back turned, and still not spill a drop of the sacred brown fluid. Fucking Marine training.
Maybe now was a good time to go back to bed?
‘Horses, Sammy!’
Dean was now tossing his head back with gleeful abandon. Any minute now he was going to start moaning.
Sam refused to be baited. He’d had a lot of practice at it. Every time that damned movie came on television Dean insisted on gleefully re-enacting his favourite scene for days afterwards.
Sam wished Harry had never met Sally.
‘Wild horses! Probably wild, wicked, and wanton horses!’
Funny how Dean knew so many words relating to sexual behaviour. It was probably the only reason he hadn’t ever thrown Sam’s favourite dictionary away liked he’d often threatened to over the years.
Oh, Christ. Sam wished he hadn’t taken another glance across the table.
Dean had indeed escalated his actions. Writhing was the only word to describe what he was doing.
Sam bit back his own moan, and pushed all the plates to the other end of the table. He didn’t need his brother adding food porn to his already extensive repertoire.
Perhaps if he shut his eyes this would all go away? Or at the very least his hyperactive and depraved brother might get bored soon?
Sam vowed to start keeping car magazines in his backpack in case he ever needed an emergency fraternal distraction in the future.
Sam came to the conclusion that life was better lived blind. And deaf. Oh, God. Forget about Dad being sued; the moaning was going to get them arrested.
‘Mmmn… Oh! Oh! Oh, Sammy! Wild horses with wagons! You know how much room there is in a wagon? I bet country girls really know about wagons. Wild and wicked country girls. Mmmn…’
Sam kept his eyes squeezed shut and wished, not for the first time, that his brother wasn’t an exhibitionist. Please, God, let Dad decide Sam’s sentence was up. Sam swore it was the last time he’d ever take part in one of his brother’s plans.
Oh no! He’d brought out the whimpering! Forget an X rating. Dean Winchester had sped past that and was now busy creating a whole new definition for the letter Z.
‘Uhhh… Ohhhhhhh… Gives you a whole new appreciation for the simple life. Oh, bab… Fuck, Dad! What did you do that for?’
Forget blindness. Sight was better after all. Dean was on the floor, while their father stood next to him calmly holding his coffee cup and Dean’s chair aloft.
Sam’s time of humiliation hell was finally up. Thank you, Jesus!
Sam took advantage of his brother’s discomfort to cackle maliciously and make the universal sign for “Loser!”
If there was any justice in the world Dad’s plans for Dean would be equally harsh. He couldn’t wait to see them.
Dean scrambled to his feet, seemingly unabashed. He bowed to their stunned audience, waving graciously when he received some scattered claps from the younger visitors.
‘Dean! Room! Now!’
‘But wait! There’s more!’ he protested as their father marched them all out of the restaurant before Dean continued his tribute to Meg Ryan.
Sam hoped it was free steak knives because they’d come in handy the next time he felt like stabbing his brother to death.
‘My kingdom for another knife! A silver one would be nice.’ Sam complained as they hunched down beside the wagon again. He made a note to always double everything in future. His knife had gone through its target, and was still stuck in a tree fifteen feet too far away under these conditions. And he’d run out of bullets early on covering Dean when the horses had sensibly decided they didn’t need a close encounter of the supernatural kind and they’d made a break for freedom. Fortunately it turned out all those cowboy movies were full of useful facts such as how to cut the traces before your mode of transport hurtles off a track and tumbles its occupants down a steep cliff to a messy death in a picturesque canyon below. Movies were more fun to watch than to actually be a part of.
‘Huh. I think I tried to propose the same deal for a paperclip once,’ Dean answered breathlessly (admittedly he was busy trying to shoot the Homestead Resort’s new resident if somewhat peripatetic poltergeist, and duck the rocks it was tossing with too fine an aim in their direction.)
‘Did you offer to throw in the princess to get upgraded to silver?’ Sam queried, honestly curious (in his spare seconds between all the ducking, and throwing, and swearing.)
‘Nah! You know I’d never trade you in, Sammy. Least not for precious metals, although if I might be tempted with Led Zeppelin tickets.’
‘Jerk.’
‘Yeah, but never in public,’ Dean said with a smirk that showed his amazingly still scarlet lipstick to good effect. ‘Didn’t I ever teach you anything about modesty?’
