(no subject)
I have no excuse.
sycophantastic and arialyre cornered me, and tied me down. And it wasn't sexy. At all.
So i was all like...wah wah wah i need to learn how to write Supernatural characters wah wah wah.
So arialyre is all, "Sam/Gabriel! Write Sam at college! Something with a Jess crisis! He likes this guy from college, who he later finds out is Gabriel!" (Terribly paraphrased. Terribly)
And then they both held me down and made me cry.
And then there was...this.
Title: Untitled (1/2)
Author: jabber_moose
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Sam/Jess, "Marc"
Spoilers: Um. Nonesofar. The end of the chapter veers off into AU land. Big Time?
Warnings: Unbeta'ed. Shameless abuse of name meaning for the sake of creativity.
Word Count: 917
Summary: There's this guy at Stanford. He kinda pisses Sam off. Jess is amused.
Sam Winchester had a big problem.
To be accurate, Sam Winchester had a problem with a five foot seven, brown hair, hazel-eyed classmate who had a habit of stealing Sam’s food, and sitting way too close in class. From what Sam gathered, the guy never actually did any work, opting to slouch in the hard backed seats in the lecture hall with his candy of the day and stare at the back of Sam’s head, expecting a reaction.
The guy was out of luck. Sam may have opted for the road less taken in the Winchester family, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t easily rattled, and he had better things to do than indulge a slacker when he was trying to get his law degree.
Jessica thought it was hilarious.
“Maybe he just has a crush on you,” she offered one night, reaching and flicking Sam’s bangs away from his forehead. “Maybe he wants to confess his undying love for you, but he’s just too shy.”
“Somehow,” Sam caught her wrist, kissing her palm. “I doubt shy would be the word the describe him. The other day, Professor Manning was covering federal litigation, and the guy shot a spitball at the back of his head.”
Jess just laughed. “He sounds fun.”
“He’s not fun,” Sam protested. “He’s distracting.”
“This is interesting,” Jess grinned at Sam. “You’re not so easily distracted. Is he cute?”
Sam sputtered, ears burning.
“You know I’m open to you experimenting, Sam,” Jess said, moving into Sam’s lap. “I mean, it’s not like you don’t talk about him every night.”
“I don’t--”
“Jess,” her voice deepened, almost comically. “Did you hear what Marc did? Jess, I’m so pissed at Marc. Jess, if he’s not going to take this seriously, why is he here? Jess, I’m starving, Marc ate half my lunch.”
“I’m not gay!”
Jess widened her eyes at him. “Who said anything about that? Just you wait, tomorrow he’ll try and pull your pigtails or something.” She slid off his lap, tugging his hand. “It’s okay, Sam. You’re hot enough. I’d go gay for you, too. Now take me to bed.”
Sam willingly obliged her, and later, laying in the dark, he stroked her hair, admiring how it burned the most unusual shade of gold in the dark.
Things got weird the next morning. Marc clambered over the seats in lecture and flopped next to Sam, grinning widely.
“Let me see your notes, kid,” he said, helping himself to Sam’s laptop.
“It’s Sam.”
“I know,” Marc replied. “You tell me every day.” He grinned at Sam, hazel eyes flashing almost gold, playful.
Not that Sam noticed
“And you continue to call me ‘kid,’” Sam points out. “Or ‘champ.’”
“Would you rather Sammy?”
Sam reached out, snatching his laptop from Marc, defensive. “Don’t call me that.” He turned abruptly, facing forward.
He barely caught the other man’s eyes softening, almost sadly, studying Sam.
He didn’t think anything of it.
“What’s so bad about Sammy?”
Sam jolted, halfway down the hall. “What?”
“Sammy. What’s so bad about it?”
“It’s a kid’s name.” Sam muttered. “I’m not a kid.”
Marc fell in step next to Sam. “Or maybe whoever attached that to you reminds you of being a kid. Family?”
“Not your business. I just don’t like being called Sammy, okay?” Sam snapped.
“Hoo-boy,” Marc whistled. “You’re a twisted pretzel, aren’t you?”
