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Eight Crazy Nights, night seven, shamash edition
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coffeeandink's story in time, I have an open slot, if someone wants to give me a prompt for the last night.
forcellia
SPN, "meeting old friends" with Sam/Dean (or gen with Sam and Dean), first-born
“Dean? Dean Winchester?” The voice was curious, male, and very loud.
Dean cursed to himself and prepared to run. The gig had seemed perfect when Sam had set it up: substitute shop teacher at Pinehearst Middle School, while Sam subbed for the missing history teacher and they both investigated the mysterious deaths surrounding the school. Stood to figure that the first job he’d enjoyed in a while would be the one that got him sent back to jail.
He turned, smiling as if he had no idea what was going on, and found himself face-to-face with—“Mr. Wilson? What are you doing here?”
“Moved here from Colleton ten years back. Better benefits, you know, and at my age you can’t ignore that. What about you, Dean? What have you been up to?” Mr. Wilson looked exactly the same when Dean had been a kid: wrinkled, nearly hairless, with a grin that creased his cheeks and seemed to say that everything was all right with the world, and they’d have an adventure exploring it together.
Even then, Dean had recognized the lie, but Mr. Wilson hadn’t, so he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Uh,” Dean said, and then Sam arrived to make the disaster complete.
“My goodness,” Mr. Wilson said, craning his neck, “Sammy Winchester. Usually ‘you grew up’ is more of a metaphor.”
“Actually,” Sam said smoothly, because he was good like that, “we use Parker now. I’m sorry, I’m not sure who—”
“I taught math at your old middle school,” Mr. Wilson said. “You were never in my class, but I knew Dean from when he’d wait for your soccer practice to finish up.”
“Colleton,” Dean said, because Sam had played on four different soccer teams in middle school. The fifth hadn’t let him join because it was too late in the year. Dean had always blamed that school for the start of Sam’s bad attitude.
Sam nodded as if he remembered every detail, and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The slight squeeze said: don’t panic, he’s not gonna rat us out, which Dean already knew—Mr. Wilson was too goodnatured to wonder about the Winchester-Parker bona fides. The biggest risk was that he’d casually say something to another, more suspicious teacher. “So what did Dean have to say to a math teacher?”
Mr. Wilson pursed his lips in surprise. “He never mentioned it?”
Dean looked away.
After a slight pause, Mr. Wilson continued. “I saw him sitting there at the edge of the field, and he looked pretty bored, so I started teaching him calculus. It wasn’t until halfway through the textbook that I realized he’d never had trigonometry, he was just picking it up on the side as we went.”
The weight of Sam’s shock was uncomfortable, and Dean slid himself half a step away so that Sam had to let go of him.
“So, did you check out that engineering program we talked about?” Mr. Wilson asked gently.
Dean shook his head, still not meeting Mr. Wilson’s eyes. “Stuff kinda—happened.”
“Yes,” the teacher said, as serious as Dean had ever heard him. “I remember you left before the end of the school year.”
Dean coughed. “But, you know, it all worked out. I mean, here I am, even if it’s just teachin’ shop, and Sam—” The lie stuck in his throat. Sam was so much better at this than he was. “Anyway, I guess I owe you an apology, wasting all your time that year.”
“Dean,” Mr. Wilson’s voice was so sharp that Dean was forced to look up. The ever-present smile was gone. “The only apology you owe me is for thinking I would ever consider time spent sharing knowledge a waste.”
Dean nodded, mumbled a quick “Sorry,” and wished that the poltergeist would show up right now. He’d blast its ass, something he was actually good at, and he wouldn’t have to worry about Mr. Wilson maybe being the next victim on the list.
“Listen,” Sam said, “we’ve got to run, but—thanks.”
Mr. Wilson tilted his head, but didn’t ask why Sam was thanking him. “I’ll see you around,” he said and they smiled agreement and fled.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Dean snapped as they got into the car. Dean made himself wave at a couple of his kids who were watching—he’d promised that anybody who could make a self-propelled toy car go more than twenty feet in a straight line could get a look at the Impala’s engine—and started her up.
“Dean,” Sam said, and there were too many things in his name, hurt and comfort all tangled up, the way he and Sam were tangled up. All those years ago with Mr. Wilson, he’d just been passing time waiting for Sam to finish. Maybe there’d been a daydream or two, but Dean had always known that dreaming made it harder to get out of bed. Awake, there was Sam, sweaty and hungry and excited to tell Dean all about his day, and Dad, and training, and killing bad things.