Sam would have ground his teeth, or better yet, slapped his brother silly for that lewd remark (because that was an image he wasn’t getting out of his mind in a hurry,) but he decided his time would be more usefully spent returning those rocks with a vengeance.
‘Right back at you, Casper!’ Dean screamed helpfully on his behalf.
‘Jasper, idiot! His name was Jasper!’
‘I know that, Sam.’ Dean shot off another few rounds at what had been Jasper Eriksson (nice kindly member of the local church, and one of the Resort’s guides who used to give horseback tours of the Wasatch Mountain State Park when he wasn’t busy carving people up like turkeys between Thanksgiving and Halloween.) ‘But, seriously? Can you blame me? He’s a freaking ghost! What’s an initial when you’re dead?’
Sam didn’t bother stopping himself from rolling his eyes over Dean’s … Deanness as he volleyed more rocks back and forth with good old Jasper (a.k.a. Bad old Casper.) Dean was right; it did have more of a ghostly ring of confidence, so who cared if it was plagiarism?
‘Goddamn dude ranch preacher. What is it with Bible thumpers hating the letters G.L.B.T., and always wanting to kill boys who just want to have fun (and look pretty)? Religious nutters!’
‘Better not let Pastor Jim hear you say that, Dean.’
‘Pastor Jim loves me!’
‘That’s not what he said when you streaked through the congregation seven years ago.’
‘It was a heatwave! How was I to know they were having a special service? Besides, I got a standing ovation!’
‘Dean, they were standing up so they could run away screaming in horror.’
‘Bitch!’
‘Bite me, Dean!’
Dean blew him a kiss that he morphed into a raspberry because he was just that good at multi-tasking under pressure.
Bastard. Sam had no idea how his brother managed to keep his makeup so perfect under battle conditions. It was a complete mystery to him. Some secrets were never shared.
Dean threw another annoying grin over his shoulder as he thumbed in the last of his ammunition. ‘Not till later, sweethea… SHIT!!!’
As he dragged Dean back to safety Sam was more than ready for them to stop being the bait while Dad got to Jasper… fuck it… Casper the not-so dearly departed’s bones.
‘Christ on a stick, that hurt!’ Dean complained as Sam put pressure on his shoulder wound.
‘God’ll get you for that!’ a maddened Casper shrieked.
‘Wasn’t talking to you!’ Dean popped free of Sam’s hold to yell. ‘But I’m standing right here. God can bring it!’
‘BLASPHEMER!’
Casper was winding up for another throw. Fucker had the velocity of a major league baseball pitcher.
‘Blaspheme this!’ Dean said; tossing a gesture which even long-dead Mormon serial killers should be able to recognise without channelling a medium with a dictionary of sign language.
‘Dean!’ It was as hopeless as trying to control a demented Jack-in-a-box. Brothers.
‘UNBELIEVER!’
‘Tour guide!’
‘Dean!’
‘What?’
‘Tour guide?’
‘I’m running out of insults,’ Dean said with shame. ‘We’ve been out here dressed up as bait for ages. If Dad doesn’t nuke his bones soon, the next wagon on the schedule’s going to be up our asses, and we’ll have civilians to worry about on top of everyth...’
‘GOD-FORSAKEN CREATURE OF STRANGE PERVERSIONS!’
‘I thought you said God was going to get me? How’s he going to do that if he’s fors… Hey! Who are you calling a pervert?’
‘ROUGED HARPY!’
‘Chanel, bitch!’ Dean shot back with his last bullet. When all else fails, name drop.
‘Dean, was that?’
‘Yep. I’m out, and we can’t wait for Dad. We need to take this fucker out ourselves. Time for Plan B.’
Oh fuck.
‘Dean, are you sure about this?’
‘Sure!’ Dean answered blithely.
‘Liar.’ Lying liar who lies.
‘Shut up! You know you love me.’
‘Nope. I only want you for your shoes,’ Sam snarked back.
Dean grinned. ‘Well they are awesome. Who knew red was my colour?’
In the end, by some capriciously positive twist of Fate, Dean’s plan actually worked.
Turns out that iron-heeled stilettos not only look hot, and are a good investment, but if you get two people to ram them simultaneously into a ghost, while one of you yells, ‘Karma, baby!’ they do a totally awesome job of getting to the slightly opaque, but still black, heart of the problem and banishing it once and for all.
Huh.
it also turns out that no matter how mad, bad, and dangerous Plan B was to know and carry out, you should just suck it up, stop wishing you (or your fake I.D.) were old enough to block it all out with shots, and learn to shut up, and be grateful it worked.
