Papa, Can You Hear Me?

[hope]

Okay, so not that long ago deirdre_c made a comment about wanting more Sam/professors-at-Stanford fic. That reminded me that derryderrydown had gotten up to some hijinks of this flavour some time ago, mainly just scribbling random bits to each other in AIM.

Anywayz, looks like we're never going to make anything of it, but fact is, what we did write of it still exists, so Dei? This is totally for you. With the warning that the dust has SO not even been brushed off this since it was written more than a year ago, and it's totally just Derry & I doing what we seem to do best together - fucking around with daddy issues.


Sam/OMC. Rated maybe about R? Warning: vast oversimplification of Freud and abuse of academia.

“But—” the voice comes loud from the back of the theatre, a drawl with an edge of irritation, a tone he’s become familiar with over the years. “Freud’s reading of the child’s sexual development relies on the stasis of the heterocentric family unit.”

“That’s one argument against the Oedipal narrative, yes,” he says, leaning back against the broad bench holding his lecture notes. The speaker – young man sprawled in an aisle, legs angled out to rest heel-down on the steps – is frowning, pen tapping against his chin.

“I just think it denies the potential for the development of a healthy child outside of that constrictive framework.”

“And many critics of Freud would agree with you. However, they’ll have to wait until the second half of this course.”

A girl closer the front raises her hand briefly before saying, “And what about the Electra complex?”



There’s the usual flocking of students to the front of the theatre once the clock hits the hour and the majority of them file out; he answers questions about extensions, assessment, due dates; and is shuffling together his papers when the young man who asked the question earlier hovers at the corners of his vision.

He looks up. The student’s tall, almost hulking with his hands shoved in his pockets, head tipped forward a bit so his hair flops in his eyes. It looks more un-cut than styled, doggedly blinding. “Professor Langdale,” he says. “Is there much criticism of the Oedipal complex?”

“There is,” the professor says, sliding the lecture notes into a folder and looking up at the student. “Though a lot of it concerns a feminist perspective of Freud’s work.” The student’s nostrils flare a little, mouth twitches. “I have some books in my office you could take copies of, if you’re eager to start your reading early, uh...”

“Sam,” the student says, stepping forward to hold out his hand. The professor shakes it. “Sam Winchester.”

Winchester, easy to remember. Easier to put a name to the face in that case, moreseo than the androgyny of the first name. The handshake is firm, professor holding it as long as Sam allows, then smiling. “My office is just upstairs.”



Winchester fidgets when he gets into the office; steps forward to stand in front of the desk as if awaiting reprimand, not turning around as Langdale shuts the door behind them. He doesn’t go behind the desk, instead to one of the bookcases lining the wall. He pulls a couple of books out, sets them on the desk. Winchester doesn’t sit, so Langdale keeps standing also, hands loosely in his pockets and elbows bent outward, watching.

Winchester picks up one, opens it randomly, frowns, sets it down again. “I just think that by not accounting for non-nuclear families in his theory Freud was pathologising any of those who didn’t fit his mould.”

“That’s one reading of it. But you have to keep in mind the time at which Freud was writing, he—”

“I mean, I agree with the feminist readings – Electra is far less fleshed out that Oedipus, but what about families without the maternal influence?” Winchester runs his hand through his hair, jaw clenching before he takes a step closer. His brows are heavy, mouth serious. “And what about orphans, huh? Are they all deviants because they weren’t able to go through the proper stage of development?”

“I think Freud’s theories—”

“It just doesn’t seem right that he has to become the grand old master of psychoanalysis when he doesn’t allow for—” Winchester’s stepped closer again, gesticulating a little, voice intense.

“Sam, I don’t think that—” The edge of a wooden shelf clunks against the back of Langdale’s skull as Winchester shoves him back, Winchester’s hands fisting in the front of his jacket and not letting go, then Winchester’s mouth hard and wet and sloppy over his. His mouth tastes like sour, too-sweet coffee, tongue slippery and insistent, and then just as abruptly gone.

