DONE FOR NOW, THANK THE DEITY OF YOUR CHOICE.
Title: Later Days
Author: redfirecracker for reel_spn
Movie Adapted: Latter Days
Genre: SPN slash
Characters/Pairings:Sam / Dean
Rating: R for slashy interaction and whole lot of cussin'
Word Count: 7500 or thereabouts
Notes/Credits: This story was stripped down to bare bones to make it under the deadline. Eventually, it will be considerably more fleshed out in my LJ. lucifrix deserves an assload of credit for beta duties at the last minute . . . without her, this story would have been trashed several times over.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; fair use only. Not created for profit.
Later Days - Latter Days
CAST
Dean - Aaron
Sam - Christian
Sara - Tracey
Pat - Andrew
Liz - Julie
Grant - Ryder
************************
SOUNDTRACK
“Crush Story” - Too Much Joy
“Bad Reputation” - Joan Jett
“Fa Fa” - Guster
“Hanging By A Moment” - Lifehouse
“If I Fall” - Tara McLean
“Keep On Movin’” - Five
“Laid” - James
“A Little Less Conversation” - Elvis Presley
“Ready To Go” - Elastica
“Son Of A Preacher Man” - Dusty Springfield
“Sympathy” - The Goo Goo Dolls
“The Man You Think I Am” - Venice
“Alleluias” - The Solar Twins
“Somebody Else” - Tekla
“Everything Little Thing About You” - Raul Malo
“But Not Tonight” - Depeche Mode
“Total Eclipse of the Heart” - Bonnie Tyler
************************
Part 1
************************
Dean Winchester arrived in Philadelphia in the middle of an April heat wave.
The humidity that stuck his t-shirt to his back made the city’s residents even grouchier and more irritable than he’d been warned to expect, and it didn’t come as much of surprise when someone crashed into him, sending the tower of boxes he was carrying to the grass in a disordered heap, clothes and books spilling out across the pavement.
What *was* a surprise was a sudden, startled exclamation. “Ow, shit! Oh, man, I’m real sorry about that . . . here, let me give you a hand.”
The stranger crouched beside him, helping Dean gather up his scattered possessions. All Dean could see of him was chestnut hair streaked with gold, hanging in tousled layers almost to his chin, and broad, suntanned shoulders beneath a snug white tank top. His big hands easily scooped up even the thickest of Dean’s texts and long arms reached across to neatly snatch a few papers that showed signs of making a break for it in the listless breeze.
“Thanks,” Dean managed finally, rising to his feet. “I appreciate the help.”
The other man stood as well, fluid and graceful and taller even than Dean’s six feet. “It’s the least I could do,” he said warmly, and stuck out a hand. “I’m Sam Johnson, in 6A. You just moving in?”
Dean took the offered hand, shook it firmly. “Yep, just arrived. Dean Winchester; pleased to meet you.”
Sam laughed and took a step closer as he released Dean’s fingers. “Not yet, but you *will* be.”
Dean started to ask what that was supposed to mean, but then Grant came toiling up the walk, huffing and puffing as he maneuvered a loaded hand truck over the bricks of the pathway, raised in places by exposed tree roots. “Aw, come on, Dean, you trying to convert the natives already?”
“Grant, this is Sam,” Dean began, but the other man was already struggling past them. “Yeah, hey, how ya doin’,” Grant said to the bricks more than to Sam. “Dean, how about you give me a hand with this?”
Dean flushed and half-turned back to Sam with a smile and a little helpless shrug. Sam was already shouldering his messenger bag and waggled his fingers goodbye as he climbed onto his scooter. “See you around, Dean,” he said warmly as the engine buzzed into life. “Maybe when I come back from the gym, I’ll track you down, stop by with some beers.”
“But I -“ Dean began, only to realize that Sam was already gone.
“Dean!” Grant yelled impatiently. “If you’d pick up the pace, we’d be *done* already!”
“Just being polite,” Dean muttered, and went to grab the heavily laden, wheeled end of the hand truck, easily hefting the weight over the rough spots in the pathway. “You know, this is a pretty flimsy rack for this much of a load. You might want to lighten up a little.”
