#it makes you want to wear plaid and frolic in the woods

[moramda]

Copperdale is so cute actually

[thebrotherswholoved]

Day Two: “Secret Santa”

“How much homework d’you got?”

Sam’s sitting there, staring at the eraser of a number two pencil, trying to make it implode. Maybe if he has no pencil he won’t have to take the exam?

“Sam?”

Oh, yeah. Jessica’s sitting cross legged on the table beside him, legs knocking into the nearby bookcase just filled to the brim with knowledge: useless and obsolete knowledge, at least. That section of the library is history. Oh, shit, will Gottesman put Assyrian culture on the test?!

“Samuel Winchester, what is going on inside that big head of yours?” Jess flirts in that shameless, up-in-the-clouds air about her that made the entire junior varsity football team fall for her.

Sam thinks she’s cute. That said, he doesn’t think she’s hot and she’s definitely not his type, but she’s sweet and bakes delicious pastries for the environmental awareness club’s bake sale. She’s the type of girl any guy, girl, or anybody in between would be lucky to have—just not him. Jess would be his type if she had short hair. And a more phallic pubic area.

He’d usually make conversation and let his dimples do the talking to protect her from eminent rejection on his part, but he’s too fucking stressed right now to do anything but dissociate and stare at the damn pencil he’s holding.

“Mostly elephants,” he mutters, flicking at the wood like a syringe. He just came from his anatomy course, so he’s in a doctor-y mood.

The blonde snorts a bit, covers her nose, and tries to cover up her ‘crudeness’ with a dainty chuckle. “Elephants? Why the hell are you thinking of elephants, beautiful mind?”

“I’m trying to remember who they trampled in that one damn war, I think it’s the Persian one?” He blows air through his teeth and rolls the writing utensil away until it hits his pre-calculus book. “And I’m wondering if they can trample me.”

“You’ll do fine, Sam,” she slides off the table, tiny plaid skirt pleating with her in the motion. That just reminds him of how scratchy his own plaid tie is against his throat. Damn uniforms. “It’s Reid you need to worry about. He’s gonna kill my grade.”

This draws a chuckle from the lanky freshman, long hair—that just barely abides by the dress code—dangling in his face.

“Like, with the test or wielding a sword?”

“Yes,” Jess sighs and prepares to leave to her next period. “Alright, nerd. Good luck with your elephants, or whatever.”

Sam lets out a breathy laugh and turns to look out the window at the snow falling into the bleak mid morning air. He wishes he could go and frolic out there—maybe even practice his physics by zigzagging around an open area to prove his hypothesis.

“You Sam Winchester?”

Jumping out of his skin, he turns around and is met with the sight of Benny, a boy in his English class he’s never spoken to.

“Uh...yes?” He stutters. This boy is intimidating: he’s a sophomore in remedial English, a jock, and a total dickhead to freshmen. Especially nerdy freshmen on the robotics team—great, this is exactly what he needs right now.

Before he can offer any explanation up for why this guy is even in a library, a tiny package is being tossed into his hands and Benny is trudging away to go beat up a mathlete or something.

The small box is wrapped in what appears to be the Sunday comics from the newspaper, and judging by the date on one of the sides, it was yesterday’s paper. The job is poor, but the haste the person who wrapped it was in seems to be kind-of endearing. There’s a dollar store bow taped onto the top of the gift, and Sam feels an impulse to be as delicate as possible.

Unwrapping the thin pages covering the present and opens the box, he feels his heart drop into his lungs at what he finds. It’s a necklace with thin black thread and a golden pendant in the shape of some ancient figure’s head. Whoever this is, they know his style—it’s absolutely beautiful.

When he takes it into his hands like a wounded dove, a note falls out as well. It’s written with erasable ink on loose leaf notebook paper and folded into uneven quarter squares. The handwriting betrays the presentation, however: beautiful cursive glides across the page in narrow strokes of the shitty blue-inked pen used. In shock, he holds the note in both hands while still thumbing over the blunt edges of the pendant.

“Sam—

God, that’s a pretty name. It suits you, you know: you’re totally a Sam. A pretty name for a pretty boy.

Sorry, I know I suck at this. I’m only writing because I’m too fucking scared to talk to you. I know I’ll blush and make a fool of myself, and that’s not attractive.

We’ve met twice before. Once in September when you worked as a library aide and helped me find a barcode on a Stephen King novel, and again last week when I picked up your pencil for you. Each of those times I had to walk away and breathe for a minute because you just stole my suaveness and tore it to shreds.

I want you to wear this necklace all week, okay? My uncle gave it to me, and I don’t do jewelry, but I thought it’d look good on you. It’s supposed to bring good luck to the wearer, not like you’ll need it. You just seemed stressed.

If I have the balls, I’ll try to talk to ‘ya soon in person.

Awkwardly,

Your Secret Santa”

Sam’s hands are trembling with excitement and trepidation at the note. Someone likes him—and it’s a boy! He’s never had another guy like him, ever. Then again, who the hell is this boy with beautiful handwriting?

He helped a lot of people check out books in September, and lots of Stephen King novels were read. Plus, he’s fucking clumsy. Literally everyone has had to pick up his pencil for him!

It’s gonna be a long week.

•••

For the love of god, let his suffering end!

Sam wants to bang his head against his locker until he passes out. This secret santa gig coupled with the seven midterms he’s taken this week have successfully steeped his brain in anxiety. His last exam period just got let out and yes, elephants were included; but now, he has no distraction from the whole crush scenario.

The brunette fumbles with his amulet in stressed anticipation as his steps quicken, eager to escape the hallway and get to his locker. Over the course of the last five days, he’s received four more notes in the same penmanship, each one making his heart melt. Sure, it’s no Shakespeare but it’s unique and genuine.

His fingers tremble as he twists the number dial lock: 11-02-83. Expecting a note, he begins scanning the blue walls of the metal rectangle but finds nothing but that same handwriting in erasable marker on the door:

“Turn around.”

By the time he whips around, brown hair following the action, he’s neglected to notice that everyone has cleared the hallway and is standing with giddy smiles and phones on video. The only person in this vacant zone is a tall, sandy blonde, freckled junior boy.

Holy shit. It’s Dean fucking Smith.

His hand finds the necklace and he tries to breathe but can’t find the willpower to do so. His brain is running into overdrive trying to decide if this is real or not. The footsteps nearing him seem real and so do the calloused, motor-oil-stained fingers wrapping around his hand in a cautious way, Dean being afraid of something Sam can’t quite place.

“Do you like it?” The boy runs his fingers through his spiked hair and bites his lip, cheeks blushing beet red.

“I love it.” Sam blurts out before his sense of reason can muffle his heart. Exhaling, he relaxes a bit. “I really love it.”

Dean lets out a breath and lets his thumb roll over the soft skin on the back of the younger’s hand. “Good. I hoped you would.”

Sam’s heart is beating out of his chest like in one of those wacky cartoons, but he steps forward and rocks back on his heels. Bravery rising, his hand moved from his own to cup under his chin, emerald eyes scanning his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t need to ask twice. Sam’s head seems to nod before the taller man can even finish his question, and Dean’s eyes flicker with excitement before closing. The gap between them is closed and chapped lips meet peppermint chapstick as their worlds collide. The crowd is cheering but they can’t hear anything. Both boys are far too focused on the taste of each other on their tongues and when they part, Dean drops his bad boy act and wraps him in a hug.

Arms tightening around his neck in response, Sam brings his lips to Dean’s ear and smiles.

“You have beautiful handwriting.”