A Potentially Dangerous Impression: SPN/HSM, Sam Winchester/Ryan Evans, R (8/?)
Title: A Potentially Dangerous Impression (part 8 of ?)
Author: sally_simpson76
Fandoms: Supernatural collides with High School Musical (yes, really)
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Ryan Evans
Rating: R
Word Count: 900, this chapter-- short but important.
Disclaimers: The usual. I am in no legal or professional way associated with any of the assorted films, shows, studios, actors, etc. I do not pretend this story actually happened, particularly as it's about fictional characters.
Summary: East High is the scene of a bizarre string of cyclical unexplained murders. It's got to be a job for Sam and Dean, but only one of them can go undercover as a high school student.
In this chapter: Sam gets ready for his date with Ryan. Dean faces horrors (possibly) worse than Hell.
Huge thanks to zillah975 for being so awesome.
Back to Part 1
"What do you mean, I should go out?"
"I mean, go out, Dean," Sam replied, and that didn't clear things up a damn bit as far as Dean was concerned. "Go catch a movie." Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Fine, go to Hooters. We passed that one on Ridge Road coming in."
"Hooters?" That did it: now Dean was downright suspicious. Sam normally didn't approve of Hooters as an acceptable hangout, not even when it was All-You-Can-Eat Ribs Night. Huh. "Are you coming with me? Taking a walk on the hottie side?"
"No, I-- I've got some stuff to take care of." Sam didn't even meet his eyes.
"Uh-huh. What kind of stuff?"
"Just - you know - stuff," Sam insisted, and now he was pawing through his battered old suitcase.
"Stuff," Dean echoed, and took a seat on the edge of Sam's bed, the mattress springs squeaking in protest beneath his weight. He watched Sam in silence for a few moments, then nudged the suitcase with the toe of his boot. "Dressing for the occasion, got it. So... salting and burning? A good old-fashioned hunt?" Sam didn't answer, but screwed up his mouth in disgust and tossed a t-shirt aside. "Hey, that looked perfectly clean!" Dean protested.
"It's not-- I'm just-- what do you think?" And then suddenly, there it was, right there, one of the weirdest fucking moments of Dean's entire life: Sam was holding two completely ordinary shirts up against his chest and asking Dean to choose.
"Sammy. You're cracked."
"No, just-- I mean the blue's okay, right?" Sam asked the question in all seriousness, the look in his eyes painfully earnest.
It was downright scary. And Dean was a man who had seen a lot of scary in his time.
"The blue-- it's-- Sam. It's a shirt. It's blue," Dean agreed, scratching the nape of his neck and wondering if Sam was due for a good possession... because a demon in his brother's head right now would explain a lot about this moment. "As blue shirts go, that one right there is definitely blue. So what the fuck do you want from me?"
"Fuck, forget it," Sam grumbled. He stood up and skinned out of his t-shirt, swapping it for the blue one, his fingers flying over the buttons. And if Dean didn't know better, he'd swear the expression on Sam's face as he checked himself out in the mirror was anxiety. "Is my hair all right?"
"Jesus H. Christ." Dean flopped heavily back onto Sam's bed, the very picture of exasperation. "Tell me there's no more sausages at the diner. Or that you're taking up knitting. Or someone's stealing my car." He took a deep breath. "But never again in your life ask me about your hair. For God's sake, Sam!"
"Fine!" Sam growled under his breath - Dean very diplomatically chose to ignore it - raked his fingers through his hair one last time, and then sat down on Dean's bed to lace up his boots. "You're so friggin' melodramatic," Sam muttered. "And nosy. And hypocritical. And--"
"What's that, Sammy?" Dean interrupted him, and made a show of cupping his hand around his ear. "I can hardly hear you over all the bitching!"
"Whatever. Do you have any gum?" Sam asked suddenly, his face lighting up with panic as he grabbed his jacket and started rummaging through the pockets.
"Gum? No. I smeared the last of it in your hair last week, remember? Hey, wait a sec...." The light of realization finally flared in Dean's eyes, and he leaned up and braced himself on his elbows, shooting his brother a sly grin. "Sammy, you dog! You've got a date! Why didn't you just say--" His eyes went wide and then he groaned, sitting up straight and covering his face with his hands. "Oh god, you've got a date. Damn it, Sam!"
"I'm not having this conversation with you again," Sam insisted, standing up and pulling out his wallet, flipping through it and counting his cash. "I'm not."
Dean sulked. He wouldn't have admitted to it under torture - not even Celine Dion's greatest hits - but man he was fucking pissed, and right now he felt powerless, and that equaled sulking. Shifting to slump back against the headboard, he folded his arms across his chest and followed Sam's every motion with his eyes. "He'd better be cute," he muttered, once he could slide the words past his bottom lip.
Distracted from another critical check of his reflection, Sam sighed. "Yes. He's definitely cute."
"Uh-huh." Dean glared as Sam pulled on his jacket and grabbed his room key. "He'd better be legal."
"He's-- crap." Sam lifted a hand to his temple like he had the migraine from Hell. "I-- I'll--" he broke off, frowning.
Dean waited. It didn't do him any good. "Yeah. You'll...?"
Sam shifted his weight to the other foot. "I'll figure something out."
"Sam."
"I will!" Sam insisted, his eyes flashing fire at his brother.
The door slammed shut behind him, rattling in its hinges. "Great," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. "Fuckin' Friday night. No magic fingers, no premium cable..." he picked up the remote control and flicked through a few channels before tossing the remote aside in disgust. "This town blows," he decided, standing up and grabbing his money clip. "I am so going to Hooters."