Grant freed one hand and mopped his broad forehead, pushing aside dark hair lank with sweat. He was tall and skinny, giving the appearance of a scarecrow, in a button-down shirt with long sleeves an inch too short on his gangly frame. “Yeah, well, some of us spend more time on our studies than our physiques, so why don’t you make your muscles useful and finish unloading the damned truck!”
“Language,” Dean rebuked.
Grant snorted. “Ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers. I’ll say ‘em at bedtime. Here, I’m going back to get some of the *light* stuff. You can handle this by yourself, right?”
Dean wondered if he really had a choice about it, but instead, he just shrugged and said, “Sure thing.” It was too early in the day to get upset over something so trivial, and he was too excited about being here in the city, anyway.
He glanced around as he began to trundle down the path. It was difficult to think of this apartment complex as being part of an urban environment, though. Low, two-story buildings of gray fieldstone were surrounded by huge old trees, oaks and maples for the most part. Large expanses of lawn were outlined in hedges and the riotous color of floral beds.
Up the hill, Dean could see more trees, and tidy, Tudor-style homes. Across the street was a condominium development, and behind those were neat brick rowhouses. Everything looked beautiful and well cared-for, and not at all the way he’d imagined.
Still, it was a million miles away from the way he’d grown up, in a small suburban town in western Pennsylvania, a tract of split-level houses on half-acre lots and each of them exactly alike except for the colors of the aluminum siding.
Dean was glad that it wasn’t his job to make sense of the world. Coming into the city on the bus last night, everything had just looked like a mass of bright, swirling lights and noise, with pedestrians darting between cars and against traffic, police sirens wailing, taxicab drivers calling out their fares, and more people than Dean had ever seen on a public street at night.
He hadn’t been able to prevent himself from pressing his nose to the window, soaking up the new and strange scenery, but there wasn’t much time to acclimate after he disembarked and entered the Greyhound terminal. In a whirlwind of speech and activity, Dean and three others were collected and packed off to a local rectory to spend the night, and before he knew it, he and Grant were moving into their new apartment.
“Oof!” Grant shouted, bumping into him as he struggled with an armload of boxes taller than he was. “Dammit, Dean, will you quit your gawking and *move*!”
Dean grimaced, taking the last few steps across the threshold and into the new place as Grant pushed past him, dumping his load with a sigh. The latter ripped open the cardboard panels of the topmost box and withdrew a stack of neatly folded linens, heading down the hallway and calling over his shoulder as he went, “Dibs on the back bedroom!”
“Aren’t we supposed to share?” Dean asked, trailing after him with the rest of the contents of the box, after peeking in to determine that it contained sheets, blankets, and towels.
Grant was already pushing together the two twin beds in the room he’d claimed, shoving them into one corner and crawling around to stretch the fitted sheet over both mattresses. He sprawled out flat on his back, looking like a ridiculous bug with his long arms and legs waving in the air, and informed Dean, “Those other guys got assigned over to Camden, so we’re on our own until the archdiocese sends their replacements.”
“Yeah, but-“
“I’m not sharing until they *make* me,” Grant announced, glaring darkly at Dean. “Jeez, even in the seminary we had our own rooms. What’s your deal, that you’re so keen on this?”
Dean flushed hot and said defensively, “It just seems stupid to set up camp in two rooms when we’ll have to move in together in another few days.”
Grant sat up and glowered at Dean from over the tops of his glasses. “Okay, first of all, the bishopric isn’t going to get any newbies out here for at least four weeks,” he said, enumerating his points on his fingers as he spoke. “Second, maybe we’d better wait and see how we get along with the new guys before we commit to sharing a room. Third-no, you no what? There *is* no third. Shut the door behind you on your way out, would you? I need a nap.”
Annoyed, Dean slammed the door as he left, hearing a faint, “Oh, that’s *real* mature, Dean! You’re such a *girl*!” even through the heavy wood.