And you should never, ever ask your brother afterwards what his backup-backup plan was.
Because, if it so happened that the first step in Dean’s Plan C was:
1. Hitch your wagon to a 67 Chevy Impala
Then, if your name happened to be Sam Winchester, you might consider:
a) The gradient of the slope.
b) The speed of the car, its weight, and the momentum that would develop.
c) The distance to the floor of the canyon below.
d) And how mad your father was going to be…’
And you might faint in your brother’s arms, totally crushing your frock in the process.
Stilettos are a guy’s best friend.
Anoka, MN. October 1999.
Sam had a plan.
It was just hard to walk in.
Sweet sixteen, never been… What did they know? Okay, Sam did have a lot of firsts that year:
- First punch-up at school for the year?
- March 10th - Tommy Bulterknut (Lockers, Dayton High.)
- Fifty-first crush on a teacher?
- March 10th - Mrs Mayes (Homeroom, Dayton High.)
- First kiss? Right, not that year. Not by a long shot.
- May 1992 - Jennifer Peters, (Library, Florence H.S.)
Two sets of braces. That’s why it took him so long to bounce back. Seriously!
- May 1992 - Jennifer Peters, (Library, Florence H.S.)
- First soccer goal in an inter-school meet?
- April 11th 2.13 p.m. - Lakewood v Two Pines (Two Pines H.S.) Go the Thunderbolts!
- First real kiss?
- April 11th 3.32 p.m. - Chrissie Hartley (Under the bleachers-clichés exist for a reason-Two Pines H.S.) Thankfully he missed being a total loser by a few weeks (his plan was to only count Jennifer if he absolutely had to.)
- First date?
- April 16th - Chrissie Hartley (Taco Bell, Two Pines.) Cheap food and ‘exotic’ atmosphere… So? What did he know?
- First girlfriend?
- Take a wild guess.
- First time he kissed with a French accent?
- May 2nd - Debbie Hartley (Eraser room, Two Pines H.S.) Uh huh. Older sister, and no, it wasn’t his idea. In fact, he had a hard time getting away from her afterwards. He still doesn’t know if it was her plan or if Dean talked her into it.
- First breakup?
- May 3rd - Chrissie Hartley (Library, Two Pines H.S.) His idea. He was a bad, bad person.
- First plan?
- May onwards (W.I.P.) - (Under the bedcovers with a torch; at school; in Dad’s car; pretty much damn well everywhere.)
- First pair of heels?
- September 21st - Dean Winchester (Walmart. Anoka, MN.) Classic black pumps (1 in. heel.)
- First (a.h. - after heels) sprained ankle?
- September 21st - Dean Winchester (Car park, Walmart. Anoka, MN.)
- 1st - 11th (b.h.)? Blame Dad. Fucking training runs!
Ankles were a bitch. As were heels (but it turned out that they did amazing things for the definition of his calves.)
Sam added a (temporary) point to his plan.- Learn to how to look like you’re walking on sunshineThen some sub-points:- Full length mirrors are your friend.
- Fear is not your friend.
- Stand before you walk.
- One small step for Samkind.Hard floors (not shiny), or low carpet are best.
Shagpile is hard to balance on, and so very tacky.- One. Two. Three small steps.
- Always remember to indicate.Try a turn. Steady… steady!- Safety first.Holding your big brother’s hand is not girly.
Smacking him on the cheek and calling him a jerk when he snickers at you is.- Remember the 3Ps:
Point your feet forwards at all times!Ducks are not your role model.Posture. (a.k.a. Position, position, position.)Legs straight, thighs close together!
It’s good for your balance, and it’s modest.Practice. Practice. Practice.- Slow is smooth.
- Mix it up.Change your starting point (you’ll be surprised how that can throw you when you think you’ve got it down pat.)
‘Wobbles are for wusses.’
‘Fuck off, Dean!’- Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. (a.k.a. Practice 201)Learn it.
Do it.
Do it again. With attitude, darling!- Embrace diversity.Got it? Now try different floor surfaces. Hah!
Now repeat (as above.)- Learned to walk? Feeling awesome (and really hot tall)? Now try living in heels!Stairs. Up and down are very different experiences.
Walks. Long, long walks (but not in the rain unless you have treated your shoes with an appropriate protectant.)
Shopping.