Sam ignored him, and left, slamming the front doors behind him. He paused to look over his shoulder through the plexiglass window.
Marc was watching Sam, focused and intent, eyebrows lifted into his hairline.
He didn’t follow Sam.
When Sam got back to his place, he was surprised to hear Jess’ laughter before he even unlocked the door.
Marc was sitting at their dining room table, drinking their coffee, and making his girlfriend laugh until tears ran down her face.
“Sam!” Marc greeted, cheerfully. “You’re home early.”
Sam looked between them, and Jess just smiled. “You left your man purse at class. Marc dropped it off.”
Sam didn’t have a man purse.
Or a bag, for that matter.
Marc grinned at Sam, eyes burning an unusual gold, and an unexpected chill swept through Sam. Something inside of him whispered about a past life, of demons and never stopping- blood and death, burning, and a hand in his.
Don’t look, Sammy.
Don’t look.
Sam suddenly crossed the room, grabbing Marc’s arm, and pulling him out of the room.
“Forceful,” Marc said. “Kinky. You only needed to say…”
“Who are you?” Sam demanded, pressing Marc’s smaller frame against the wall. “What are you?”
“Okay, hands off the merchandise,” Marc pried Sam’s fingers from his upper arms. “Stop being a cray-cray. You ever think that maybe I just like you?”
Oh, God.
Jess was right.
Marc was gay for him.
Sam released Marc, stepping back. “Sorry.”
Marc shrugged, rubbing his arms. “Geez, what do you pack in those gigantor arms of yours, steroids?”
“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, lamely.
Marc was unusually silent for a moment, looking up at Sam, mouth drawn into a tight line, eyes suddenly dark and sympathetic.
“No, Sam. I’m sorry.” The shorter man turned, called goodbye to Jess, and left.
That weekend, a 1967 Chevy Impala shuddered to a halt in Flagstaff, Arizona on account of a flat tire.
On November second, Sam Winchester received a sudden summons from the Dean of Stanford University.
The door was locked. He clearly wasn’t expected.
In the distance, a siren from a fire truck wailed.
TBC
sycophantastic and arialyre cornered me, and tied me down. And it wasn't sexy. At all.
So i was all like...wah wah wah i need to learn how to write Supernatural characters wah wah wah.
So arialyre is all, "Sam/Gabriel! Write Sam at college! Something with a Jess crisis! He likes this guy from college, who he later finds out is Gabriel!" (Terribly paraphrased. Terribly)
And then they both held me down and made me cry.
And then there was...this.
Title: Untitled (1/2)
Author: jabber_moose
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Sam/Jess, "Marc"
Spoilers: Um. Nonesofar. The end of the chapter veers off into AU land. Big Time?
Warnings: Unbeta'ed. Shameless abuse of name meaning for the sake of creativity.
Word Count: 917
Summary: There's this guy at Stanford. He kinda pisses Sam off. Jess is amused.
Sam Winchester had a big problem.
To be accurate, Sam Winchester had a problem with a five foot seven, brown hair, hazel-eyed classmate who had a habit of stealing Sam’s food, and sitting way too close in class. From what Sam gathered, the guy never actually did any work, opting to slouch in the hard backed seats in the lecture hall with his candy of the day and stare at the back of Sam’s head, expecting a reaction.
The guy was out of luck. Sam may have opted for the road less taken in the Winchester family, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t easily rattled, and he had better things to do than indulge a slacker when he was trying to get his law degree.
Jessica thought it was hilarious.
“Maybe he just has a crush on you,” she offered one night, reaching and flicking Sam’s bangs away from his forehead. “Maybe he wants to confess his undying love for you, but he’s just too shy.”
“Somehow,” Sam caught her wrist, kissing her palm. “I doubt shy would be the word the describe him. The other day, Professor Manning was covering federal litigation, and the guy shot a spitball at the back of his head.”
Jess just laughed. “He sounds fun.”
“He’s not fun,” Sam protested. “He’s distracting.”
“This is interesting,” Jess grinned at Sam. “You’re not so easily distracted. Is he cute?”
Sam sputtered, ears burning.
