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spn_springfling2017-04-07 09:00 pm
springflingmod.livejournal.com) wrote in spn_springfling2017-04-07 09:00 pm
Bonfires Green by tipsy_kitty for a_biting_smile
Title: Bonfires Green
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings:animal death
Nate waves at the mailman--woman, actually, Trish, and boy howdy does she like to gab when the mood strikes her--and stands up from the freshly turned earth, brushing the loamy soil from the knees of his worn weekend jeans. He makes his way down the driveway, nodding amicably at his neighbor, who is also embracing the warm April afternoon to tend to his dormant rose beds. Now if Mr. Wheatcroft would only look after his mutt as religiously as he did his roses….
Nate blinks away his uncharitable thoughts about his neighbor and his neighbor’s dog, Tuffy. It is indeed a fine spring day, after all, too fine a day to spend thinking about how Wheatcroft’s mutt seems to have been placed on this earth solely to piss on Nate’s seedlings. The tulips are blooming, the dogwood trees just starting to bud up and down the block, and the world seems full to bursting with fresh possibilities.
And there, in his mailbox, is the letter he's been expecting, addressed to Sam Winchester c /o Nathaniel G. Michaels, from The College Board.
He smiles down at the letter, then slips into the cool darkness of his house to call his student.
How that boy, who looks like he doesn't have two nickels to rub together, can afford his own cellular phone, Nate can't imagine. Though he supposes he can, based on what he’s heard of the boy’s father. A professional scam artist, or so Nate’s heard tell.
“Sam?” he says when the boy picks up. “It’s arrived.”
There's a long pause, the distant clatter of a phone being fumbled and retrieved, then Sam’s tense voice saying, “I'll be right there. Thanks, Mr. Michaels. Thank you.”
Nate hums as he retreats to his garden, turning up the ground, adding fresh potting soil and fertilizer. He’s just starting to plant his first lettuce crop of the year when his student shows up, t-shirt clinging to his collarbone under the layers of flannel he's wearing, slightly red-faced. Walked the narrow two lane road into town then, or more likely ran. The elder Winchesters must be away on 'business,’ Nate supposes, or else Sam would have begged a ride, or maybe stolen the family car.
“Mr. Michaels,” Sam says, panting slightly. “Did you open it?”
“Please, Sam, it's the weekend. Call me Nate.”
Sam nods, jerky with impatience. Nate retrieves the now-crinkled letter from his back pocket and hands it over. Sam looks ready to tear into it, and Nate raises a hand.
“Wait,” he says, and the boy stops, reluctantly. “Come here.”
He pats the ground next to him, and Sam reluctantly drops to his knees.
“I know you're nervous, eager. I was the same when I was your age.”
Sam slants a look at him, says, “I just need…” and trails off.
“A new path? Some different options than your family's wishes?”
Sam stares at his folded knees, nods miserably.
Nate sighs heavily. “I wanted the same thing once. Wanted it so much…” Now it's his turn to trail off, to leave old choices unspoken. “Before you open that, why don't you give me a hand. Have you ever planted a vegetable garden?”
Sam shakes his head, and Nate instructs him on when plants should go into the ground in this region, how best to tend to early crops like lettuce and chard and peas. After a few moments, Nate sees the tension leave Sam’s shoulders as he takes in the new information, as thirsty for knowledge as Nate’s cucumbers and tomatoes will thirst for water later in the season.
They work side by side, planting, fertilizing, mounding potting soil into the holes they've dug, getting their hands dirty, until the sun drops low on the horizon.
And when the spring garden is finally planted, he gestures to Sam to open the envelope, lying forgotten in the grass.
Sam wipes his hands on his discarded flannel, opens the letter with trembling fingers, scans the information contained in the letter once, twice, thrice.
“I,” Sam starts, blinking and wetting his lips. “I...it's a good score, Mr...Nate. With a decent essay and some faculty recommendations…”
Nate smiles. “I knew it all along,” he says, and he did.
After all, he is not the only one smoothing the way for Sam Winchester.
“Thank you, Mr. Michaels!” Sam says, looking like he wants to hug Nate before stifling the impulse. He jumps to his feet, sets off back down Nate’s driveway, towards the two-lane road that leads to the shitty rental he's calling home these days.
Nate stands in his driveway, watching Sam recede into the distance, chest swelling with pride.
A job well done, he thinks.
He turns back to the garden to see Tuffy standing in the midst of his freshly planted vegetables, happily hiking one leg up to piss.
“Oh, Tuffy,” he sighs. The dog comes to him, tail wagging, expecting a treat from Nate’s outstretched hand.
Securing Tuffy with an arm around his plump belly, Nathaniel wrestles the dog into his potting shed. He makes it quick, wishing that it was Wheatcroft himself bleeding out into the goblet. But his orders were clear: lay low, watch, don't call attention to himself.
Be the mild-mannered teacher Sam needs, he thinks.
A shadow that’s gone astray, he thinks.
He doesn't understand Azazel’s plan, but he doesn't need to. He's a good soldier.
Tuffy is still twitching at his feet while he makes the call.