Driving.Forget about it. Slip a nice fluffy pair of mules into your handbag and swap into them for the journey. Trust me on this one. A moment taken is worth a fortune lost due to the upkeep of damaged heels.Queuing.
Busing.
Running (but only for the bus, or if you aspire to be Emma Peel.)
Dancing.- So, you think you can dance?Now try raising the height of the heel.
Then higher!- Pedicures are your second-best friend.As are: Shoe inserts.
Invisible bandaids.
And… Sweet heaven above… foot massages. Mmmmmm….You now have a lot of second-best friends. Learn to play nice.
- Whoever said ‘imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’ was an idiot. Whilst it is advisable to watch and learn from your brother, remember it is always wise to develop one’s own style. Just because Dean can walk like an Egyptian in his heels (and has been seen to do so on the top of a bar on more than one occasion for tips) that is no reason for you to do the same.
Sam’s plan?
The one that said:
1. Leave.
That plan?
It needed heavy duty gel inserts.
Evidence is futile.
Palo Alto Police Dept. Palo Alto, CA. November 1st 2005 (2.09 a.m.)
Sam’s plan?
Was fucked.
As he scrabbled helplessly at the concrete walls Sam’s alcohol-infused brain was struggling to remember, and amend, his old friend Plan J (How to survive jail without really dying.)
Unfortunately he was hindered by Thad moaning, ‘I’m going to die! I’m going to lose my scholarship! I’m going to get booted out of Stanford! I’m going to prison! I’m going to become someone’s bitch! I’m going to die!’ on repeat throughout the whole booking procedure.
Jessica, on the other hand, initially seemed to view it as an interesting learning experience, and kept muttering that she wished she had her camera. She also spent a lot of time giggling, petting Sam’s hair, and blinking confusedly up at the fluorescent lights exclaiming, ‘But they’re so pretty…’
Of the two, Sam wasn’t sure who was going to be the hardest to handle.
He blamed himself, and the shots. And tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that kept jumping up and down and waving for attention.
Finally (because the jumping wasn’t helping his headache) he hissed, ‘What?’ under his breath.
The voice bitched, ‘About time you, great big drunken lout!’ before dropping its pink pom-poms in a tangled mess next to its prettily shod feet. It swayed unsteadily, and burped vulgarly twice before managing to continue.
‘Don’t forget Dean. This is another fine mess he’s gotten us into!’
A police station was not the best place to lose one’s temper. Sam knew that.
But despite the fact that these officers were calm, courteous, and clear (even when Sam had to occasionally ask them to repeat themselves when things got fuzzy) in their requests, Sam was mad.
Sam knew the headquarters of the P.A.P.D. was definitely not the best place to have a tantrum. He knew that. He did.
But he (and the voice in his head) had thought about it rationally and decided so fucking what?
‘What do you mean, “we’ll have to separate you?” We came together; we’re staying together; and we’re … hic! … leaving together!’
‘Jess!’
Fucking cops. “Stanford’s finest,” my ass!
Sam was going to fix this. Just as soon as the floor stopped moving.
‘Officer!’
…
‘Why can’t I trade Thad for Jess?’
…
‘What if I throw in my… Hey, what happened to my watch?’
‘What do you mean, “confiscated?” It’s a watch, not a bomb!’
A word to the wise. Never mention explosives whilst in custody.
'Arson? What arson?'
'I "used a flaming torch to set the Quad on fire?"'
Uh.
Torch? Torch... oh... Oops.
'Would would believe it was an accident?'
'No?'
'Would you believe...?'
'"Incitement to riot?"'
‘But it was just the one song…’
‘Is it just me, or is it hot in here?’
…
‘I’m sure that’s a contravention of one of our basic human rights. Thad, we need to start making a li… Thad?’
…
‘Didn’t I warn you not to eat the carrots at CoHo?’
‘Officer!’
…
‘What do you mean, “She’s under investigative detention?”’
‘Oh! “only under.” I feel so much better now, don’t you?’
…
‘Thad? Oh God, how much did you have for dinner anyway?’
‘Officer!’
…
“Limited restriction of personal mobility for a brief period of time?”
‘Thad? Why are you clapping?’
…
‘No, Thad. It isn’t like Jess getting told she can’t walk on the grass any more.’
…
‘Thad. I know you were only trying to help. But can you help by sitting in the corner for a minute?’
‘No! Not that cor… ewww, Thad.’
‘Officer!’
