citrus_java

Title: A Cup of Tea Large Enough
Rating: Gen
Relationship: Vague hint of Dean/Sam, can be read as preslash, or asexually and aromantically loving just the same.
Warnings: Book porn. Spoilers for Supernatural, 812-814.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters here, though I do love them. Just taking them out for milkshakes. They'll be home in time for storytime and cuddling, no new piercings.
Author's notes: Just a small thing I felt like writing a few weeks ago. Mm, books :) More fic-spoilerly notes in the end.

Summary: Sam explores the batcave library. Mm, books.

The space went on and on. Briefly, Sam wondered whether he should have brought some food with him. Or a bedroll.
The rows of books overhead went so far up Sam couldn't see the top shelves, disappearing in darkness. The library was huge, room opening into room. Sam climbed up a small stepladder through an oval vault door, like a submarine's, into a cove of a room, full of small handwritten journals, different handwritings. Hunters' journals, perhaps.

He pulled out and opened a one, edges frayed uneven from use and time. A farm ledger turned journal. Spiky letters, tiny frightened scroll shooting into wild, long letter ends, clambering all over each other. Written by a newly bitten werewolf, crazy with fear of harming someone, of being hunted down and killed without ever finishing writing the history of her family.

He put it back, carefully, and leafed through a few more. A tiny book, thick with dried plants rather than sketches on the pages, poorly protected by thin rice pages. A tall and narrow journal ceremoniously written in secretions. A journal written in what smelled like some chemical compound, browning half-faded letters sharpened when his breath touched them.

A brown notebook. Tired lifts of a ballpoint pen. Reports by some creature, perhaps a shape-shifter, hunting a pair of hunters, shifting between being one and the other for years, years spent as a team of three without their knowledge.

Like the other times he'd gone exploring, Sam found himself staying and reading – for half an hour, for nearly two hours - still standing, cause, of course, he was just pausing for a second, he was going to continue exploring in no time.

So many of the books he picked up implied possible solutions Dean and him really needed, or had needed.

One of the Men of Letters had been translating Aramaic texts about fighting Leviathan, possibly written around the era in which the Bible passages about them had been written.

Sam found bundles of notes scribbled hurriedly and tucked behind the shelves. Looked like the author of the notes had been sneaking in during balls, cross-checking prophecies about an apocalypse that was gong to start in Detroit. Female scholars hadn't been allowed in that part of the library.

And then, there were so many books which meant nothing to him. Even the ones in languages he could read. Worlds of unknown information, lore, things he just didn't understand. Solutions to problems he never imagined, and things that were never solutions because they were based on a completely different form of thought.

He walked on, through a narrowing passage of bookshelves, the stacks around him getting closer, bowing slightly overhead with the weight, large books leaning far out of the shelves from both sides, almost touching. Sam had to bend his head and walk sideways in order to be able to pass. The book-tunnel bent and turned, curves rather than straight shelf lines, then opened into a wider passage.

It sort of amazed Sam the Men of Letters bothered to put complex dust prevention spells on the place, to create acoustics specific to different book sections, but didn't bother to catalogue most of the books. Particularly with all those junior Men of Letters in training, cheap educated labor force, eager to prove themselves. Sam could imagine spending his summer vacation cataloging, peaceful stacks of books, the whole world muffled in soft carpeting, and all that interesting knowledge and beauty at his fingertips. He would have done that for sure, just for credit the false hope of a chance at a TA position.

Sam shook cobwebs out of his hair, breathing the scent of old paper. It was very close to the scent of the Conroe library he'd spent weeks doing research in when he was twelve, and they were living in Cut and Shoot, Texas. It wasn't urgent research, just a little work to help out Bobby. It had been a kindness to dad, away for weeks hunting near the northern border. A kindness to Sam maybe, made up to keep him occupied while Dean was at work.

He'd spent most of his time curled up between the shelves, not sitting by the neon-lit tables. No one talked to him for hours, for most of the day. Not a lot of people drawn to the ancient languages shelf over summer vacation. It was good. In the evenings Dean would come pick him up, damp and smelling of machine oil, flashing his grin at Sam alone, and they'd walk the five miles back to the motel together, along the highway, as the huge open sky started to contrast against the stars.

The scent was the same, comforting and thick. Almost juicy. Brought back the feeling of thick, unbleached pages under his fingers, the cool scent of metal shelves high above the rich earthy books scents all around. The feel of Dean's roughening hands, black dug into the patterns on his skin, showing off the intricate swirly lines.