“Oh, sh— shoot,” Winchester says, dropping his hands and backing away, looking absolutely horrified. “I’m sorry. Oh man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—Oh god.” And then the door’s slamming closed again behind him.



It’s a full week until the next Psych 101 lecture; Winchester’s voice isn’t amongst the inevitable questioners throughout, but he is standing with the same resentful, open pose in front of the first row of seats when all the other students have left.

He peers at Langdale from beneath his bangs, less coy than calculating, shuttered. Langdale stares back, keeping his expression neutral, waiting for Winchester to speak. “I found some of those books at the library,” he says. “But there were a couple out on loan already. Could I…?”

Langdale blinks, lets the pause wait a beat. “Sure,” he says, still keeping his tone neutral. “Upstairs.”

Winchester goes to stand by the desk again, half-facing him this time as Langdale closes the door, goes to the corner of the desk. The books from last week are still sitting there, same position. Winchester rests the tips of his fingers on them lightly. He looks up through his hair again and that’s all Langdale needs; grips the wrist of the hand touching the books, pushes it back behind Winchester, forcing the palm to rest flat on the desk behind him, body angled back. Winchester gasps, the breath expanding his chest, pushing it forward and Langdale pushes his body down against it, standing thigh-to-thigh, hip-to-hip. Or close enough; the kid’s so damn tall, but the angle helps that some, and Langdale pushes forward again, shoving his mouth against Winchester’s.

Sam groans, a little breathless from the awkward – for him, at least – angle, struggles to push back, bones in his wrist flexing in Langdale’s grip. He groans again when Langdale draws back, the sound reedier without the mute of another mouth against it, vibrating in his throat as Langdale mouths it, tongue feeling the minute texture of stubble even as his own beard rasps against it.

“Sammy,” Winchester gasps as Langdale lifts his free hand to grip his hip, pushing it back against the desk, perfect height to undermine the awkward angle. Winchester slaps his other hand back against the desk, position mirroring the other. Langdale draws back, pushing his hand up under Winchester’s shirt to scratch at his belly. “Call me Sammy.”

“Okay, Sammy,” he says as he slides both hands up to Winchester’s shoulders, pushing back a little harder to further pronounce the curve in his torso, hips pushed forward by the edge of the desk. His belly hitches with his breath with Langdale slides both hands under the shirt this time, then down, pulling open the button fly and kneeling.

Winchester palms the side of Langdale’s face as Langdale sucks his cock; hand sweaty and sharp against the grain of the beard, then blunt fingernails scratching when Langdale looks up, sees Winchester staring at him with wide eyes, chin tilted to look down the angle of his body. “F—” Winchester stutters, then his eyes roll a little, close as his head falls back. “Fuh-- Fuck. I—”

Langdale pulls back, strokes Winchester through the end of it, then stands, reaches for the box of tissues on the far side of the desk. Winchester cleans up without meeting his gaze but then doesn’t move away as Langdale steps forward again; not that he can move backward with the desk still pressing a line into his ass.

Finally he tilts his eyes up to meet Langdale’s gaze again, then attempts to shove his hands into Langdale’s pants. Langdale’s nostrils flare in instinctual response; he makes short work of his on zipper and then Winchester’s hand's closing around his cock properly, firm grip that slides up-down. He sighs in pleasure and watches Winchester’s face; high flush and gaze flickering from where his hand moves on Langdale’s cock to Langdale’s face, as if in intense fascination, and his brow furrows and Langdale licks his lips. Langdale’s mouth quirks into a lazy smile and Winchester speeds his strokes, not taking his eyes off it until Langdale’s jaw drops with his orgasm, eyes closing, Winchester’s hand dropping away.

“So, I’ll, uh… See you next week…?” The end of the sentence drifts up into a half-question as Winchester steps back, half-turns away, edging toward the door as his hand rubs pseudo-idly at the back of his neck.

“Sure, Sam,” Langdale says. “Next week.”