…
‘But you arrested all of us!’
…
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I’m sure we were arrested.’
…
‘I remember being arrested.’
He could certainly recall being patted down (in a very friendly manner) by a well-built officer. Such a shame he didn’t have freckles. Sam remembered liking freckles. If only he could remember why…
Damned shots!
…
‘I certainly wouldn’t have climbed into your paddy wagon voluntarily! No matter how good your pick-up line was.’
…
‘Thad! You remember being ARRESTED, don’t you?’
…
‘Thad?’
‘It’s okay, Thad. I’m going to get us out of here.’
…
‘What do you mean, “how?” I’m pre-law, Thad. It’ll be fine.’
‘Officer! I want to make a statement!’
‘What do you mean, “No formal statement is required if custody takes place.” Don’t I have a right to make a statement?’
‘Oh, a “right to remain silent…” Well, I waive that right. Now can I make a statement?’
‘No?’
‘I’m being argumentative?’
‘No, I’m not!’
It was a plot. Sam was sure it was a plot. Jail seemed more complicated and confusing than when he was a kid. But then he’d had Dean.
Dean.
Fucker should be here. Dean could show them argumentative, he had it inscribed inside the barrel of his favourite pistol.
Jeez it was quiet in here. Luckily Sam had always liked the quiet life. He was much better suited to being stuck in jail temporarily than his brother.
Plenty of time to meditate, and think about his assignments. It was almost like a vacation when you thought about it.
Assignments. History. Fuck it. It was due on the 3rd. Goodbye great GPA (and his scholarship-if Thad wasn’t right and this particular Day of the Dead hadn’t killed off both their academic careers already,) if he didn’t get that giant piece of his assessment in on time.
And yeah, Stanford’s policy of non-interference over student arrests was going to be no help whatsoever in this situation.
Sam wondered if he could bribe the guards to bring him a final bottle of Tequila. He might as well go out on a Mexican wave. Ole!
Quiet.
‘Thad?’
Too quiet.
‘Officer!’
…
‘Officer…?’
‘Officer… Fred?’
…
‘Fred, did I ever tell you about my big brother? He’s the b…’
‘Then there was the time that he…’
‘Fucking families! They’ll do it to you every time, Fred.’
‘You look like a nice, understanding guy…’
‘Tell me, are the pearls too much?’
‘The kind of person who really listens to people…’
‘First thing that comes into your head. Eye shadow or lipstick. Or, eye shadow and lipstick? More or less?’
…
‘Really?’ Huh.
…
‘No, I’m okay. I appreciate your honesty, Fred.’
…
‘Can I borrow a tissue?’
‘Fuck! My stilettos are killing me.’
‘“Why?” Uh…’
‘Can you keep a secret, Fred?’
…
‘Fred?’
…
‘What do you mean, “I’m not your therapist?”’
…
“Build a bridge and get over it?”
…
‘And orange is soooo too my colour!’
…
‘Heartless uniformed minion of an uncaring justice system! It’s situations like this that made me want to become a lawyer in the first place. I wanted to protect people. People like me. My…’
‘Did you know that, Fred?’
…
‘Fred?’
Fuck Fred! There were plenty of other useful things Sam could be doing with his time. He had people to see. Locks to pick…
Damned nails never stood up to this challenge. How harsh was it that they didn’t let you bring your nail polish in with you?
‘Fr… Officer!’
…
‘Officer?’
…
Anyone?
‘Officer Bueller?’
The hell with it. It was just him and…
Sam looked over at the snoring heap that was Thad-The-Carrot-Killer in the adjoining cell.
Right. Count Thad out of the mission.
Sam didn’t need anyone’s help (although he wouldn’t say no to a good shoemaker, damned heels kept biting into him.) He’d tried to be normal, and keep it honest, but now it was time to play by the Winchester rules ©1983 (Rev. & enl. ed.)
That ought to do it.
The voice in his head (who’d obviously just woken up from a drunken nap) slurred, ‘Take that fuckerssssssss!’
And while Sam appreciated the solidarity he’d rather it kept quiet for now. He didn’t want to draw any extra attention until exactly the right…
‘Son of a bitch!’ How many volts was that?
Sam touched his head gingerly, and hoped partial amnesia wasn’t a side effect of the powerful current. Surely he hadn’t had bangs before today, had he?
