SPN Fic: On Midsummer Nights I Dream of Winchesters - Sam/Dean (1/3)
Title: On Midsummer Nights I Dream of Winchesters (1/3)
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 for language (eventually will be NC-17)
Wordcount: 13,800 (5,600 in this part)
Summary: Written for the prompt by sugarsweet327 in a_kindara’s Massive Flist Fic Exchange O’ Doom:
Anyone who can write a SPN fic in which Dean and Sam are cursed to speak in Elizabethan/Shakespearean speech for awhile can have my soul on a silver platter. Wincest/porn not required but a total bonus.
That about sums it up. Set during the summer of Season 1.
Warning: If by Wincest you are offended, think but this, and all is mended-That you can use the back arrow key, and never e’er be wroth with me. I am an honest Puck.
A/N: So much credit goes to my talented and patient betas, krisomniac and tvm. Their generosity is above and beyond the call of duty!
***
I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?
-- Much Ado About Nothing Act IV:2
They arrive in Athens as the sun is setting.
The Impala weaves through the heart of the University of Georgia campus and stops across the street from the chapel. Sam’s sure it has a name, some formal title with a saint’s name or First United something. But, in true Southern fashion, everyone here simply refers to it as ‘The Chapel.’
Its massive white columns glow in the fading light.
Dean swings the car into a spot on the curb across the street, and Sam hops out to put a few quarters in the meter. They jog up the Chapel’s wide granite front steps, Sam trailing his hand lightly along the rail. “I hope we can still catch them at the rehearsal.”
Dean reaches the door first and holds it open for Sam with a mocking, after you sweep of the hand. “Rehearsing what?”
“The wedding service.”
They stride through the lobby, but halt at the doors to the sanctuary, trying to be simultaneously inconspicuous and catch their contact’s eye.
Dean snorts. “Doing it once sounds hellish enough.”
“Can you attempt to behave yourself?” Sam says in a low voice. “These are my friends.”
“No, they’re Becky’s friends.”
“Same difference.”
Dean leans against the doorframe. “And since when did ‘Little Becky’ become our chief dispatcher? Makes me wonder what kind of a reputation we’re getting.”
“Since when have you ever worried about your reputation?”
Sam scans the small crowd near the front of what looks more like a theater than a church. There is a large polished-wood stage instead of an altar, rows of cushioned seats semi-circle outward instead of pews. A minister and a matched set of young men and women are just filing down from the stage to chat with the people waiting below. Sam feels his heart clench, and he deliberately floods his mind with the mantra of job, job, job in an attempt to drown out the unanticipated sting of marriage, fiancée, wedding.
A handsome, dark-haired man looks up at them, and Sam half-raises a hand in greeting.
He breaks away from the group and greets them with an anxious smile. “Are you...?”
Sam nods. “I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean. Becky told us about your…um, situation.”
“I’m Rex,” he replies in a smooth, resonant voice. He’s Dean’s height with the sleek, wavy hair and chiseled jaw of a 1930’s matinee idol. Sam can see how this guy makes his living as an actor. Up walks a tall, stunningly beautiful woman, the kind the word ‘statuesque’ was invented to describe. Rex slides a hand around her waist. “This is my fiancée, Polly.”
Dean’s eyes widen slightly in appreciation. With a lick of his lips, he lowers his voice a few notches and flashes his widest smile. “So pleased to meet you.”
Sam chokes back a derisive laugh. Only Dean, he thinks, would try to pick up a woman on the night before her wedding--and be such a blatant jackass about it.
Polly smiles blandly; she must get that crap a lot.
Rex digs into his pocket and pulls out a key. “This opens the front door of the theater. You won’t have any trouble finding it.” He waves vaguely toward the door. “Down this same road until you come to the forest. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been down there since Tracey… was killed.”
There’s a well-timed pause as Rex looks off into the middle distance, and Sam wonders whether this guy can’t help but turn even true grief into performance. Rex continues, “There’ve always been rumors of a ghost haunting the theater, but we just thought it was an amusing legend. You know, something to help bring in an audience. They said it would show up in odd places, reciting lines from plays.” He shrugs. "But no one’s ever been hurt before.”
“You think Tracey’s fall from the catwalk is linked to this ghost?” Sam asks. They’d heard the details from Becky but like to get some things straight from the horse’s mouth.
“It wasn’t just a fall. She was pushed.” Rex looks at Polly, who nods agreement.
“Is that so?” Dean prompts.
Rex’s lantern jaw tightens. “The guard rails are chest-high. And she was up there alone, but those of us rehearsing on stage heard her arguing with someone. It was no accident.”
Dean slides Sam an impatient, eager look, ready to quit the preliminaries and move straight to the main event.
Sam tells the couple, “Alright. We’ll check things out tonight.” As he turns away, he adds quietly, “Good luck with the wedding.”
Polly holds Sam back with a hand on his arm and speaks for the first time, her voice low and intent. “Tracey was our dearest friend. And the best actor, best director-- best everything-- in the company. Gifted enough to rewrite King Lear as a female role and plan to perform it as a wedding present for us. She didn’t deserve to die. She deserves revenge.”
***
The rows of low-slung college-town apartments and fast-food restaurants that surround the campus quickly give way to stands of pines and sprawling oaks. As they drive into the forest proper, all signs of the city are left behind. There's only the paved road and a series of smallish wooden signs-- hand-painted in simulated Elizabethan lettering-- directing visitors toward “The North Georgia Shakespeare Company Playhouse.” It’s not quite dark yet, but under the thickening canopy of the trees very little of the twilight soaks through.
The Impala’s wheels chatter over gravel as they turn from the road and pull up to an empty parking lot that fronts a shabby-or maybe it’s “quaint”-- wooden three-story building.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Huh. I was expecting a little more ‘Southern Plantation’ and a little less ‘old Nevada whorehouse.’”
Sam chuckles in agreement and hops out to unhook a simple rope barricade strung between two poles. Dean eases the car to a far corner of the lot.
Sam closes his eyes for a moment and sucks in a lungful of damp air, letting the hush of cicada song and evening breeze wash over him. Then he jogs over to where Dean is rifling through the trunk for weapons and miscellaneous gear. Dean checks the clip on a gun and passes it, metal warm from his hand, over to Sam. “All salt.”
“Got it.” Sam double-checks the safety, then stashes it at the small of his back.
As they cross the lot to the old playhouse, Dean kicks at small rocks, sending them skittering ahead. “All the fawning over this Shakespeare guy is a load of crap, you know.”
