Theater is Becoming a Lost Art (Like Bowhunting, But Less Bloody) ; PG-13
In one of my strangest crossover ideas yet... (but one that, surprisingly, seems to be working :p)
Title: Theater is Becoming a Lost Art (Like Bowhunting, But Less Bloody) 1/4
Rating: PG-13 for now
Fandom(s): Supernatural/High School Musical (That's what I said!)
Category: slash (eventually), non-wincest
Summary: East High is a picture-perfect school in a picture-perfect town full of picture-perfect children. Dean could almost shoot himself in the head with the sawed-off hidden in the secret compartment of his trunk, but doubts he could switch out the salt-rounds with real ammo before someone saw and started screaming.
Author's Note: This story will (in its entirety) be my crossovers100 entry for challenge #049 of the set I chose: club. All of my entries for that claim can be found here.
New Mexico has to be one of the worst places Dean has ever lived.
It’s hot enough outside to make working up a sweat easy, but not hot enough to make hunting howler demons less difficult. It takes hours to lure them up out of their nice, warm burrows and - of course - Dad bought a ranch that is just crawling with the little bastards.
They’re within driving distance of Vegas (well, a-lot-of-driving distance) but Dad’s threatened to kill Dean if he tries hustling in a real casino. Even worse - he’s promised to take away Dean’s car if Dean thinks of trying it.
And Sammy got that growth spurt he’s been wishing for since the fourth grade. So now Dean has to look up at Sam, and see the shit smirking down at him - unless Dean’s already dropped him on his ass, which is fun but unhealthy. Sam’s gotten better at getting back at Dean when Dean’s pissed him off, and Dad’s gotten grumpier and grumpier since the doctors told him he’d have to take it easy until he’s through with rehab. A full six months from now, at least.
Hence the staying in one place for so long. And Dad’s lack of patience “for any of you boys’ shit. This prank business ends now, ya hear?”
New Mexico is going to suck, Dean’s decided the very first week.
High school doesn’t help Dean’s situation any. If there’s one thing that Dean and Sam and their father have come to agree on over the years, it’s that school never helps. Nosy teachers, angry principals, well-meaning counselors… Dean’s dad has met, and thoroughly pissed off, at least one of each on every campus Dean has ever attended.
Things are a little better here. They won’t be going on any hunting trips until Dad gets better, so there won’t be any concerned calls about too many absences from any of the teachers. They made a killing on that insurance scam in Atlanta, so Dean and Sam both have all the materials they’ll need for the school year - and Sam will be ridiculously well-dressed (Dean likes his faded jeans and vintage t-shirts, thank you very much.)
Also, Dad is going to be spending his days in therapy at the local rehabilitation clinic - or hanging out in the hospital lobby, waiting for Dean and Sam to get out of school. So he won’t be available to “help” should any other problems arise.
The first day Sam walks from the junior high campus to the parking lot where Dean is waiting by the Impala, Dean knows those problems are just waiting to rear their heads.
There are ball players out on the court, playing a friendly game, as cheerleaders watch from the benches. There are girls walking, in giggling groups, to the school buses parked behind the main school building and guys ribbing one another good-naturedly as they pile into Hummers and Porsches and pick-up trucks.
East High is a picture-perfect school in a picture-perfect town full of picture-perfect children. Dean could almost shoot himself in the head with the sawed-off hidden in the secret compartment of his trunk, but doubts he could switch out the salt-rounds with real ammo before someone saw and started screaming.
“How was your first day?” Sam asks when he’s near enough to speak. He is smiling and happy in his new clothes, with his new backpack slung over one shoulder. Sam can handle picture-perfect, about as well as Dean handles real life. He could even fit in in a place like this without making it seem creepy, but Dean doesn’t like where those thoughts lead so he doesn’t think them.
“Great!” Dean smirks in a parody of cheer. “Paperwork after paperwork after cramming a thousand textbooks into a locker that smells like feet. Good times,” Dean says sarcastically, but he doesn’t dampen Sam’s enthusiasm.
Sam smirks back at him, slipping into the passenger side of the Chevy as Dean opens the driver-side door.
“I figured you didn’t make it to any classes today.”
“Huh. Why is that?”
Dean puts the key in the ignition and guns his engine. He doesn’t look in the rearview mirror, but he hopes that his baby’s roar was loud enough to spook some Norman Rockwell-knockoff onto his or her picture-perfect ass.
“You don’t have a black eye and you aren’t in detention,” Sam says, now smiling. “You either missed your classes or slept through them without getting caught.”
Dean pops a little ACDC into the tape deck as they pull out of the emptying parking lot, frowning.
“Hey! I can make it through one day without any trouble, Sammy,” he says, feigning indignance. Dean can last a day at school without any “incidents”… he just can’t rightly remember if he ever has.
Sam snorts. “Sure. Twenty bucks says tomorrow will be different.”
Dean laughs at him. “Dude. As if you could back it up. Penniless street urchin.”
Dean turns left as Sam punches him in the right shoulder. “You’re just as much of an urchin as I am,” Sam says - and, then, belatedly: “And don’t call me Sammy.”
Dean smirks.
“Besides… I’m good for it.” Sam reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a wad of crumpled bills. He looks prouder of himself than he did the time he’d convinced Dad that Dean had run all of their anointed altar cloths through the washing machine. Dean’s caught between gaping and grinning.
“What- Where-”
Sam looks evil. “East Juniors are easy,” he says.
Dean throws his head back and laughs. “That’s my boy,” he praises his brother. “Alright, you’re on.”