On the positive side, after the momentary (damn that backup generator) power shortage had fused some of the cells’ locks they were moved to a carrot-free block of the LEF, and Thad (thankfully conscious again, and clad in a clean but unflattering paper jumpsuit) was now ensconced in a separate cell where the Stanford prison experiment seemed to be weighing heavily on his mind.
Sam wished he’d never insisted Thad re-write that History of Psych paper in his own writing before submitting it to Professor Deacon. Who knew his friend had that good a memory?
‘Winchester. You get one call. You got someone to call?’
No.
Yes.
‘No.’
Now the voice was singing, ‘Here I am alone and blue…’
Sam concluded that the voice was both emo, and selfish.
Putting the comforting image of his brother standing guard over him aside, he decided to ask the voice one last question.
‘Do you take requests?
‘Kearney! Winchester! Look alive and put your faces on, we’ve got some like-minded company for you.’
‘Winchester?’
No! ‘Professor… Donoghue?’
Shit. Shit. Shit on a brick. It was. Harold “Puddy-Duddy” Peachem Donoghue. B.A. M.Lit., double Ph.D. Member of every academic society in the nation that would still accept both his fees and pedantic complaints about the ways things should be done these days.
Professor Donoghue. Here. In jail. And not just in jail, there he was getting ushered into Thad’s room with a view. Locked into.
Professor Donoghue in the big house. With him. Wearing…
Sam had a sudden, and completely understandable coughing fit.
‘Professor Donoghue. Nice… tutu.’ And it was, even if it had giant, eye-searingly fluorescent…
Well, purple polka-dots were definitely a bold fashion choice. Right about then Sam wished he hadn’t left his phone at home (it always made such an unsightly bulge in his garter belt.)
Photos. He so needed hard evidence. There was no way his study group was ever going to believe this story.
Professor Donoghue in a tutu!
Suddenly Sam realised that (forgetting for a moment the whole issue re: the ethics of blackmail,) getting that extension on his History assignment might be easier than he’d anticipated. If only he could have this kind of luck with the rest of the week’s work, his incarceration (angst aside) might almost be worth it.
‘Dr Frank-N-…Winchester?’
No way!
Way.
As a large percentage of Stanford’s Government and History faculty staff proceeded to be ushered into the “special needs” wing of the detention area, Sam and an equally astonished Thad just stared in amazement.
Every single one was creatively dressed in the wildest (and in some cases raunchiest-even taking Sam’s outfit into consideration) assortment of Halloween costumes that Sam had ever set eyes on (and he’d seen Dean’s copy of Debbie does Halloween II at least 5 times.)
Forget the officers of the P.A.P.D. His professors had just seized the sparkly crown of “Stanford’s finest.” Staid old Stanford, and its staff rocked!
Who’d have guessed it?
Of course, as Fate would (predictably) have it, that’s when things started to get really weird…
So, forget worrying about Sam’s thing. His seasonal pattern of behaviour. The thing he never talked about. The thing he tucked inside himself and only let out once a year. Yeah, forget that thing.
Because, those heels? Those (toe-pinching, heel-biting,) fucking gorgeous 5-inch high fabulously coloured stilettos that he’d finally edged out 3 other bidders to snap up from a mysterious British “lady collector of curiosities” on eBay?
They were possessed!
Yes! Literally!
Turns out; that it is asking too much to just want to run away from home to feel pretty, and witty, and normal, in this day and age.
Isn’t life a bitch?
So, if Sam got some increasingly strange looks from his kinky (but awesome) professors as he proceeded to salt and burn his blood-stained and still snarling stilettos with extreme prejudice?
So what?
Sam was too busy cursing and silently wishing his absent brother a ‘Happy fucking Halloween, Dean! Wherever you are.’
Naturally (because Fate is still a bitch who really hates Sam Winchester, and knows how to make leather chafe in the most uncomfortable places), that’s when the smouldering remains of his $125.99 toxic tangerine pumps started twitching and cackling maniacally back to life.
And then the police station’s smoke alarms went off…
Just do it!
Palo Alto, CA. October 31st 2006 (11.58 p.m.)
Sam had a plan.
This year really was going to be different.
Sam didn’t need to prove anything to his brother. He’d broken the pattern, and was doing fine all on his own.
He had Jessica, he had Stanford, and he had a law school interview.
Sam also had a new plan.
1. Don’t think about Dean.
1. Orange Roughy Part 1 | Part 2
2. The Rainbow Connection
3. Pink Me!