That kid Mr. Wilson had tried to help out, he was just someone else Dean had been pretending to be.
coffeeandink's story in time, I have an open slot, if someone wants to give me a prompt for the last night.for
celliaSPN, "meeting old friends" with Sam/Dean (or gen with Sam and Dean), first-born
“Dean? Dean Winchester?” The voice was curious, male, and very loud.
Dean cursed to himself and prepared to run. The gig had seemed perfect when Sam had set it up: substitute shop teacher at Pinehearst Middle School, while Sam subbed for the missing history teacher and they both investigated the mysterious deaths surrounding the school. Stood to figure that the first job he’d enjoyed in a while would be the one that got him sent back to jail.
He turned, smiling as if he had no idea what was going on, and found himself face-to-face with—“Mr. Wilson? What are you doing here?”
“Moved here from Colleton ten years back. Better benefits, you know, and at my age you can’t ignore that. What about you, Dean? What have you been up to?” Mr. Wilson looked exactly the same when Dean had been a kid: wrinkled, nearly hairless, with a grin that creased his cheeks and seemed to say that everything was all right with the world, and they’d have an adventure exploring it together.
Even then, Dean had recognized the lie, but Mr. Wilson hadn’t, so he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Uh,” Dean said, and then Sam arrived to make the disaster complete.
“My goodness,” Mr. Wilson said, craning his neck, “Sammy Winchester. Usually ‘you grew up’ is more of a metaphor.”
“Actually,” Sam said smoothly, because he was good like that, “we use Parker now. I’m sorry, I’m not sure who—”
“I taught math at your old middle school,” Mr. Wilson said. “You were never in my class, but I knew Dean from when he’d wait for your soccer practice to finish up.”
“Colleton,” Dean said, because Sam had played on four different soccer teams in middle school. The fifth hadn’t let him join because it was too late in the year. Dean had always blamed that school for the start of Sam’s bad attitude.
Sam nodded as if he remembered every detail, and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The slight squeeze said: don’t panic, he’s not gonna rat us out, which Dean already knew—Mr. Wilson was too goodnatured to wonder about the Winchester-Parker bona fides. The biggest risk was that he’d casually say something to another, more suspicious teacher. “So what did Dean have to say to a math teacher?”
Mr. Wilson pursed his lips in surprise. “He never mentioned it?”
Dean looked away.
After a slight pause, Mr. Wilson continued. “I saw him sitting there at the edge of the field, and he looked pretty bored, so I started teaching him calculus. It wasn’t until halfway through the textbook that I realized he’d never had trigonometry, he was just picking it up on the side as we went.”
The weight of Sam’s shock was uncomfortable, and Dean slid himself half a step away so that Sam had to let go of him.
“So, did you check out that engineering program we talked about?” Mr. Wilson asked gently.
Dean shook his head, still not meeting Mr. Wilson’s eyes. “Stuff kinda—happened.”
“Yes,” the teacher said, as serious as Dean had ever heard him. “I remember you left before the end of the school year.”
Dean coughed. “But, you know, it all worked out. I mean, here I am, even if it’s just teachin’ shop, and Sam—” The lie stuck in his throat. Sam was so much better at this than he was. “Anyway, I guess I owe you an apology, wasting all your time that year.”
“Dean,” Mr. Wilson’s voice was so sharp that Dean was forced to look up. The ever-present smile was gone. “The only apology you owe me is for thinking I would ever consider time spent sharing knowledge a waste.”
Dean nodded, mumbled a quick “Sorry,” and wished that the poltergeist would show up right now. He’d blast its ass, something he was actually good at, and he wouldn’t have to worry about Mr. Wilson maybe being the next victim on the list.
“Listen,” Sam said, “we’ve got to run, but—thanks.”
Mr. Wilson tilted his head, but didn’t ask why Sam was thanking him. “I’ll see you around,” he said and they smiled agreement and fled.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Dean snapped as they got into the car. Dean made himself wave at a couple of his kids who were watching—he’d promised that anybody who could make a self-propelled toy car go more than twenty feet in a straight line could get a look at the Impala’s engine—and started her up.
“Dean,” Sam said, and there were too many things in his name, hurt and comfort all tangled up, the way he and Sam were tangled up. All those years ago with Mr. Wilson, he’d just been passing time waiting for Sam to finish. Maybe there’d been a daydream or two, but Dean had always known that dreaming made it harder to get out of bed. Awake, there was Sam, sweaty and hungry and excited to tell Dean all about his day, and Dad, and training, and killing bad things.
That kid Mr. Wilson had tried to help out, he was just someone else Dean had been pretending to be.