In such a sugar-sweet place… it can’t be too hard for Dean to keep his nose clean, can it?
[ part 2 ]
Title: Theater is Becoming a Lost Art (Like Bowhunting, But Less Bloody) 1/4
Rating: PG-13 for now
Fandom(s): Supernatural/High School Musical (That's what I said!)
Category: slash (eventually), non-wincest
Summary: East High is a picture-perfect school in a picture-perfect town full of picture-perfect children. Dean could almost shoot himself in the head with the sawed-off hidden in the secret compartment of his trunk, but doubts he could switch out the salt-rounds with real ammo before someone saw and started screaming.
Author's Note: This story will (in its entirety) be my crossovers100 entry for challenge #049 of the set I chose: club. All of my entries for that claim can be found here.
New Mexico has to be one of the worst places Dean has ever lived.
It’s hot enough outside to make working up a sweat easy, but not hot enough to make hunting howler demons less difficult. It takes hours to lure them up out of their nice, warm burrows and - of course - Dad bought a ranch that is just crawling with the little bastards.
They’re within driving distance of Vegas (well, a-lot-of-driving distance) but Dad’s threatened to kill Dean if he tries hustling in a real casino. Even worse - he’s promised to take away Dean’s car if Dean thinks of trying it.
And Sammy got that growth spurt he’s been wishing for since the fourth grade. So now Dean has to look up at Sam, and see the shit smirking down at him - unless Dean’s already dropped him on his ass, which is fun but unhealthy. Sam’s gotten better at getting back at Dean when Dean’s pissed him off, and Dad’s gotten grumpier and grumpier since the doctors told him he’d have to take it easy until he’s through with rehab. A full six months from now, at least.
Hence the staying in one place for so long. And Dad’s lack of patience “for any of you boys’ shit. This prank business ends now, ya hear?”
New Mexico is going to suck, Dean’s decided the very first week.
High school doesn’t help Dean’s situation any. If there’s one thing that Dean and Sam and their father have come to agree on over the years, it’s that school never helps. Nosy teachers, angry principals, well-meaning counselors… Dean’s dad has met, and thoroughly pissed off, at least one of each on every campus Dean has ever attended.
Things are a little better here. They won’t be going on any hunting trips until Dad gets better, so there won’t be any concerned calls about too many absences from any of the teachers. They made a killing on that insurance scam in Atlanta, so Dean and Sam both have all the materials they’ll need for the school year - and Sam will be ridiculously well-dressed (Dean likes his faded jeans and vintage t-shirts, thank you very much.)
Also, Dad is going to be spending his days in therapy at the local rehabilitation clinic - or hanging out in the hospital lobby, waiting for Dean and Sam to get out of school. So he won’t be available to “help” should any other problems arise.
The first day Sam walks from the junior high campus to the parking lot where Dean is waiting by the Impala, Dean knows those problems are just waiting to rear their heads.
There are ball players out on the court, playing a friendly game, as cheerleaders watch from the benches. There are girls walking, in giggling groups, to the school buses parked behind the main school building and guys ribbing one another good-naturedly as they pile into Hummers and Porsches and pick-up trucks.
East High is a picture-perfect school in a picture-perfect town full of picture-perfect children. Dean could almost shoot himself in the head with the sawed-off hidden in the secret compartment of his trunk, but doubts he could switch out the salt-rounds with real ammo before someone saw and started screaming.
“How was your first day?” Sam asks when he’s near enough to speak. He is smiling and happy in his new clothes, with his new backpack slung over one shoulder. Sam can handle picture-perfect, about as well as Dean handles real life. He could even fit in in a place like this without making it seem creepy, but Dean doesn’t like where those thoughts lead so he doesn’t think them.
“Great!” Dean smirks in a parody of cheer. “Paperwork after paperwork after cramming a thousand textbooks into a locker that smells like feet. Good times,” Dean says sarcastically, but he doesn’t dampen Sam’s enthusiasm.
Sam smirks back at him, slipping into the passenger side of the Chevy as Dean opens the driver-side door.
“I figured you didn’t make it to any classes today.”
“Huh. Why is that?”
Dean puts the key in the ignition and guns his engine. He doesn’t look in the rearview mirror, but he hopes that his baby’s roar was loud enough to spook some Norman Rockwell-knockoff onto his or her picture-perfect ass.
“You don’t have a black eye and you aren’t in detention,” Sam says, now smiling. “You either missed your classes or slept through them without getting caught.”
Dean pops a little ACDC into the tape deck as they pull out of the emptying parking lot, frowning.
“Hey! I can make it through one day without any trouble, Sammy,” he says, feigning indignance. Dean can last a day at school without any “incidents”… he just can’t rightly remember if he ever has.
Sam snorts. “Sure. Twenty bucks says tomorrow will be different.”
Dean laughs at him. “Dude. As if you could back it up. Penniless street urchin.”
Dean turns left as Sam punches him in the right shoulder. “You’re just as much of an urchin as I am,” Sam says - and, then, belatedly: “And don’t call me Sammy.”
Dean smirks.
“Besides… I’m good for it.” Sam reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a wad of crumpled bills. He looks prouder of himself than he did the time he’d convinced Dad that Dean had run all of their anointed altar cloths through the washing machine. Dean’s caught between gaping and grinning.
“What- Where-”
Sam looks evil. “East Juniors are easy,” he says.
Dean throws his head back and laughs. “That’s my boy,” he praises his brother. “Alright, you’re on.”
In such a sugar-sweet place… it can’t be too hard for Dean to keep his nose clean, can it?
[ part 2 ]