He tried not to visibly stomp on his way outside for another load of boxes and crates, but he could feel his shoulders practically up around his ears, and the muscle in his jaw was jumping the way it always did before he lost his temper. Managing his anger had always been Dean’s biggest challenge, and he forced himself to stop once he got to the truck, leaning with both hands against the fender and taking deep, slow breaths as he silently recited the Nicene Creed three times.
In Latin.
Not many seminarians learned Latin anymore, not since the council of Vatican II did away with the regular practice of Latin Mass. But Dean’s father had been a traditionalist, seeking out equally traditional priests and parishes, and Dean had always found comfort in the rhythms of the old language and the prayers he remembered from his childhood.
Dean was fluent in all of the Romance languages because of his Latin background, and he could get by in four or five other tongues as well. Once he completed his post-education work here in Philadelphia and was fully ordained into the priesthood, he looked forward to receiving a parish assignment in one of the Third World countries to minister to needy souls there.
He knew it would be arduous work, but he didn’t have the right mindset to be a scholar and he lacked the patience for even diocesan politics, let alone those at the higher levels, like the College of Cardinals. He loved best working directly with people, helping those who needed it the most, making concrete improvements in their lives.
Dean hoped that he would be assigned to work in the city with Habitat For Humanity, or a similar group, while he was here . . . something that fulfilled physical as spiritual needs. He itched for hard labor and heavy exertion, and the satisfaction to be found in working with his hands rather than his mind. It probably shouldn’t surprise him that so many people saw him as purely muscle. Grant’s attitude, however, was really getting to him, and considering that Dean had only met the man three weeks before, that was saying something.
He sighed and straightened up. The truck wasn’t going to unload itself, and Dean was anxious to finish unpacking so that he could wander around the neighborhood a bit, get a feel for the place and maybe meet some of his other neighbors.
That guy Sam seemed nice enough to start off, and as Dean loaded up the hand truck with heavy boxes of what sounded like kitchenware, he hoped that everyone else would prove to be just as pleasant, given the chance.
It had been Dean’s experience so far that most people were fairly decent; they just needed a chance to prove themselves. The way he saw it, it was his job to give them that chance.
But still . . . he was really not liking Grant much at all.
************************
Author: redfirecracker for reel_spn
Movie Adapted: Latter Days
Genre: SPN slash
Characters/Pairings:Sam / Dean
Rating: R for slashy interaction and whole lot of cussin'
Word Count: 7500 or thereabouts
Notes/Credits: This story was stripped down to bare bones to make it under the deadline. Eventually, it will be considerably more fleshed out in my LJ. lucifrix deserves an assload of credit for beta duties at the last minute . . . without her, this story would have been trashed several times over.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; fair use only. Not created for profit.
Later Days - Latter Days
CAST
Dean - Aaron
Sam - Christian
Sara - Tracey
Pat - Andrew
Liz - Julie
Grant - Ryder
************************
SOUNDTRACK
“Crush Story” - Too Much Joy
“Bad Reputation” - Joan Jett
“Fa Fa” - Guster
“Hanging By A Moment” - Lifehouse
“If I Fall” - Tara McLean
“Keep On Movin’” - Five
“Laid” - James
“A Little Less Conversation” - Elvis Presley
“Ready To Go” - Elastica
“Son Of A Preacher Man” - Dusty Springfield
“Sympathy” - The Goo Goo Dolls
“The Man You Think I Am” - Venice
“Alleluias” - The Solar Twins
“Somebody Else” - Tekla
“Everything Little Thing About You” - Raul Malo
“But Not Tonight” - Depeche Mode
“Total Eclipse of the Heart” - Bonnie Tyler
************************
Part 1
************************
Dean Winchester arrived in Philadelphia in the middle of an April heat wave.
The humidity that stuck his t-shirt to his back made the city’s residents even grouchier and more irritable than he’d been warned to expect, and it didn’t come as much of surprise when someone crashed into him, sending the tower of boxes he was carrying to the grass in a disordered heap, clothes and books spilling out across the pavement.
What *was* a surprise was a sudden, startled exclamation. “Ow, shit! Oh, man, I’m real sorry about that . . . here, let me give you a hand.”