“What?” Not for the first time, Sam wonders whether the never-ending stream of bizarre non sequiturs Dean produces isn’t some kind of karmic backlash for something horrible Sam did in a previous life. “What are you talking about? Shakespeare is arguably the most influential playwright in Western Civilization. His plays have been performed for centuries, all over the world. What the hell do you know about Shakespeare, anyway?”
“What can I say? When the motel doesn’t have cable, sometimes I end up stuck watching PBS.”
“Oh, the horror,” Sam deadpans.
“All I’m saying is that Bill throws around all these ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ and cross-dressing women and suicidal weenies, but nothing he writes ever means anything. It’s just a load of bullshit.”
Sam sputters. “Dean! His plays. Hamlet. Othello. They’re some of the most…” He trails off. Dean’s poker face slips a bit. “Damn. You’re yanking my chain again.” It’s not a question.
Dean unleashes the waiting smirk. “But you’re so cute when your inner dork is outraged. How can I resist?” He winks.
Sam heroically stifles the urge to punch him, hoping to win back some karma points for the next time around.
There’s a simple sign over the front entrance, almost hidden in the bluish shadows under the eaves, that reads simply “Playhouse.” The windows are all dark except for a soft, yellow light shining from underneath the front door and through the tiny window at its top.
“Were we expecting someone? You know, someone human?” Dean asks. Sam replies with a one-shouldered shrug. Ghosts don’t tend to leave the light on, but you never know.
Dean lowers his voice as they draw near the building. “You have to wonder what kind of idiot is hanging around a haunted theater at night.”
“Watch who you’re calling ‘idiot.’ Hanging out in haunted theaters at night is kind of our job description.”
Nearer the building they get serious, silent, each slipping up to one side of the door. Dean signals Sam with a nod and throws it open.
Inside, at a small wooden desk in the foyer, sits a young man.
He’s short and slight, sporting a neat goatee that’s just a bit darker than his spiked-up blonde hair. The beard doesn’t do much to roughen up his delicate features, nor does his tough-guy outfit: black Goodfellas shirt-- Joe Pesci pointing a Glock-- and camouflage pants. There’s a ladder of silver rings climbing the outside of one ear. The edges of a tattoo of what looks like a spiderweb peek out from the neckline of his t-shirt.
He leaps to his feet when the door flies open. “What the..! Man, you scared the hell out of me!” He looks very young despite all the piercings and tatts. But, to be honest, he doesn’t look particularly scared. Excited, maybe. Expectant.
“Sorry,” Sam says, holding his hands up, palms out, non-threatening. “Rex told us we could take a look around tonight.” While Sam acts as spokesman, Dean quickly cases the room.
The stranger’s face lights up. “Oh, are you the ghostbusters?”
Sam exchanges a look with Dean, his own wry amusement mirrored in Dean’s eyes. “Well…”
Dean says, cocking an eyebrow at Sam, “Ah, our ‘reputation’ precedes us.”
“Oh, um, I guess that’s, you know, a dumb thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Robin.”
Sam extends his own in return. “Sam.”
Robin’s hand is slim, but his grip is surprisingly strong. As they clasp hands, Robin looks up into Sam’s eyes intently, holding on for a few too many beats. A moment before Sam becomes more than just uneasy, Robin releases his hand and turns toward Dean.
“Nice to meetcha,” Dean drawls.
Robin grins like a found puppy and clings to Dean’s hand a bit too long, too. It makes Sam twitchy for no reason. The kid’s probably just spooked from hanging around alone in the theater and relieved to see them.
“So, have you seen the ghost?”
Robin strikes a dramatic pose and intones, “’I’ve seen the apparition with my own two eyes. Upon the platform where we watched.’”
Dean raises his eyebrows, unamused. “Come again?”
Robin clears his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry. Kidding. Just a little theater humor. You know, quoting lines.” He blushes a little and flashes them a quick, disarming smile. “Up on the third floor there are some doors that open out to a balcony and then from there a short set of stairs that lead to the roof. I’ve heard people say he hangs out there.”
“Thanks,” Dean replies, and turns to Sam. “C’mon. Let's check it out.”
Dean heads off across the empty lobby through the archway that leads to the stairs. Sam’s about to follow, but he turns back for a moment. “You should probably head on home. It might be dangerous around here.”
Robin nods, but doesn’t move. “That’s alright, I’ll just wait down here. You know, in case you guys need any help or anything. I’ll be okay. You just make sure you get rid of that goddamn ghost. He’s made a mess of everything.”
“How do you know the ghost is a he?” Sam asks.
Robin steps between Sam and the lamp on the table. He’s suddenly backlit, his face in shadow, lamplight shining around its edges.
He gives Sam an enigmatic smile, eyes half-hooded and strange. “I know a lot of things that go on around here, Sam.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You know what they say, ‘the play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the kin.’”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Oh, never mind. Just a little more theater humor. You’ll see.”
Sam frowns as he turns away to catch up with Dean.
***
The rest of the playhouse is dark and still. Dean has already passed through the ornate archway. His tread up the thick carpet runner on the stairs is muffled but audible in the otherwise quiet theater.
Sam lingers a moment in the foyer to shine his flashlight around in a wide arc, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. Dean calls impatiently, “Sammy?”
As Sam steps through the archway he feels an odd… sensation, brief, like a jolt up his spine or ripple over his skin. It’s as if a camera shutter blinked, or maybe the floor shifted slightly beneath his feet. He pauses for a moment, but the feeling doesn’t return. Shaking his head, he looks up to see Dean halfway up the staircase, turning back toward him and staring into the shadows where Sam stands.
Dean calls again,
Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name.
Sam's lips pull against a smile. “Deny thy father.” Dean’s sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired; not that that’s news. He opens his mouth to say, “Hey, dumbass, you’re doing the girl’s part!” But what comes out is,
I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
There’s this brief moment of shock, but even as his heart rate kicks up a notch, Sam’s training kicks in. Analysis of the situation? Loss of control, voice and movement. Danger level? Low, at least for the moment, at least from what he can tell.
Rapidly, he makes a mental list of the possibilities: possession, Dark Echo, psychosis, curse. He visually checks the area, checks Dean, holds himself ready, waiting for the moment he can take some- any- kind of action.
Yet underneath the hunter’s preparation runs a thread of wonderment. Call me but love. Sam heard himself saying it, his voice light and eager and begging. He knows it’s coming from a force outside himself, but in a strange way it also feels like it’s rising up from somewhere deep within.
Dean responds, the music of Shakespeare’s lines rolling through Sam, enriched by the rueful gentleness of Dean’s delivery.