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Nate waves at the mailman--woman, actually, Trish, and boy howdy does she like to gab when the mood strikes her--and stands up from the freshly turned earth, brushing the loamy soil from the knees of his worn weekend jeans. He makes his way down the driveway, nodding amicably at his neighbor, who is also embracing the warm April afternoon to tend to his dormant rose beds. Now if Mr. Wheatcroft would only look after his mutt as religiously as he did his roses….
Nate blinks away his uncharitable thoughts about his neighbor and his neighbor’s dog, Tuffy. It is indeed a fine spring day, after all, too fine a day to spend thinking about how Wheatcroft’s mutt seems to have been placed on this earth solely to piss on Nate’s seedlings. The tulips are blooming, the dogwood trees just starting to bud up and down the block, and the world seems full to bursting with fresh possibilities.
And there, in his mailbox, is the letter he's been expecting, addressed to Sam Winchester c /o Nathaniel G. Michaels, from The College Board.
He smiles down at the letter, then slips into the cool darkness of his house to call his student.
How that boy, who looks like he doesn't have two nickels to rub together, can afford his own cellular phone, Nate can't imagine. Though he supposes he can, based on what he’s heard of the boy’s father. A professional scam artist, or so Nate’s heard tell.
“Sam?” he says when the boy picks up. “It’s arrived.”
There's a long pause, the distant clatter of a phone being fumbled and retrieved, then Sam’s tense voice saying, “I'll be right there. Thanks, Mr. Michaels. Thank you.”
Nate hums as he retreats to his garden, turning up the ground, adding fresh potting soil and fertilizer. He’s just starting to plant his first lettuce crop of the year when his student shows up, t-shirt clinging to his collarbone under the layers of flannel he's wearing, slightly red-faced. Walked the narrow two lane road into town then, or more likely ran. The elder Winchesters must be away on 'business,’ Nate supposes, or else Sam would have begged a ride, or maybe stolen the family car.
“Mr. Michaels,” Sam says, panting slightly. “Did you open it?”
“Please, Sam, it's the weekend. Call me Nate.”
Sam nods, jerky with impatience. Nate retrieves the now-crinkled letter from his back pocket and hands it over. Sam looks ready to tear into it, and Nate raises a hand.
“Wait,” he says, and the boy stops, reluctantly. “Come here.”
He pats the ground next to him, and Sam reluctantly drops to his knees.
“I know you're nervous, eager. I was the same when I was your age.”
Sam slants a look at him, says, “I just need…” and trails off.
“A new path? Some different options than your family's wishes?”
Sam stares at his folded knees, nods miserably.
Nate sighs heavily. “I wanted the same thing once. Wanted it so much…” Now it's his turn to trail off, to leave old choices unspoken. “Before you open that, why don't you give me a hand. Have you ever planted a vegetable garden?”
Sam shakes his head, and Nate instructs him on when plants should go into the ground in this region, how best to tend to early crops like lettuce and chard and peas. After a few moments, Nate sees the tension leave Sam’s shoulders as he takes in the new information, as thirsty for knowledge as Nate’s cucumbers and tomatoes will thirst for water later in the season.
They work side by side, planting, fertilizing, mounding potting soil into the holes they've dug, getting their hands dirty, until the sun drops low on the horizon.
And when the spring garden is finally planted, he gestures to Sam to open the envelope, lying forgotten in the grass.
Sam wipes his hands on his discarded flannel, opens the letter with trembling fingers, scans the information contained in the letter once, twice, thrice.
“I,” Sam starts, blinking and wetting his lips. “I...it's a good score, Mr...Nate. With a decent essay and some faculty recommendations…”
Nate smiles. “I knew it all along,” he says, and he did.
After all, he is not the only one smoothing the way for Sam Winchester.
“Thank you, Mr. Michaels!” Sam says, looking like he wants to hug Nate before stifling the impulse. He jumps to his feet, sets off back down Nate’s driveway, towards the two-lane road that leads to the shitty rental he's calling home these days.
Nate stands in his driveway, watching Sam recede into the distance, chest swelling with pride.
A job well done, he thinks.
He turns back to the garden to see Tuffy standing in the midst of his freshly planted vegetables, happily hiking one leg up to piss.
“Oh, Tuffy,” he sighs. The dog comes to him, tail wagging, expecting a treat from Nate’s outstretched hand.
Securing Tuffy with an arm around his plump belly, Nathaniel wrestles the dog into his potting shed. He makes it quick, wishing that it was Wheatcroft himself bleeding out into the goblet. But his orders were clear: lay low, watch, don't call attention to himself.
Be the mild-mannered teacher Sam needs, he thinks.
A shadow that’s gone astray, he thinks.
He doesn't understand Azazel’s plan, but he doesn't need to. He's a good soldier.
Tuffy is still twitching at his feet while he makes the call.
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Ha, no kidding, this is definitely one of the least evil fics I've written :D Thanks so much!
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🖤🖤🖤
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I'm so glad you liked this, it's always tricky writing something darkish for a blind exchange!
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xxx
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Thank you for sharing :)
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Wow, I am so surprised at the direction this took. New headcanon!
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Thanks!
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