The stranger crouched beside him, helping Dean gather up his scattered possessions. All Dean could see of him was chestnut hair streaked with gold, hanging in tousled layers almost to his chin, and broad, suntanned shoulders beneath a snug white tank top. His big hands easily scooped up even the thickest of Dean’s texts and long arms reached across to neatly snatch a few papers that showed signs of making a break for it in the listless breeze.
“Thanks,” Dean managed finally, rising to his feet. “I appreciate the help.”
The other man stood as well, fluid and graceful and taller even than Dean’s six feet. “It’s the least I could do,” he said warmly, and stuck out a hand. “I’m Sam Johnson, in 6A. You just moving in?”
Dean took the offered hand, shook it firmly. “Yep, just arrived. Dean Winchester; pleased to meet you.”
Sam laughed and took a step closer as he released Dean’s fingers. “Not yet, but you *will* be.”
Dean started to ask what that was supposed to mean, but then Grant came toiling up the walk, huffing and puffing as he maneuvered a loaded hand truck over the bricks of the pathway, raised in places by exposed tree roots. “Aw, come on, Dean, you trying to convert the natives already?”
“Grant, this is Sam,” Dean began, but the other man was already struggling past them. “Yeah, hey, how ya doin’,” Grant said to the bricks more than to Sam. “Dean, how about you give me a hand with this?”
Dean flushed and half-turned back to Sam with a smile and a little helpless shrug. Sam was already shouldering his messenger bag and waggled his fingers goodbye as he climbed onto his scooter. “See you around, Dean,” he said warmly as the engine buzzed into life. “Maybe when I come back from the gym, I’ll track you down, stop by with some beers.”
“But I -“ Dean began, only to realize that Sam was already gone.
“Dean!” Grant yelled impatiently. “If you’d pick up the pace, we’d be *done* already!”
“Just being polite,” Dean muttered, and went to grab the heavily laden, wheeled end of the hand truck, easily hefting the weight over the rough spots in the pathway. “You know, this is a pretty flimsy rack for this much of a load. You might want to lighten up a little.”
Grant freed one hand and mopped his broad forehead, pushing aside dark hair lank with sweat. He was tall and skinny, giving the appearance of a scarecrow, in a button-down shirt with long sleeves an inch too short on his gangly frame. “Yeah, well, some of us spend more time on our studies than our physiques, so why don’t you make your muscles useful and finish unloading the damned truck!”
“Language,” Dean rebuked.
Grant snorted. “Ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers. I’ll say ‘em at bedtime. Here, I’m going back to get some of the *light* stuff. You can handle this by yourself, right?”
Dean wondered if he really had a choice about it, but instead, he just shrugged and said, “Sure thing.” It was too early in the day to get upset over something so trivial, and he was too excited about being here in the city, anyway.
He glanced around as he began to trundle down the path. It was difficult to think of this apartment complex as being part of an urban environment, though. Low, two-story buildings of gray fieldstone were surrounded by huge old trees, oaks and maples for the most part. Large expanses of lawn were outlined in hedges and the riotous color of floral beds.
Up the hill, Dean could see more trees, and tidy, Tudor-style homes. Across the street was a condominium development, and behind those were neat brick rowhouses. Everything looked beautiful and well cared-for, and not at all the way he’d imagined.
Still, it was a million miles away from the way he’d grown up, in a small suburban town in western Pennsylvania, a tract of split-level houses on half-acre lots and each of them exactly alike except for the colors of the aluminum siding.
Dean was glad that it wasn’t his job to make sense of the world. Coming into the city on the bus last night, everything had just looked like a mass of bright, swirling lights and noise, with pedestrians darting between cars and against traffic, police sirens wailing, taxicab drivers calling out their fares, and more people than Dean had ever seen on a public street at night.
He hadn’t been able to prevent himself from pressing his nose to the window, soaking up the new and strange scenery, but there wasn’t much time to acclimate after he disembarked and entered the Greyhound terminal. In a whirlwind of speech and activity, Dean and three others were collected and packed off to a local rectory to spend the night, and before he knew it, he and Grant were moving into their new apartment.
