Of Sam and Dean (or Babysitter Tickles)

Ch.2: Poetic Playtime

Dean paused, memories of the cruel laughter echoing in his mind. His classmates' mocking voices seemed to reverberate through the room, but he pushed through, determined to share his pain with Sam.

"And when I read it aloud to the class, they laughed. They called me a weirdo, an outsider. They ridiculed my passion, Sam. It felt like my soul was laid bare, only to be trampled upon," Dean confessed, his voice filled with a mix of sadness and frustration.

Sam's eyes softened, her heart aching for Dean's wounded spirit. She reached out and gently rested her hand on his, offering him a comforting touch.

"Oh, Dean," Sam said, her voice filled with empathy. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Dean's voice trembled with a mixture of disappointment and indignation as he continued his tale. He continued the narrative of the scene with a heavy heart.

"And to make matters worse, the teacher... he didn't stand up for me," Dean confessed, his voice filled with a hint of disbelief. "Instead of defending my work, he actually joined in the mockery. He called it old-fashioned, a relic of a bygone era. He said that these times demanded quick words, crude metaphors, and dismissed the ancient forms of art as irrelevant."

Dean's brows furrowed as he recalled the teacher's disdain for the very essence of his creative expression. The weight of his disappointment pressed upon him, as the one person he had hoped would understand had turned against him.

"I always knew he was a Modernist, someone who despised the traditions of the past," Dean continued, his voice laced with a mixture of frustration and resignation. "But I never expected him to add to the open mockery of my classmates. It felt... it really felt like a betrayal, Sam."

Sam listened attentively, her heart aching for Dean's wounded spirit. She understood the pain of having one's artistic vision dismissed and belittled. With a gentle squeeze of his hand, she conveyed her unwavering support.

"I can't imagine how hurtful that must have been for you, Dean," Sam murmured, her voice filled with empathy. "To have both your classmates and your teacher turn against you, it's unfair. But you must remember that their narrow-mindedness doesn't diminish the beauty and significance of your work."

Dean looked at Sam, grateful for her comforting presence. Her words provided a glimmer of validation, a reminder that his creativity and dedication were not in vain.

"Thank you, Sam," Dean said, his voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability. "Thank you for listening and for understanding. It... well, it means the world to me."

Sam smiled softly, her eyes shimmering with compassion. "Of course, Dean. I'm always here for you. You have a gift, a unique voice that deserves to be heard. Don't let anyone's ignorance or prejudice dull your spark."

Dean nodded, a flicker of determination igniting within him. Sam's unwavering support breathed new life into his wounded spirit, and he resolved to rise above the harsh judgments that had weighed him down.

(ii)

Now, Sam was a student of Literature, her passion that of medieval classics. So, as has been told in other chapters of the story of Sam and Dean, she truly loved to share with his charge this taste for forgotten tales of heroes and poetry. She always had a knack for managing to get Dean out of his shell and enter the poetic mood, and they would make literature together, and discuss it, in long conversations where time lay still.

Sam hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to approach Dean's reluctance. She took a deep breath and spoke softly, her words carrying a touch of warmth and understanding.