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say “Ay,”
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove false. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Sam draws a sharp breath against a sudden tension in his chest. The part of him that has been hastily searching for clues and fighting to regain control fades into the background. All of his attention centers on the rough rasp of Dean’s voice.
Although he knows, logically, that they are reciting lines written for teenage lovers four hundred years ago, every word resonates. False, am I? Unfaithful? It always comes back to this.
Sam catches Dean’s gaze and holds it. His own eyes narrow, intent and unsmiling. Sam asks,
What shall I swear by?
Dean tells him,
Do not swear at all,
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I’ll believe thee. Sweet goodnight.
Dean turns to continue on up the stairs, leaving Sam floundering. They may be possessed or cursed or whatever, and it’s definitely fucked up, but Sam feels somehow like this is the most emotionally connected he’s been with Dean in months. Years maybe. Something in him doesn’t want to let it end.
Besides, he never could stand to let Dean have the last word.
Sam finds himself leaping, grabbing a balustrade with one hand, the rail with the other, hauling himself up the side of the staircase. Up, even with Dean, he cries out,
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Turning back, Dean’s eyebrow quirks up in an expression Sam has seen on his face a million times. That sardonic smirk when he flirts with sexual innuendo. Dean lowers his voice to a lazy, liquid tone familiar to barmaids and waitresses across the country. He growls,
What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
Sam swallows hard, unused to having that voice turned on him. But he’s not letting Dean get off, pun intended, that easily. There’s no weaseling out of this with a joke and a shrug and a wave of the hand. Still hanging on to the rail with one hand, Sam reaches out toward Dean with the other.
Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
The smirk slips from Dean’s lips and they tighten into a grim line. His eyes glitter in the dimness as he replies,
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
He reaches over the rail and touches Sam’s cheek with the tips of two fingers. Just as Sam turns his face into the touch, he feels the same slip-jerk sensation that launched this whole thing.
Dean snatches his hand back like it’s on fire, while at the same time Sam drops with a thud back to the floor below.
Slowly, Dean’s head and shoulders appear over the side of the rail.
“What the hell was that?” he calls down.
“Um, stunt casting?” Sam offers.
“Ha-fucking-ha.”
***
They climb the staircase past the second floor dressing rooms to the third which contains a single, high-ceilinged room. Mismatched pieces of old furniture and boxes and clutter have been pushed up against the walls to leave a large empty practice space. Lines of colored tape partition the floor. The far wall is an expanse of tall, multi-paned windows, broken only by a set of French doors leading outside.
As they cross the room, Sam tries to generate a working theory. “I don’t think what happened back there was related to the haunting. I think it was a separate phenomenon.”
Dean’s busy scanning the four corners of the room. “Uh huh.”
“I felt something, you know, right as I walked into the stairwell.”
“Hmmm.” Dean replies unhelpfully. He finally turns to look Sam in the eye. “Look. Let’s take care of one thing at a time. Ghost first, wacky thespian mind-control second. Alright?”
Sam reads something in the set of Dean’s face that says, No trespassing.
“Did you -“ Then Sam realizes he’s not exactly anxious to share what happened to him back there, either. “Did you just say ‘thespian’? Because I seem to remember the last time you used that word-Phoenix, was it?-- Carrie Luciani gave you a big old black eye.”
“How was I supposed to know I was hitting on her girlfriend?”
“Dean, they were holding hands at the time.”
“Yeah, I remember. That was hot.”
When they get to the French doors, Dean draws his gun and waits until Sam does, too.
“Here we go.” Dean slips through the doorway, Sam half a step behind him. They find themselves on a deck extending along the length of the building. Half of it is covered by a wooden trellis; the rest is open to the sky. The moon has risen and casts a latticework of shadows across Dean’s face.
They quarter the area, searching for signs of anything and nothing in particular. But they hear nothing out of the ordinary; they find no strange smells or sights or other signals. Dean whistles. “Here, ghosty, ghosty.”
“You could always try waving around a bone.”
Dean tucks his gun away. “Hey, if you’ve got a better -“
A wave of cold air washes over them.
The ghost stands before them. Its hair is grey and shoulder-length, standing out wild around its head underneath a small circlet crown. It is wearing armor underneath a long, dark cloak that whips around it, although there is no wind or even a breeze to speak of. A long sword strapped to its back extends up over one shoulder.
For a few heartbeats, everything is still, tension buzzing. Then the ghost moves, pointedly turning its back on Dean, nodding at Sam and then to the stairs leading to the rooftop.
Sam goes to raise his gun and fire, but instead he finds it slipping unwillingly from his grip as that odd jerk-slide feeling ripples through him.
He calls to the ghost as it ascends the stairs,
King, father, royal Dane, O answer me!
What may this mean that thou, dead corpse,
Again in complete steel,
Revisits this the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous, and we fools of nature;
So horribly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?
And it makes him furious that he should be made to call this thing 'Father,' as if Dad would have anything to do with this apparition other than to snuff it out. He struggles against the compulsion he’s under, without success.
The ghost doesn’t speak or turn back, but gestures Sam forward.
Dean sidles closer to Sam, putting one hand lightly on his arm. He says,
It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Sam is keenly aware that he is weaponless. He knows he and Dean need to fall back and make some kind of plan. But whatever imperative controls him carries him forward a few steps instead.
It will not speak. Then I will follow it.
Dean grips his arm tighter, bringing him to a halt. He insists in a low, earnest voice,
Do not, my lord.
As if Sam has any choice in the matter at this point. Of course, Dean doesn’t have much say in the words coming out of his mouth, either, but Sam finds the line between himself and his character starting to blur. He lashes out at Dean,
Why, what would be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin’s fee,
And for my soul, what can it do to that?
Dean swings him around, fingers digging into Sam’s biceps. His mouth is set as hard as his hands.
Be ruled. You shall not go.
The line is Horatio’s, but the sentiment is all Dean. Sam struggles in his grasp. He brings his forearms up between Dean’s, thrusting sharply up and out and breaking free.
By heaven I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me!
Dean stumbles backward, and in that moment Sam is bounding up the stairs toward the ghost. He tells it,
I say, away! Go on. I’ll follow thee.
Sam arrives on the roof just as the ghost turns to face him. He anticipates going through the exchange of lines between Hamlet and the ghost that comes next in the play; what he doesn’t see coming is the ghost’s back-handed strike.
It sends him staggering, grasping at the stair rail, just barely avoiding toppling back down the way he came.
His head rings from the solid hit of that armored fist, and he’s so stunned for a moment he doesn’t realize that he’s in control of his body again. By the time he does, it's too late to dodge the ghost’s next attack.