To Part 9
Author: sally_simpson76
Fandoms: Supernatural collides with High School Musical (yes, really)
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Ryan Evans
Rating: R
Word Count: 900, this chapter-- short but important.
Disclaimers: The usual. I am in no legal or professional way associated with any of the assorted films, shows, studios, actors, etc. I do not pretend this story actually happened, particularly as it's about fictional characters.
Summary: East High is the scene of a bizarre string of cyclical unexplained murders. It's got to be a job for Sam and Dean, but only one of them can go undercover as a high school student.
In this chapter: Sam gets ready for his date with Ryan. Dean faces horrors (possibly) worse than Hell.
Huge thanks to zillah975 for being so awesome.
Back to Part 1
"What do you mean, I should go out?"
"I mean, go out, Dean," Sam replied, and that didn't clear things up a damn bit as far as Dean was concerned. "Go catch a movie." Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Fine, go to Hooters. We passed that one on Ridge Road coming in."
"Hooters?" That did it: now Dean was downright suspicious. Sam normally didn't approve of Hooters as an acceptable hangout, not even when it was All-You-Can-Eat Ribs Night. Huh. "Are you coming with me? Taking a walk on the hottie side?"
"No, I-- I've got some stuff to take care of." Sam didn't even meet his eyes.
"Uh-huh. What kind of stuff?"
"Just - you know - stuff," Sam insisted, and now he was pawing through his battered old suitcase.
"Stuff," Dean echoed, and took a seat on the edge of Sam's bed, the mattress springs squeaking in protest beneath his weight. He watched Sam in silence for a few moments, then nudged the suitcase with the toe of his boot. "Dressing for the occasion, got it. So... salting and burning? A good old-fashioned hunt?" Sam didn't answer, but screwed up his mouth in disgust and tossed a t-shirt aside. "Hey, that looked perfectly clean!" Dean protested.
"It's not-- I'm just-- what do you think?" And then suddenly, there it was, right there, one of the weirdest fucking moments of Dean's entire life: Sam was holding two completely ordinary shirts up against his chest and asking Dean to choose.
"Sammy. You're cracked."
"No, just-- I mean the blue's okay, right?" Sam asked the question in all seriousness, the look in his eyes painfully earnest.
It was downright scary. And Dean was a man who had seen a lot of scary in his time.
"The blue-- it's-- Sam. It's a shirt. It's blue," Dean agreed, scratching the nape of his neck and wondering if Sam was due for a good possession... because a demon in his brother's head right now would explain a lot about this moment. "As blue shirts go, that one right there is definitely blue. So what the fuck do you want from me?"
"Fuck, forget it," Sam grumbled. He stood up and skinned out of his t-shirt, swapping it for the blue one, his fingers flying over the buttons. And if Dean didn't know better, he'd swear the expression on Sam's face as he checked himself out in the mirror was anxiety. "Is my hair all right?"
"Jesus H. Christ." Dean flopped heavily back onto Sam's bed, the very picture of exasperation. "Tell me there's no more sausages at the diner. Or that you're taking up knitting. Or someone's stealing my car." He took a deep breath. "But never again in your life ask me about your hair. For God's sake, Sam!"
"Fine!" Sam growled under his breath - Dean very diplomatically chose to ignore it - raked his fingers through his hair one last time, and then sat down on Dean's bed to lace up his boots. "You're so friggin' melodramatic," Sam muttered. "And nosy. And hypocritical. And--"
"What's that, Sammy?" Dean interrupted him, and made a show of cupping his hand around his ear. "I can hardly hear you over all the bitching!"
"Whatever. Do you have any gum?" Sam asked suddenly, his face lighting up with panic as he grabbed his jacket and started rummaging through the pockets.
"Gum? No. I smeared the last of it in your hair last week, remember? Hey, wait a sec...." The light of realization finally flared in Dean's eyes, and he leaned up and braced himself on his elbows, shooting his brother a sly grin. "Sammy, you dog! You've got a date! Why didn't you just say--" His eyes went wide and then he groaned, sitting up straight and covering his face with his hands. "Oh god, you've got a date. Damn it, Sam!"
"I'm not having this conversation with you again," Sam insisted, standing up and pulling out his wallet, flipping through it and counting his cash. "I'm not."
Dean sulked. He wouldn't have admitted to it under torture - not even Celine Dion's greatest hits - but man he was fucking pissed, and right now he felt powerless, and that equaled sulking. Shifting to slump back against the headboard, he folded his arms across his chest and followed Sam's every motion with his eyes. "He'd better be cute," he muttered, once he could slide the words past his bottom lip.
Distracted from another critical check of his reflection, Sam sighed. "Yes. He's definitely cute."
"Uh-huh." Dean glared as Sam pulled on his jacket and grabbed his room key. "He'd better be legal."
"He's-- crap." Sam lifted a hand to his temple like he had the migraine from Hell. "I-- I'll--" he broke off, frowning.
Dean waited. It didn't do him any good. "Yeah. You'll...?"
Sam shifted his weight to the other foot. "I'll figure something out."
"Sam."
"I will!" Sam insisted, his eyes flashing fire at his brother.
The door slammed shut behind him, rattling in its hinges. "Great," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. "Fuckin' Friday night. No magic fingers, no premium cable..." he picked up the remote control and flicked through a few channels before tossing the remote aside in disgust. "This town blows," he decided, standing up and grabbing his money clip. "I am so going to Hooters."
To Part 9