“Oof!” Grant shouted, bumping into him as he struggled with an armload of boxes taller than he was. “Dammit, Dean, will you quit your gawking and *move*!”
Dean grimaced, taking the last few steps across the threshold and into the new place as Grant pushed past him, dumping his load with a sigh. The latter ripped open the cardboard panels of the topmost box and withdrew a stack of neatly folded linens, heading down the hallway and calling over his shoulder as he went, “Dibs on the back bedroom!”
“Aren’t we supposed to share?” Dean asked, trailing after him with the rest of the contents of the box, after peeking in to determine that it contained sheets, blankets, and towels.
Grant was already pushing together the two twin beds in the room he’d claimed, shoving them into one corner and crawling around to stretch the fitted sheet over both mattresses. He sprawled out flat on his back, looking like a ridiculous bug with his long arms and legs waving in the air, and informed Dean, “Those other guys got assigned over to Camden, so we’re on our own until the archdiocese sends their replacements.”
“Yeah, but-“
“I’m not sharing until they *make* me,” Grant announced, glaring darkly at Dean. “Jeez, even in the seminary we had our own rooms. What’s your deal, that you’re so keen on this?”
Dean flushed hot and said defensively, “It just seems stupid to set up camp in two rooms when we’ll have to move in together in another few days.”
Grant sat up and glowered at Dean from over the tops of his glasses. “Okay, first of all, the bishopric isn’t going to get any newbies out here for at least four weeks,” he said, enumerating his points on his fingers as he spoke. “Second, maybe we’d better wait and see how we get along with the new guys before we commit to sharing a room. Third-no, you no what? There *is* no third. Shut the door behind you on your way out, would you? I need a nap.”
Annoyed, Dean slammed the door as he left, hearing a faint, “Oh, that’s *real* mature, Dean! You’re such a *girl*!” even through the heavy wood.
He tried not to visibly stomp on his way outside for another load of boxes and crates, but he could feel his shoulders practically up around his ears, and the muscle in his jaw was jumping the way it always did before he lost his temper. Managing his anger had always been Dean’s biggest challenge, and he forced himself to stop once he got to the truck, leaning with both hands against the fender and taking deep, slow breaths as he silently recited the Nicene Creed three times.
In Latin.
Not many seminarians learned Latin anymore, not since the council of Vatican II did away with the regular practice of Latin Mass. But Dean’s father had been a traditionalist, seeking out equally traditional priests and parishes, and Dean had always found comfort in the rhythms of the old language and the prayers he remembered from his childhood.
Dean was fluent in all of the Romance languages because of his Latin background, and he could get by in four or five other tongues as well. Once he completed his post-education work here in Philadelphia and was fully ordained into the priesthood, he looked forward to receiving a parish assignment in one of the Third World countries to minister to needy souls there.
He knew it would be arduous work, but he didn’t have the right mindset to be a scholar and he lacked the patience for even diocesan politics, let alone those at the higher levels, like the College of Cardinals. He loved best working directly with people, helping those who needed it the most, making concrete improvements in their lives.
Dean hoped that he would be assigned to work in the city with Habitat For Humanity, or a similar group, while he was here . . . something that fulfilled physical as spiritual needs. He itched for hard labor and heavy exertion, and the satisfaction to be found in working with his hands rather than his mind. It probably shouldn’t surprise him that so many people saw him as purely muscle. Grant’s attitude, however, was really getting to him, and considering that Dean had only met the man three weeks before, that was saying something.
He sighed and straightened up. The truck wasn’t going to unload itself, and Dean was anxious to finish unpacking so that he could wander around the neighborhood a bit, get a feel for the place and maybe meet some of his other neighbors.
That guy Sam seemed nice enough to start off, and as Dean loaded up the hand truck with heavy boxes of what sounded like kitchenware, he hoped that everyone else would prove to be just as pleasant, given the chance.
It had been Dean’s experience so far that most people were fairly decent; they just needed a chance to prove themselves. The way he saw it, it was his job to give them that chance.
But still . . . he was really not liking Grant much at all.
************************