It closes on him before he can duck away. Its grip on his shirt spins him away from the stairs and slams him with a vicious thunk up against the rough brick wall. Sam brings up both arms to block another blow, but the ghost gets one forearm underneath Sam’s chin, crushing his throat.
Funny, he thinks. I don’t remember the scene going this way.
His vision swims, lungs swelling and throbbing. His heels scrabble in vain for purchase as he’s held up against the wall.
The shot from Dean’s gun rings out in the still night air, tearing through the ghost and dispersing it. Darting forward, he splays one hand on Sam’s chest, shoving him down--a check, a hold, a shield. Dean scans the rooftop.
Sam pushes Dean roughly away and half-stands, ready. One hand is braced on his knee, the other to his throat, gulping in the night air until he can concentrate on something other than the simple in-and-out of breathing.
“You okay?”
“Not one word about choking, or I’ll kick your ass.” Sam croaks. “Not one goddamn word.”
“Now, Sammy, why would I---“
Again a lurch and a blink. Sam finds himself frozen leaning against the wall, watching Dean slowly march forward. The ghost has rematerialized. Sam struggles without moving, damning this curse.
Facing the ghost, Dean takes an unusual stance, one foot out in front of the other. Poised and posed. Shoulders turned. En garde.
Dean pins the ghost with a disgusted glare and snarls,
You are a villain. I jest not:
I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare.
Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice.
You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you.
With that, Dean calmly raises his gun and shoots the ghost again.
He hauls Sam up by the armpit and drags him away.
***
They stumble back inside through the double doors and collapse onto a ratty plaid couch.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks, unaccountably nervous, his body tensing at Dean’s touch .
“Just checking to see how badly you’re hurt,” Dean replies sharply, but his fingertips run lightly over Sam’s head and then his torso.
“Oh,” Sam mutters and forces himself to relax.
Dean quickly checks his arms and legs before finally leaning back. “You’ll live, you moron.”
“Yeah. Thanks, man. Nick of time and all that.” Sam stands slowly and cricks his neck, shaking out the kinks.
“So what now, Prince Not-So-Charming?” Dean asks, lounging, arms spread along the back of the couch. “Because that? Was fucking ridiculous. It’s one thing to get the whammy put on us walking up the stairs. It’s another while we’re going a couple rounds with the homicidal spirit of King Richard Lionheart.”
“Actually,” Sam mutters absently while pacing, “I think Hamlet’s father’s name was Hamlet, too.”
“Sam,” Dean growls warningly.
“Okay, okay. We need to figure out why he’s haunting the place. What’s keeping him here.”
“And the possession-subjugation-whateveryoucallit? What about that?”
“Man, I don’t know. We don’t have much to go on at the moment.” Sam runs his hands through his hair, tugging in frustration and glancing around the room. His gaze falls on a set of three filing cabinets, the standard grey metal kind, tucked back behind some old scenery and tumbled props. “Hey, look.”
He walks over to the cabinets, pulling open a drawer at random. Jackpot.
“Check this out, Dean. Playbills from old shows going back for years!” His voice rises with enthusiasm as he rifles through several other drawers. “And here’s newspaper articles with reviews and... ummm.” He trails off, humming tunelessly to himself as he does a quick once over of the entire contents of the drawers. Divide it up into general categories now, do an in-depth analysis the second time through.
Dean calls over from where he still sits on the couch, breaking into his thought process. “What do you plan on doing with those?”
“Well, they might have some information about the ghost’s legend, or even about the guy when he was alive. What else do we have to work with?” Sam starts clearing off space and staking piles of file-folders on top of the cabinets. “Here. You take the programs from old productions. I’ll look through the newspaper clippings.”
But instead of coming over to join Sam at the table, Dean summons him to the couch,
Come hither, boy.
Ice cold tingles down Sam’s spine, whether from the resurgence of the curse or Dean’s silky-steel tone of voice, he doesn’t know. He’s yanked around like a marionette on strings and strides back across the room. He perches attentively on the edge of the sofa cushions, the knee of one leg almost touching the floor, the other knee just brushing Dean’s leg.
Dean leans forward, close enough for Sam to feel warm breath on his face. And even though they are alone in the expansive room, Dean murmurs low and intimate,
If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me.
He pauses for a moment, and a response flashes through Sam mind, When do I not think of you, Dean? But Dean continues on,
For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved.
Sam imagines he could drown in the longing he sees fill Dean’s eyes. The ache and the need flow out of them, pull him in. He swallows hard. Why has he never noticed this yearning in Dean’s gaze?
But then Dean gives a soft smile and reaches up to caress the side of Sam’s neck. He wraps his finger around a longish curl at the back of Sam’s neck, tugging it twice fondly, playfully. Shit. It’s something Dean in his right mind would never do, and Sam swears at himself for projecting his own inexplicable feelings back onto Dean. Dean is trapped in his role, not inhabiting it.
Not like Sam.
With perfect timing, Sam’s head turns sharply, breaking eye contact. Dean’s hand falls away. Sam hears his own reply,
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
And his heart stutters at the half-confession, so near to revealing this strange reaction he’s having to Dean’s closeness, his forced seduction. At the same time, in the back of Sam’s mind, a little voice mocks, Dear Abby, I have this ‘friend’ who’s discovered he’s got an abnormal crush on his brother. What should he do?
Dean asks mildly, playing along,
And what's her history?
Still looking off to the side, Sam replies,
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
Concealment. Yes. That he can do. And patience and melancholy and grief and love. This was a combination Sam is intimately familiar with. He can wear it around quite comfortably, find a way to rid them of this curse, and never let Dean see how changed he is.
Dean crooks one finger under Sam’s chin and gently turns him back to face him. It’s such an abominable romantic cliché that Sam looks up expecting to see Dean laughing his ass off. But instead that same longing-- mixed with desire, Sam’s sure of it-- is all that he can see.
Dean rubs his thumb hesitantly and whisper-soft back and forth across Sam’s lips.
Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
Sam inhales a quick, sharp breath. He feels the shock of Dean’s touch surge lightning-fast from his lips to his groin. Wide-eyed, he feels a blush fill his cheeks as he gasps out,
And all those sayings will I over swear,
And all those swearings keep as true in soul.
“Jesus Christ!” Dean jumps to his feet and stalks over to the far wall. Tight-lipped and tense, he looks like he’s about to punch his hand right through it, but rather than break his knuckles, he settles for smacking it once with the flat of his hand.
Sam just sits staring at his hands, twisting his fingers together. He wonders why his heart is beating so hard and fast, why his palms are so clammy. He wonders why he wants so badly to walk over to Dean and place a hand on his chest to see if his heart is hammering, too.
