Supernatural drabble: Hang Time
Hang Time
Disclaimer: Naturally, I super wish I owned Sammy and his big brother, but alas I do not.
Summary: Inspired by saltfuture's prompt on tarotgal's Super-Sneezy Supernatural Meme; "anything where Sam has a cold and wears a scarf (or a bandanna or something) to cover his nose and mouth;" and Stanford era setting.
Author's Note: I did some research into Stanford things (like residences and hoodies), but I apologize for using Buckley's. I'm not sure if the US got the same ads as Canada did for it and my research suggests it's more of a Canadian thing (it also suggested Nyquil was like the American equivalent, but I thought Buckley's slogan went better with the Winchesters).
***
"Late night last night?"
The guy beside her squints out from under the peak of a Stanford hoodie. The girl thinks that the guy could very well be a mountain made of cloth. His shoulders look broad despite the bulk of the hoodie, and he is doing the best job the girl has seen of making a desk look like it should belong in a doll house rather than a classroom. She wonders if the guy will be as impenetrable as a mountain. She offers a small smile, looking perhaps slightly apologetic, or abashed.
"You could say that," the guy says. He mumbles, his words leaning against each other like tired friends (or lovers), because his voice feels like it is supported by sand and each word is like footstep, sinking deep, and liable to produce a landslide at any time.
The girl's smile flashes. It would seem there is a path up the mountain. "Where did you go?"
The guy's mouth twitches and the girl could swear she saw a hint of dimples. "My room." He speaks with a bit too much vigor and "room" dips a bit, going hoarse at the end, so that the guy has to cough and clear his throat to answer her next question.
"Which residence are you in?"
"Twain East."
"Me too!" the girl says and this time there is nothing reserved in her smile. "I love it!"
"Hey," the girl says after a moment, "I don't remember hearing any raucous room parties last night."
The guy's mouth hooks, and he looks away and coughs again. "I'm not much of a partier," he confesses.
"Then you aren't hungover?"
"No," the guy says, "though I had a pity party last night with my philosophy paper and a bottle of Buckley's."
"Oh," the girl says. "That's too bad. Did you find it worked though?"
"Well, I got my paper done."
"That's good," the girl says. "How did that jingle go? Buckley's…"
"…it tastes awful and it works," they finish together, then look at each other and grin.
"My dad swore by the stuff," the guy says; "he used to say there was no point in taking any pansy ass shi--uh, stuff, for what a little whiskey couldn't cure--although it was hot toddies when we were little."
"I've never actually tried Buckley's. Does it really taste as bad as they say it does?"
"God yes," the guy laughs, then hacks a bit and has to clear his throat several times, "it's like kerosene."
"Ah, so I have a litt--no, a large, lamp sitting beside me," the girl laughs.
"Yup, I light up people's lives." The guy chuckles, and coughs a bit more, then a bit more strenuously, before his breath catches in the back of his throat. He dives into the neck of his hoodie for a handful of fuzzy pink material, which he sneezes into once "hh'MMFTt!" and then roughly a second time "hhH'GHHKXNTt'hh!" He sniffs, clears his throat, and coughs, and his next words are thick, she imagines if they were written they would be slightly smudged, "egxcuse mbe."
"Bless you," the girl says, "you must not be feeling well," she says with a little grin, "to let your true color show."
The guy looks down at the pink material still clutched in his hand. His head is still a little cloudy from sneezing, but the fog is retreating so that he is able to cobble together a response, "it's my wick."
The girl's grin widens. "Yes, you're certainly brightening up my day."
"My brother would like you," the guy says. "He made this for me when he was laid up after he broke his leg. He calls it my bitch scarf, so I wrote on one of my t-shirts 'I'm with this jerk.'"
"It looks good on you," the girl says. "I might even say it's your color."
"Yeah," the guy agrees with a moan, "I started wearing it because I needed a scarf, but it's actually very soft."
"So is your brother older than you?" the girl asks.
The guy tips his head, "yeah."
The guy's "yeah" is almost lost in a surge of chatter from their classmates. "Oh," the girl says looking to the front of the room, "class is starting."
"It was nice talking to you," the guy whispers, leaning close, his words flinging a bridge between them. The husk of his words ghost over the girl, giving her a shiver.
...
After a class of paying not enough attention to her notes and too much attention to the warm body breathing beside her, the girl fears she is getting lost in the mountain pass. However, as she repacks her bag and shares her thoughts on their class to her seat mate who is already standing and ready to go but has lingered, a guy comes up behind them. The guy slings and arm up onto her new friend's shoulder, pulling her mountain lopsided, and saying, "Sam! I didn't know you knew Beth."
Beth grimaces. It's Brad. Beth has not liked him since she met him and her roommate making out in their room. Brad had been all over her roommate and her roommate had looked like she'd been hit over the head with a frying pan labelled Lusty Brad.
"We just met," her seat mate--Sam--replies. He is smiling, but his dimples look too deep and his eyeteeth are more visible because of the width of his smile. Beth catches Sam's eye for a flash before Sam and his friend overbalance as Sam muffles several sneezes into his scarf--"h'MMPFft! h'G-PPFFFtt!"--sending them stumbling down one of the steps that lead to the theatre style classroom's desks.
"You have got to meet her roommate. She's like…wow." Brad says to a hazy Sam, as he tugs his large, sniffling friend towards the classroom door. "She's nothing like Beth." The way Brad is walking with Sam looks odd. Beth thinks it wouldn't look so odd if Sam didn't throw his friend in shadow so much, but as it was it looked like Brad is pulling Sam into his shadow with the way his arm is stretched across Sam's back.
The friends are gone before Beth gets to hear Sam's response. She swallows and looks away. Then breathes deeply and resumes packing her bag. The warmth of her seat suddenly feels stale and almost oppressive now that the classroom is filling up with a different class. She had better move on, and she does, setting out on a path across campus to her next class.