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.
“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.
Arthur braces for the shot even as he turns towards the projection. Not again, he thinks before the bullet slams into his forehead.
If Sam’s brother ever makes the mistake of showing up in real life, Arthur’s going to kick Dean’s ass just on principle.
Arthur’s official orders are to ensure Sam’s security. His assignment is to protect a vital government asset: the kid whose dreams feel real. What’s more— if Sam ever tries to run, to sell his talents elsewhere— Arthur’s supposed to be the one who brings him to ground. Arthur’s not supposed to take advantage of the teen-aged civilian in his charge.
He watches Sam pour himself a bowl of cereal the morning after their first fuck and Arthur regrets nothing.
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