Part 2 here
Part 3 here
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 for language (eventually will be NC-17)
Wordcount: 13,800 (5,600 in this part)
Summary: Written for the prompt by sugarsweet327 in a_kindara’s Massive Flist Fic Exchange O’ Doom:
Anyone who can write a SPN fic in which Dean and Sam are cursed to speak in Elizabethan/Shakespearean speech for awhile can have my soul on a silver platter. Wincest/porn not required but a total bonus.
That about sums it up. Set during the summer of Season 1.
Warning: If by Wincest you are offended, think but this, and all is mended-That you can use the back arrow key, and never e’er be wroth with me. I am an honest Puck.
A/N: So much credit goes to my talented and patient betas, krisomniac and tvm. Their generosity is above and beyond the call of duty!
***
I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?
-- Much Ado About Nothing Act IV:2
They arrive in Athens as the sun is setting.
The Impala weaves through the heart of the University of Georgia campus and stops across the street from the chapel. Sam’s sure it has a name, some formal title with a saint’s name or First United something. But, in true Southern fashion, everyone here simply refers to it as ‘The Chapel.’
Its massive white columns glow in the fading light.
Dean swings the car into a spot on the curb across the street, and Sam hops out to put a few quarters in the meter. They jog up the Chapel’s wide granite front steps, Sam trailing his hand lightly along the rail. “I hope we can still catch them at the rehearsal.”
Dean reaches the door first and holds it open for Sam with a mocking, after you sweep of the hand. “Rehearsing what?”
“The wedding service.”
They stride through the lobby, but halt at the doors to the sanctuary, trying to be simultaneously inconspicuous and catch their contact’s eye.
Dean snorts. “Doing it once sounds hellish enough.”
“Can you attempt to behave yourself?” Sam says in a low voice. “These are my friends.”
“No, they’re Becky’s friends.”
“Same difference.”
Dean leans against the doorframe. “And since when did ‘Little Becky’ become our chief dispatcher? Makes me wonder what kind of a reputation we’re getting.”
“Since when have you ever worried about your reputation?”
Sam scans the small crowd near the front of what looks more like a theater than a church. There is a large polished-wood stage instead of an altar, rows of cushioned seats semi-circle outward instead of pews. A minister and a matched set of young men and women are just filing down from the stage to chat with the people waiting below. Sam feels his heart clench, and he deliberately floods his mind with the mantra of job, job, job in an attempt to drown out the unanticipated sting of marriage, fiancée, wedding.
A handsome, dark-haired man looks up at them, and Sam half-raises a hand in greeting.
He breaks away from the group and greets them with an anxious smile. “Are you...?”
Sam nods. “I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean. Becky told us about your…um, situation.”
“I’m Rex,” he replies in a smooth, resonant voice. He’s Dean’s height with the sleek, wavy hair and chiseled jaw of a 1930’s matinee idol. Sam can see how this guy makes his living as an actor. Up walks a tall, stunningly beautiful woman, the kind the word ‘statuesque’ was invented to describe. Rex slides a hand around her waist. “This is my fiancée, Polly.”
Dean’s eyes widen slightly in appreciation. With a lick of his lips, he lowers his voice a few notches and flashes his widest smile. “So pleased to meet you.”
Sam chokes back a derisive laugh. Only Dean, he thinks, would try to pick up a woman on the night before her wedding--and be such a blatant jackass about it.
Polly smiles blandly; she must get that crap a lot.
Rex digs into his pocket and pulls out a key. “This opens the front door of the theater. You won’t have any trouble finding it.” He waves vaguely toward the door. “Down this same road until you come to the forest. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been down there since Tracey… was killed.”
There’s a well-timed pause as Rex looks off into the middle distance, and Sam wonders whether this guy can’t help but turn even true grief into performance. Rex continues, “There’ve always been rumors of a ghost haunting the theater, but we just thought it was an amusing legend. You know, something to help bring in an audience. They said it would show up in odd places, reciting lines from plays.” He shrugs. "But no one’s ever been hurt before.”
“You think Tracey’s fall from the catwalk is linked to this ghost?” Sam asks. They’d heard the details from Becky but like to get some things straight from the horse’s mouth.
“It wasn’t just a fall. She was pushed.” Rex looks at Polly, who nods agreement.
“Is that so?” Dean prompts.
Rex’s lantern jaw tightens. “The guard rails are chest-high. And she was up there alone, but those of us rehearsing on stage heard her arguing with someone. It was no accident.”
Dean slides Sam an impatient, eager look, ready to quit the preliminaries and move straight to the main event.
Sam tells the couple, “Alright. We’ll check things out tonight.” As he turns away, he adds quietly, “Good luck with the wedding.”
Polly holds Sam back with a hand on his arm and speaks for the first time, her voice low and intent. “Tracey was our dearest friend. And the best actor, best director-- best everything-- in the company. Gifted enough to rewrite King Lear as a female role and plan to perform it as a wedding present for us. She didn’t deserve to die. She deserves revenge.”
***
The rows of low-slung college-town apartments and fast-food restaurants that surround the campus quickly give way to stands of pines and sprawling oaks. As they drive into the forest proper, all signs of the city are left behind. There's only the paved road and a series of smallish wooden signs-- hand-painted in simulated Elizabethan lettering-- directing visitors toward “The North Georgia Shakespeare Company Playhouse.” It’s not quite dark yet, but under the thickening canopy of the trees very little of the twilight soaks through.
The Impala’s wheels chatter over gravel as they turn from the road and pull up to an empty parking lot that fronts a shabby-or maybe it’s “quaint”-- wooden three-story building.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Huh. I was expecting a little more ‘Southern Plantation’ and a little less ‘old Nevada whorehouse.’”
Sam chuckles in agreement and hops out to unhook a simple rope barricade strung between two poles. Dean eases the car to a far corner of the lot.
Sam closes his eyes for a moment and sucks in a lungful of damp air, letting the hush of cicada song and evening breeze wash over him. Then he jogs over to where Dean is rifling through the trunk for weapons and miscellaneous gear. Dean checks the clip on a gun and passes it, metal warm from his hand, over to Sam. “All salt.”
“Got it.” Sam double-checks the safety, then stashes it at the small of his back.
As they cross the lot to the old playhouse, Dean kicks at small rocks, sending them skittering ahead. “All the fawning over this Shakespeare guy is a load of crap, you know.”