In the next space he was surrounded by beautiful books of lore, woodcuts and elaborate letters, silver book cover latched shut, alongside - what looked like textbooks, covers torn and falling apart. Did the Men of Letter teach high school math? They didn't seem like they'd consider applicants who had less than top grades, probably only from elite private schools, too. Perhaps the tradition went back to days before there were schools?

The books looked pretty new, though. A whole shelf of copies of Algebra 1. He pulled out one, brow furrowing slightly as he opened it. It was published in 1992. And covered with with "kiss rocks" scribbles. Perhaps the Men of Letters had some sort of automatic spell that acquired books for their collection? That could explain the choice.

Perhaps Sam would be able to figure out the mechanics of the spell and tweak it, if it existed. Otherwise, he could always make book runs, sell the ones they didn't need to used bookshops. Huh. Something inside him rebelled immediately at the idea of getting rid of books. Perhaps he wouldn't change too much before he understood why it was there. This was his thing, his project. He didn't have to do it quickly, didn't have to keep nothing but what would fit in the Impala. Sam found himself smoothing the textbook's cover gently as he put it back in place. Soothing, sort of "It's OK, you can stay, we have room for you". Unwilling to dwell on why, Sam smoothed his hand over the whole shelf of copies. He sort of felt like caressing the entire space, the floor, the shelves. The spiders. Dean was crazy, saying Sam hadn't taken a room of his own in this place. Sam would sleep curled up in those books.

The shelves in the next space were filled with scrolls, impractically rolled individually. Some bound in velvet. Some Sealed, actually sealed in wax.

The scrolls gave way to huge tomes, bound in chains. A shiver of excitement went up Sam's spine. Books you needed to chain down were probably filled with secrets so deep they could change the whole world. Worlds. They probably had protections on them beyond the chains, Sam would have to proceed carefully. He took a cautious step towards one of the books, and the book flinched away. The smallest movement.

Sam raised a hand, calculated, with no intent of touching or grabbing. Just as an experiment.

The tome jerked from Sam's hand, this time throwing finesse to the wind, straining against its chains to get away.

Sam stared, fired up. The chains weren't there to prevent theft or unauthorized reading. They were there to stop the book from escaping.

What could be in such a book? A mystery too powerful to be spoken, too dangerous to be shared? A secret so dark and horrible the writer's dread, maybe self loathing, seeped into the pages and manifested like this? Or was the book aware? Did it need to be contained, or saved? This was going to be an interesting one – and one he should get to soon.

He made a mental note and stepped out into the next open area, a wider space, round gallery of books. Dusty sunlight settled on stacks of books. In companionable silence, a tweed clad man was working on a card index, sipping tea. A large orangutan was artfully rebinding books. They looks like him and Dean, doing research and cleaning guns. They looked like such a natural part of the place, the for all his hunter instincts, it took Sam a fraction of a second to tense up, grab his knife. There were people in the bunker!

"What are you doing here?" he asked wildly.

The orangutan looked up to him, eyes deeply wise and humorous, needle in hand, completely unphased by Sam's knife. "Ook", he said.

Sam did get his point. They looked like they'd been there before he ever had.

They couldn't have been surviving Men of Letter, could they? They did look like they had the right air of elitism combined with fighting skills. The tweed clad man shifting in his seat just a tiny bit, just the tiny bit he needed to be ready to duck, punch, attack, if necessary. The orangutan's hands were large and powerful, Sam had no doubt they could tear limbs off as skillfully as they were stitching the copy of The Murders in the Rue Morgue back together. The orangutan smoothed over the cover of an ancient copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, fond caress, private between him and the book, which was drying on the table, resting after its painful mend.

Sam lowered his knife, still ready, but opting for conversation. "Are you librarians here?" He asked. "I'm Sam Winchester".

The tweed clad man gave Sam an appraising look, and relaxed a little, even though Sam wasn't making any of his harmless-sweet-talking to witness faces.

"I'm Rupert Giles", he said. "This is The Librarian. And you are interrupting our meeting".

The Librarian tilted his head towards Mr. Giles, rolling his eyes at Sam, and ooked.

Mr. Giles raised an eyebrow. Shrugged. "Very well. We are all librarians here, but this is not the library you came from. You were at the less explored reaches of the library you care for, yes?"

"Yeah. What- "

Mr. Giles smiles, fond, and pours another cup of tea. "Welcome to L Space, Sam".

Author's notes: I really want Sam/Giles, either slash or friendship. This isn't really it.
Giles is from BtVS, The Librarian is from Terry Pratchett's Discworld Series. The title is from a C.S. Lewis quote: "You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me."