Not Such As I Was, a Supernatural/Inception crossover verse by moragmacpherson
When Sam signs up for a sleep study during his first week at Stanford, he has no idea that his hyperrealistic subconscious is about to revolutionize the fledgeling study of dreamshare—though the fact that he falls hard for his snarky and impeccably-dressed recruiter, that he probably should have seen coming.
But Arthur leaves, and Dean comes back, and then Sam is back in the family business without ever properly saying goodbye. The two keep crossing paths, and the spark is still there, but Sam promised to keep Arthur safe and the last thing either of them need is the conversation about what exactly Sam’s family does. When Sam finds out about Eames, he can almost convince himself he’s happy for them.
Then Sam comes back from Hell with two centuries of nightmare fuel and a wall that won’t stay up, and he only knows one person he can turn to.
“Harris. Harris. Harris!” Zucker shook his head; his captain had said the asshole was coming out of the Funny Platoon but as far as he could tell this operator was out of the funny farm. He rolled his eyes and hissed, “You planning on joining your squad’s mission today, Arthur!”
The kid blinked awake. “Sir?” he said, eyes barely opening then drifting back shut.
Lieutenant Zucker sighed and leaned down. “All you fucking do is sleep, Private Harris.” He’d known the paperwork was bullshit but the damn Deltas were at least supposed to keep track of their own aliases. He looked the kid over, not quite able to believe this shithead effectively outranked him. “It can’t have been that long since basic, so I shouldn’t have to remind you that so long as you are attached to my platoon, you will do right by the uniform you’re wearing and stay awake during your mission briefing like every other soldier under my command.”
Arthur stood at attention, shouted, “Sir, yes sir,” then snapped off a perfect salute.
Zucker made a point of riding the boy’s ass all month. That didn’t stop Arthur whatever-his-real-name-was from falling asleep any time they stopped for more than two minutes. But that didn’t keep Zucker from noticing that while awake Arthur quietly reconnoitered twice as much ground as the rest of the squad and hisconfirmedkill count doubled that of his entire fire team.
What disturbed Zucker was the asshole’s freakish sense of timing. The weasel would wander off into the caves, plant signal beacons and phone over to the One-oh-Worst on his own, and by the time Zucker finished signing off on the immaculate paperwork authorizing the strikes, the Chickens would be overhead and Arthur’d be curled up and snoring through it on whatever flat surface happened to be available.
To be fair, Arthur was pretty damn useful. But there was something irritating about Harris, particularly for his Sergeant, currently sporting a broken nose. Yet somehow Arthur’s cuffed hands still made it look like the mujahideen were running nail salons down in the caves. “And your grounds for assaulting your squad leader were?”
“I did not assault Sergeant Mayes, the Sergeant injured himself while I prevented him from committing an act of treason, sir.”
Zucker slanted a glance at Mayes. “Sergeant?”
“I ordered Sleeping Beauty to tell me why his dreams take priority over morning PT, sir.”
Christ. But before Lieutenant Zucker could open his mouth, he was interrupted by a phone call. By the time it was over, Arthur had drifted off again and Mayes looked like he was ready to go for another round. “Better hold off, Larry, just go get that straightened out.”
“Because Harris’ dreams actually are classified,” said Zucker, still not quite believing the words. Mayes stormed off swearing, which Zucker allowed because Mayes was a good soldier who deserved better than this.
As soon as the door shut, Arthur tossed the cuffs onto Zucker’s desk; for once, he’d actually been faking it. “I told him not to ask, sir,” he said, and if he weren’t a weasel fucking Delta, Zucker might almost think he sounded apologetic.
Zucker sat down, trying to forget the entire incident as quickly as possible “Knowing Mayes, he was probably trying to get you to tell something else entirely.” Arthur’s face betrayed nothing “But I’m no fool, and I’m not asking you to tell me anything.” Still no reaction. “I just hope they’re worth it.”
No hesitation. “They are, sir.”
“Harris, I said I didn’t want to know.” He buried his head in mission reports and waved Arthur off. “Soldier, dismissed.”
… possibly a little light in the loafers, definitely a dick.
“Arthur, you know I love your hair, but the clients will never take you seriously like that.”
“What about yours?”
“I’m the builder, I’m supposed to look like a mad scientist in training.”
Photoset with 9 notes
“Arthur, are you sure Sam’s not having jealousy issues?”
“Yes, Eames, he and I had a long talk. It’s fine. Why do you ask?”
Eames scratches the back of his neck. “Well, it’s just, anytime he dreams up the outside of the salvage yard. I just get the feeling that he might still be a little sore.”
Everything’s out of order. First, Brody buys him the pink t-shirt and Sam laughs until Brady dares him to wear it. Sam knows exactly what Brady’s trying to announce and it’s sort of true but sort of isn’t, but the part that isn’t left, didn’t he?
“One hell of a two year bender,” says Sam as he pulls the shirt over his black t-shirt of mourning. Just covering things up. Not changing; not yet. Brody gives him five and a beer and he’s giving Sam a hopeful smile as the doorbell rings.
Then Sam gets drunk enough to ask Jess out on her birthday.
Hot Chick at the door seems almost as surprised by Dean as he is by her. “Dean Winchester, I presume,” she says, revealing herself to be Hot Snooty French Chick.
“Yeah, that’s me.” says Dean, blocking the door. “Listen, we appreciate you coming by, but Sam’s not seeing—”
“Mal? Is that you?” Sam calls from the bed. When Dean lets the woman—Mal— push past him, Sam cracks the first smile Dean’s seen since before the fire.
So this is the shipping container that had been red-flagged and set aside.
Grimsby Port had to be completely evacuated. When the hazardous materials and bomb squads agreed they could open the door, this is what they found:
48,000 spools of four-ply waxed slate grey thread, to be exact. The cost of shutting down Grimsby Port for two days was estimated to be in the high seven-figures.
Meanwhile, in Lowestofte Port, an identical container with identical contents passed through customs without remark; so much so that the final destination and purchaser of the container were forever lost in the paperwork. The fate of the container, and its contents, remains a mystery.
Page 1 of 2