“What?” Not for the first time, Sam wonders whether the never-ending stream of bizarre non sequiturs Dean produces isn’t some kind of karmic backlash for something horrible Sam did in a previous life. “What are you talking about? Shakespeare is arguably the most influential playwright in Western Civilization. His plays have been performed for centuries, all over the world. What the hell do you know about Shakespeare, anyway?”
“What can I say? When the motel doesn’t have cable, sometimes I end up stuck watching PBS.”
“Oh, the horror,” Sam deadpans.
“All I’m saying is that Bill throws around all these ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ and cross-dressing women and suicidal weenies, but nothing he writes ever means anything. It’s just a load of bullshit.”
Sam sputters. “Dean! His plays. Hamlet. Othello. They’re some of the most…” He trails off. Dean’s poker face slips a bit. “Damn. You’re yanking my chain again.” It’s not a question.
Dean unleashes the waiting smirk. “But you’re so cute when your inner dork is outraged. How can I resist?” He winks.
Sam heroically stifles the urge to punch him, hoping to win back some karma points for the next time around.
There’s a simple sign over the front entrance, almost hidden in the bluish shadows under the eaves, that reads simply “Playhouse.” The windows are all dark except for a soft, yellow light shining from underneath the front door and through the tiny window at its top.
“Were we expecting someone? You know, someone human?” Dean asks. Sam replies with a one-shouldered shrug. Ghosts don’t tend to leave the light on, but you never know.
Dean lowers his voice as they draw near the building. “You have to wonder what kind of idiot is hanging around a haunted theater at night.”
“Watch who you’re calling ‘idiot.’ Hanging out in haunted theaters at night is kind of our job description.”
Nearer the building they get serious, silent, each slipping up to one side of the door. Dean signals Sam with a nod and throws it open.
Inside, at a small wooden desk in the foyer, sits a young man.
He’s short and slight, sporting a neat goatee that’s just a bit darker than his spiked-up blonde hair. The beard doesn’t do much to roughen up his delicate features, nor does his tough-guy outfit: black Goodfellas shirt-- Joe Pesci pointing a Glock-- and camouflage pants. There’s a ladder of silver rings climbing the outside of one ear. The edges of a tattoo of what looks like a spiderweb peek out from the neckline of his t-shirt.
He leaps to his feet when the door flies open. “What the..! Man, you scared the hell out of me!” He looks very young despite all the piercings and tatts. But, to be honest, he doesn’t look particularly scared. Excited, maybe. Expectant.
“Sorry,” Sam says, holding his hands up, palms out, non-threatening. “Rex told us we could take a look around tonight.” While Sam acts as spokesman, Dean quickly cases the room.
The stranger’s face lights up. “Oh, are you the ghostbusters?”
Sam exchanges a look with Dean, his own wry amusement mirrored in Dean’s eyes. “Well…”
Dean says, cocking an eyebrow at Sam, “Ah, our ‘reputation’ precedes us.”
“Oh, um, I guess that’s, you know, a dumb thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Robin.”
Sam extends his own in return. “Sam.”
Robin’s hand is slim, but his grip is surprisingly strong. As they clasp hands, Robin looks up into Sam’s eyes intently, holding on for a few too many beats. A moment before Sam becomes more than just uneasy, Robin releases his hand and turns toward Dean.
“Nice to meetcha,” Dean drawls.
Robin grins like a found puppy and clings to Dean’s hand a bit too long, too. It makes Sam twitchy for no reason. The kid’s probably just spooked from hanging around alone in the theater and relieved to see them.
“So, have you seen the ghost?”
Robin strikes a dramatic pose and intones, “’I’ve seen the apparition with my own two eyes. Upon the platform where we watched.’”
Dean raises his eyebrows, unamused. “Come again?”
Robin clears his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry. Kidding. Just a little theater humor. You know, quoting lines.” He blushes a little and flashes them a quick, disarming smile. “Up on the third floor there are some doors that open out to a balcony and then from there a short set of stairs that lead to the roof. I’ve heard people say he hangs out there.”
“Thanks,” Dean replies, and turns to Sam. “C’mon. Let's check it out.”
Dean heads off across the empty lobby through the archway that leads to the stairs. Sam’s about to follow, but he turns back for a moment. “You should probably head on home. It might be dangerous around here.”
Robin nods, but doesn’t move. “That’s alright, I’ll just wait down here. You know, in case you guys need any help or anything. I’ll be okay. You just make sure you get rid of that goddamn ghost. He’s made a mess of everything.”
“How do you know the ghost is a he?” Sam asks.
Robin steps between Sam and the lamp on the table. He’s suddenly backlit, his face in shadow, lamplight shining around its edges.
He gives Sam an enigmatic smile, eyes half-hooded and strange. “I know a lot of things that go on around here, Sam.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You know what they say, ‘the play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the kin.’”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Oh, never mind. Just a little more theater humor. You’ll see.”
Sam frowns as he turns away to catch up with Dean.
***
The rest of the playhouse is dark and still. Dean has already passed through the ornate archway. His tread up the thick carpet runner on the stairs is muffled but audible in the otherwise quiet theater.
Sam lingers a moment in the foyer to shine his flashlight around in a wide arc, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. Dean calls impatiently, “Sammy?”
As Sam steps through the archway he feels an odd… sensation, brief, like a jolt up his spine or ripple over his skin. It’s as if a camera shutter blinked, or maybe the floor shifted slightly beneath his feet. He pauses for a moment, but the feeling doesn’t return. Shaking his head, he looks up to see Dean halfway up the staircase, turning back toward him and staring into the shadows where Sam stands.
Dean calls again,
Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name.
Sam's lips pull against a smile. “Deny thy father.” Dean’s sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired; not that that’s news. He opens his mouth to say, “Hey, dumbass, you’re doing the girl’s part!” But what comes out is,
I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
There’s this brief moment of shock, but even as his heart rate kicks up a notch, Sam’s training kicks in. Analysis of the situation? Loss of control, voice and movement. Danger level? Low, at least for the moment, at least from what he can tell.
Rapidly, he makes a mental list of the possibilities: possession, Dark Echo, psychosis, curse. He visually checks the area, checks Dean, holds himself ready, waiting for the moment he can take some- any- kind of action.
Yet underneath the hunter’s preparation runs a thread of wonderment. Call me but love. Sam heard himself saying it, his voice light and eager and begging. He knows it’s coming from a force outside himself, but in a strange way it also feels like it’s rising up from somewhere deep within.
Dean responds, the music of Shakespeare’s lines rolling through Sam, enriched by the rueful gentleness of Dean’s delivery.
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say “Ay,”
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove false. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Sam draws a sharp breath against a sudden tension in his chest. The part of him that has been hastily searching for clues and fighting to regain control fades into the background. All of his attention centers on the rough rasp of Dean’s voice.