“You know I’m open to you experimenting, Sam,” Jess said, moving into Sam’s lap. “I mean, it’s not like you don’t talk about him every night.”
“I don’t--”
“Jess,” her voice deepened, almost comically. “Did you hear what Marc did? Jess, I’m so pissed at Marc. Jess, if he’s not going to take this seriously, why is he here? Jess, I’m starving, Marc ate half my lunch.”
“I’m not gay!”
Jess widened her eyes at him. “Who said anything about that? Just you wait, tomorrow he’ll try and pull your pigtails or something.” She slid off his lap, tugging his hand. “It’s okay, Sam. You’re hot enough. I’d go gay for you, too. Now take me to bed.”
Sam willingly obliged her, and later, laying in the dark, he stroked her hair, admiring how it burned the most unusual shade of gold in the dark.
Things got weird the next morning. Marc clambered over the seats in lecture and flopped next to Sam, grinning widely.
“Let me see your notes, kid,” he said, helping himself to Sam’s laptop.
“It’s Sam.”
“I know,” Marc replied. “You tell me every day.” He grinned at Sam, hazel eyes flashing almost gold, playful.
Not that Sam noticed
“And you continue to call me ‘kid,’” Sam points out. “Or ‘champ.’”
“Would you rather Sammy?”
Sam reached out, snatching his laptop from Marc, defensive. “Don’t call me that.” He turned abruptly, facing forward.
He barely caught the other man’s eyes softening, almost sadly, studying Sam.
He didn’t think anything of it.
“What’s so bad about Sammy?”
Sam jolted, halfway down the hall. “What?”
“Sammy. What’s so bad about it?”
“It’s a kid’s name.” Sam muttered. “I’m not a kid.”
Marc fell in step next to Sam. “Or maybe whoever attached that to you reminds you of being a kid. Family?”
“Not your business. I just don’t like being called Sammy, okay?” Sam snapped.
“Hoo-boy,” Marc whistled. “You’re a twisted pretzel, aren’t you?”
Sam ignored him, and left, slamming the front doors behind him. He paused to look over his shoulder through the plexiglass window.
Marc was watching Sam, focused and intent, eyebrows lifted into his hairline.
He didn’t follow Sam.
When Sam got back to his place, he was surprised to hear Jess’ laughter before he even unlocked the door.
Marc was sitting at their dining room table, drinking their coffee, and making his girlfriend laugh until tears ran down her face.
“Sam!” Marc greeted, cheerfully. “You’re home early.”
Sam looked between them, and Jess just smiled. “You left your man purse at class. Marc dropped it off.”
Sam didn’t have a man purse.
Or a bag, for that matter.
Marc grinned at Sam, eyes burning an unusual gold, and an unexpected chill swept through Sam. Something inside of him whispered about a past life, of demons and never stopping- blood and death, burning, and a hand in his.
Don’t look, Sammy.
Don’t look.
Sam suddenly crossed the room, grabbing Marc’s arm, and pulling him out of the room.
“Forceful,” Marc said. “Kinky. You only needed to say…”
“Who are you?” Sam demanded, pressing Marc’s smaller frame against the wall. “What are you?”
“Okay, hands off the merchandise,” Marc pried Sam’s fingers from his upper arms. “Stop being a cray-cray. You ever think that maybe I just like you?”
Oh, God.
Jess was right.
Marc was gay for him.
Sam released Marc, stepping back. “Sorry.”
Marc shrugged, rubbing his arms. “Geez, what do you pack in those gigantor arms of yours, steroids?”
“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, lamely.
Marc was unusually silent for a moment, looking up at Sam, mouth drawn into a tight line, eyes suddenly dark and sympathetic.
“No, Sam. I’m sorry.” The shorter man turned, called goodbye to Jess, and left.
That weekend, a 1967 Chevy Impala shuddered to a halt in Flagstaff, Arizona on account of a flat tire.
On November second, Sam Winchester received a sudden summons from the Dean of Stanford University.
The door was locked. He clearly wasn’t expected.
In the distance, a siren from a fire truck wailed.
TBC