Although he knows, logically, that they are reciting lines written for teenage lovers four hundred years ago, every word resonates. False, am I? Unfaithful? It always comes back to this.
Sam catches Dean’s gaze and holds it. His own eyes narrow, intent and unsmiling. Sam asks,
What shall I swear by?
Dean tells him,
Do not swear at all,
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I’ll believe thee. Sweet goodnight.
Dean turns to continue on up the stairs, leaving Sam floundering. They may be possessed or cursed or whatever, and it’s definitely fucked up, but Sam feels somehow like this is the most emotionally connected he’s been with Dean in months. Years maybe. Something in him doesn’t want to let it end.
Besides, he never could stand to let Dean have the last word.
Sam finds himself leaping, grabbing a balustrade with one hand, the rail with the other, hauling himself up the side of the staircase. Up, even with Dean, he cries out,
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Turning back, Dean’s eyebrow quirks up in an expression Sam has seen on his face a million times. That sardonic smirk when he flirts with sexual innuendo. Dean lowers his voice to a lazy, liquid tone familiar to barmaids and waitresses across the country. He growls,
What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
Sam swallows hard, unused to having that voice turned on him. But he’s not letting Dean get off, pun intended, that easily. There’s no weaseling out of this with a joke and a shrug and a wave of the hand. Still hanging on to the rail with one hand, Sam reaches out toward Dean with the other.
Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
The smirk slips from Dean’s lips and they tighten into a grim line. His eyes glitter in the dimness as he replies,
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
He reaches over the rail and touches Sam’s cheek with the tips of two fingers. Just as Sam turns his face into the touch, he feels the same slip-jerk sensation that launched this whole thing.
Dean snatches his hand back like it’s on fire, while at the same time Sam drops with a thud back to the floor below.
Slowly, Dean’s head and shoulders appear over the side of the rail.
“What the hell was that?” he calls down.
“Um, stunt casting?” Sam offers.
“Ha-fucking-ha.”
***
They climb the staircase past the second floor dressing rooms to the third which contains a single, high-ceilinged room. Mismatched pieces of old furniture and boxes and clutter have been pushed up against the walls to leave a large empty practice space. Lines of colored tape partition the floor. The far wall is an expanse of tall, multi-paned windows, broken only by a set of French doors leading outside.
As they cross the room, Sam tries to generate a working theory. “I don’t think what happened back there was related to the haunting. I think it was a separate phenomenon.”
Dean’s busy scanning the four corners of the room. “Uh huh.”
“I felt something, you know, right as I walked into the stairwell.”
“Hmmm.” Dean replies unhelpfully. He finally turns to look Sam in the eye. “Look. Let’s take care of one thing at a time. Ghost first, wacky thespian mind-control second. Alright?”
Sam reads something in the set of Dean’s face that says, No trespassing.
“Did you -“ Then Sam realizes he’s not exactly anxious to share what happened to him back there, either. “Did you just say ‘thespian’? Because I seem to remember the last time you used that word-Phoenix, was it?-- Carrie Luciani gave you a big old black eye.”
“How was I supposed to know I was hitting on her girlfriend?”
“Dean, they were holding hands at the time.”
“Yeah, I remember. That was hot.”
When they get to the French doors, Dean draws his gun and waits until Sam does, too.
“Here we go.” Dean slips through the doorway, Sam half a step behind him. They find themselves on a deck extending along the length of the building. Half of it is covered by a wooden trellis; the rest is open to the sky. The moon has risen and casts a latticework of shadows across Dean’s face.
They quarter the area, searching for signs of anything and nothing in particular. But they hear nothing out of the ordinary; they find no strange smells or sights or other signals. Dean whistles. “Here, ghosty, ghosty.”
“You could always try waving around a bone.”
Dean tucks his gun away. “Hey, if you’ve got a better -“
A wave of cold air washes over them.
The ghost stands before them. Its hair is grey and shoulder-length, standing out wild around its head underneath a small circlet crown. It is wearing armor underneath a long, dark cloak that whips around it, although there is no wind or even a breeze to speak of. A long sword strapped to its back extends up over one shoulder.
For a few heartbeats, everything is still, tension buzzing. Then the ghost moves, pointedly turning its back on Dean, nodding at Sam and then to the stairs leading to the rooftop.
Sam goes to raise his gun and fire, but instead he finds it slipping unwillingly from his grip as that odd jerk-slide feeling ripples through him.
He calls to the ghost as it ascends the stairs,
King, father, royal Dane, O answer me!
What may this mean that thou, dead corpse,
Again in complete steel,
Revisits this the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous, and we fools of nature;
So horribly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?
And it makes him furious that he should be made to call this thing 'Father,' as if Dad would have anything to do with this apparition other than to snuff it out. He struggles against the compulsion he’s under, without success.
The ghost doesn’t speak or turn back, but gestures Sam forward.
Dean sidles closer to Sam, putting one hand lightly on his arm. He says,
It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Sam is keenly aware that he is weaponless. He knows he and Dean need to fall back and make some kind of plan. But whatever imperative controls him carries him forward a few steps instead.
It will not speak. Then I will follow it.
Dean grips his arm tighter, bringing him to a halt. He insists in a low, earnest voice,
Do not, my lord.
As if Sam has any choice in the matter at this point. Of course, Dean doesn’t have much say in the words coming out of his mouth, either, but Sam finds the line between himself and his character starting to blur. He lashes out at Dean,
Why, what would be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin’s fee,
And for my soul, what can it do to that?
Dean swings him around, fingers digging into Sam’s biceps. His mouth is set as hard as his hands.
Be ruled. You shall not go.
The line is Horatio’s, but the sentiment is all Dean. Sam struggles in his grasp. He brings his forearms up between Dean’s, thrusting sharply up and out and breaking free.
By heaven I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me!
Dean stumbles backward, and in that moment Sam is bounding up the stairs toward the ghost. He tells it,
I say, away! Go on. I’ll follow thee.
Sam arrives on the roof just as the ghost turns to face him. He anticipates going through the exchange of lines between Hamlet and the ghost that comes next in the play; what he doesn’t see coming is the ghost’s back-handed strike.
It sends him staggering, grasping at the stair rail, just barely avoiding toppling back down the way he came.
His head rings from the solid hit of that armored fist, and he’s so stunned for a moment he doesn’t realize that he’s in control of his body again. By the time he does, it's too late to dodge the ghost’s next attack.
It closes on him before he can duck away. Its grip on his shirt spins him away from the stairs and slams him with a vicious thunk up against the rough brick wall. Sam brings up both arms to block another blow, but the ghost gets one forearm underneath Sam’s chin, crushing his throat.
Funny, he thinks. I don’t remember the scene going this way.
His vision swims, lungs swelling and throbbing. His heels scrabble in vain for purchase as he’s held up against the wall.
The shot from Dean’s gun rings out in the still night air, tearing through the ghost and dispersing it. Darting forward, he splays one hand on Sam’s chest, shoving him down--a check, a hold, a shield. Dean scans the rooftop.
Sam pushes Dean roughly away and half-stands, ready. One hand is braced on his knee, the other to his throat, gulping in the night air until he can concentrate on something other than the simple in-and-out of breathing.
“You okay?”
“Not one word about choking, or I’ll kick your ass.” Sam croaks. “Not one goddamn word.”
“Now, Sammy, why would I---“
Again a lurch and a blink. Sam finds himself frozen leaning against the wall, watching Dean slowly march forward. The ghost has rematerialized. Sam struggles without moving, damning this curse.
Facing the ghost, Dean takes an unusual stance, one foot out in front of the other. Poised and posed. Shoulders turned. En garde.
Dean pins the ghost with a disgusted glare and snarls,
You are a villain. I jest not:
I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare.
Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice.
You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you.
With that, Dean calmly raises his gun and shoots the ghost again.
He hauls Sam up by the armpit and drags him away.
***
They stumble back inside through the double doors and collapse onto a ratty plaid couch.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks, unaccountably nervous, his body tensing at Dean’s touch .
“Just checking to see how badly you’re hurt,” Dean replies sharply, but his fingertips run lightly over Sam’s head and then his torso.
“Oh,” Sam mutters and forces himself to relax.
Dean quickly checks his arms and legs before finally leaning back. “You’ll live, you moron.”
“Yeah. Thanks, man. Nick of time and all that.” Sam stands slowly and cricks his neck, shaking out the kinks.
“So what now, Prince Not-So-Charming?” Dean asks, lounging, arms spread along the back of the couch. “Because that? Was fucking ridiculous. It’s one thing to get the whammy put on us walking up the stairs. It’s another while we’re going a couple rounds with the homicidal spirit of King Richard Lionheart.”
“Actually,” Sam mutters absently while pacing, “I think Hamlet’s father’s name was Hamlet, too.”
“Sam,” Dean growls warningly.
“Okay, okay. We need to figure out why he’s haunting the place. What’s keeping him here.”
“And the possession-subjugation-whateveryoucallit? What about that?”
“Man, I don’t know. We don’t have much to go on at the moment.” Sam runs his hands through his hair, tugging in frustration and glancing around the room. His gaze falls on a set of three filing cabinets, the standard grey metal kind, tucked back behind some old scenery and tumbled props. “Hey, look.”
He walks over to the cabinets, pulling open a drawer at random. Jackpot.
“Check this out, Dean. Playbills from old shows going back for years!” His voice rises with enthusiasm as he rifles through several other drawers. “And here’s newspaper articles with reviews and... ummm.” He trails off, humming tunelessly to himself as he does a quick once over of the entire contents of the drawers. Divide it up into general categories now, do an in-depth analysis the second time through.
Dean calls over from where he still sits on the couch, breaking into his thought process. “What do you plan on doing with those?”
“Well, they might have some information about the ghost’s legend, or even about the guy when he was alive. What else do we have to work with?” Sam starts clearing off space and staking piles of file-folders on top of the cabinets. “Here. You take the programs from old productions. I’ll look through the newspaper clippings.”
But instead of coming over to join Sam at the table, Dean summons him to the couch,
Come hither, boy.
Ice cold tingles down Sam’s spine, whether from the resurgence of the curse or Dean’s silky-steel tone of voice, he doesn’t know. He’s yanked around like a marionette on strings and strides back across the room. He perches attentively on the edge of the sofa cushions, the knee of one leg almost touching the floor, the other knee just brushing Dean’s leg.
Dean leans forward, close enough for Sam to feel warm breath on his face. And even though they are alone in the expansive room, Dean murmurs low and intimate,
If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me.
He pauses for a moment, and a response flashes through Sam mind, When do I not think of you, Dean? But Dean continues on,
For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved.
Sam imagines he could drown in the longing he sees fill Dean’s eyes. The ache and the need flow out of them, pull him in. He swallows hard. Why has he never noticed this yearning in Dean’s gaze?
But then Dean gives a soft smile and reaches up to caress the side of Sam’s neck. He wraps his finger around a longish curl at the back of Sam’s neck, tugging it twice fondly, playfully. Shit. It’s something Dean in his right mind would never do, and Sam swears at himself for projecting his own inexplicable feelings back onto Dean. Dean is trapped in his role, not inhabiting it.
Not like Sam.
With perfect timing, Sam’s head turns sharply, breaking eye contact. Dean’s hand falls away. Sam hears his own reply,
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
And his heart stutters at the half-confession, so near to revealing this strange reaction he’s having to Dean’s closeness, his forced seduction. At the same time, in the back of Sam’s mind, a little voice mocks, Dear Abby, I have this ‘friend’ who’s discovered he’s got an abnormal crush on his brother. What should he do?
Dean asks mildly, playing along,
And what's her history?
Still looking off to the side, Sam replies,
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
Concealment. Yes. That he can do. And patience and melancholy and grief and love. This was a combination Sam is intimately familiar with. He can wear it around quite comfortably, find a way to rid them of this curse, and never let Dean see how changed he is.
Dean crooks one finger under Sam’s chin and gently turns him back to face him. It’s such an abominable romantic cliché that Sam looks up expecting to see Dean laughing his ass off. But instead that same longing-- mixed with desire, Sam’s sure of it-- is all that he can see.
Dean rubs his thumb hesitantly and whisper-soft back and forth across Sam’s lips.
Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
Sam inhales a quick, sharp breath. He feels the shock of Dean’s touch surge lightning-fast from his lips to his groin. Wide-eyed, he feels a blush fill his cheeks as he gasps out,
And all those sayings will I over swear,
And all those swearings keep as true in soul.
“Jesus Christ!” Dean jumps to his feet and stalks over to the far wall. Tight-lipped and tense, he looks like he’s about to punch his hand right through it, but rather than break his knuckles, he settles for smacking it once with the flat of his hand.
Sam just sits staring at his hands, twisting his fingers together. He wonders why his heart is beating so hard and fast, why his palms are so clammy. He wonders why he wants so badly to walk over to Dean and place a hand on his chest to see if his heart is hammering, too.
Part 2 here
Part 3 here