fic: City Lights Lay Out Before Us (part five)
[back to masterpost]
The next morning, hung over enough that it felt like a construction crew had taken up shop in his skull but not hung over enough to give him convenient memory loss, Sam sat up in his bed. His stomach roiled as the night replayed itself in flashes. There was anxiety, fear, guilt, but there was a small fluttering feather of hope that maybe, just maybe, this could mean something for them.
Sam rolled out of bed, ignoring the way the room kept moving even after he stopped. He found his plaid lounge pants and slid them on before padding softly down the hallway.
Dean was standing in the kitchen, already in his jeans and dark grey t-shirt, grabbing things from the fridge and tossing them into one of the many pans working on the stove. For a moment Sam was afraid for his stove, it wasn’t used to this much abuse.
“Oh good morning your highness, so nice of you to grace us with you presence.” Dean threw his greeting over his shoulder as Sam pulled out a barstool. Breakfast was a process when it was being made by Dean.
“Had to make sure you weren’t burning down my apartment.” Dean scoffed as he tossed - since when did he have potatoes in his apartment - into a pan.
“So. What’s for breakfast?”
Dean turned and looked at Sam with a look of mock horror. “Sammy I’m appalled. One year away and you’ve already forgotten my hangover remedy. Carbs -”
“Grease and fat.” They said in unison. Sam smiled.
“I remember, just hadn’t needed it in a while. Forgot how gross it looks.”
That was a boldfaced lie, of course. The morning after his birthday there was nothing Sam wanted more than a patented Dean Winchester breakfast. He’d tried to do it himself, but the eggs came out too watery and the bacon tasted like ash and had just made everything worse. Dean didn’t need to know that though.
The kitchen lapsed into silence as Dean eyeballed the perfect amount of milk and cheese to mix in with the eggs. It was criminally insane to expect things not to be awkward, but Sam hoped he wasn’t pushing it by wishing they could get through this with minimal discomfort.
“So uh, I don’t know what you wanted to do today.” Sam fiddled with a takeout menu left on the counter from last weekend. “Obviously we’re doing breakfast here, but we could go to the beach? Or just go for a drive?”
Dean made no moves to respond to Sam’s questions, just flipped the eggs.
Sam sighed and absentmindedly looked around the apartment. He spotted an olive green duffel bag on the couch, t-shirts poking out the opening.
“You’re leaving.” Sam could see Dean’s shoulders tense.
“Yeah well, I should be getting back…” He didn’t have to say to Dad for Sam to know what he meant.
“You don’t have to.”
Dean scoffed. “Right. And what exactly am I supposed to be doing instead?”
“You could stay.” And god but did Sam hate the way his voice made that sound like a question. Dean just looked at Sam like he’d suggested selling the Impala for scraps.
“No, really. Dean, you could stay here. Well not here,” Sam gestured to the small living arrangements, “but I’ve been working. I’ve got some saved up. We - you - there are plenty of apartments in the area.”
“You could get a job. Any mechanic would take one look at the Impala and hand over their shop. Or uh, in the fall, you could apply to the community college. Not that you couldn’t get in somewhere better because you totally could, just probably need to get a year under your belt then transfer. You know, if you wanted to.”
Sam’s head was spinning with visions of showing Dean the area, getting him a spare key, Dean helping Sam pick classes for the fall quarter, coming home to Dean’s, surprisingly good, cooking after a long day at the store.
He was so caught up in his head that a few minutes passed before he realized that Dean still hadn’t said a word, hadn’t so much as moved. He raised his hand and rested it lightly on Dean’s shoulder, shrugging off the hurt when Dean flinched away. “Come on Dean. Say something.”
“Sam.”
Dean turned around. His face was the perfect, practiced mask that he wore while talking to a witness; stone cold, except for his eyes. He could never get the eyes right.
“Have you lost your mind?” Sam felt the bottom of his stomach hit the floor. “Do you have any idea what that would do to Dad? He needs me Sam. I’m not just gonna walk out on him.”
“What, you mean like I did?” The look on Dean’s face saved him the trouble of responding. Sam laughed. “Great, Dean. That’s real fucking nice.”
“Sorry to spoil your fairytale, princess.” Dean’s tone was like a slap to the face. Sam’s mouth gaped while his mind spun.
“Is this about last night?”
“Holy shit, it is, isn’t it?” Dean’s jaw tensed. “What the hell Dean?”
Dean stepped closer to Sam, toeing the line of his personal space. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself last night.”
“Bullshit.” Dean’s eyebrows shot up.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on Dean, I know this isn’t just me here.”
“You don’t know shit”
“I was there asshole. I know you wanted it too.”
“I was drunk, and you were a warm body. Sue me for having a physical response.” Sam felt shame and nausea creep up his throat. His whole body was thrumming with shock and rage.
“Fuck you.”
Dean took another step towards Sam and looked him dead in the eye.
“You wish.”
Sam recoiled as if he had been slapped, then wound back his right arm to go in for a punch. Dean was too fast, caught Sam’s hand in midair and pressed his wrist in a way that had white hot pain shooting up his arm.
Using his pain as a distraction, Dean pushed Sam up against the kitchen wall. Sam had been gaining inches on Dean before he left, but the last year had brought them eye level.
“You gonna hit me Sam? Break my face with your fist? Or-” He leaned in so close that Sam could smell bitter coffee on Dean’s breath. He was smirking, spite in place of the usual brotherly taunt.
Dean laughed then. A harsh, hollow sound that Sam had never heard come out of his brother.
“Do you wanna kiss me, Sammy?” The name sounded so wrong, slimy, and turned his stomach. “Pick up where we left off?”
Dean pulled back, took in the scene he was making, and shoved a thigh between Sam’s legs. It was like someone took the night before and twisted it up, making it as wrong as it probably should have been. He leaned forward until his breath ticked Sam’s ear.
“Is this what you want Sam? Big brother showin’ you the ropes.” Dean threw some of his weight behind his leg, the pressure on Sam’s cock too painful to let him get hard. Thank god for small miracles.
Dean eased back, and looked at Sam. His eyes flicked over Sam, taking in his flushed cheeks, the dampness under his eyes. Dean shook his head and let out a harsh sigh as he let go of Sam and stepped back.
“Thought you wanted to be normal. Thought that was why you left us in the first place.” His voice had lost its bite; now he just sounded sad, tired.
“This isn’t normal, Sam. This. It, it makes you…”
“What Dean, makes me a what?” Sam felt tears burning his eyes. Dean looked away, and Sam could’ve sworn he saw his chin tremble for a moment before he brought his gaze back up.
“I’m not going to say it. Don’t make me say it, man.”
“Go.”
“Sam-”
“Get out, before I drag you out.” Dean nodded, walked over and grabbed his things from the couch.
Sam followed him as he moved towards the door. “I don’t want to hear from you again. Don’t call me, and don’t you ever fucking show up here again, got it?”
Dean had his handle on the doorknob.
“Dean!”
“Yeah Sam, got it.” He opened the door and stepped, only to pause straddling the door jam. After the countless state lines they had crossed together, this line would be the last. “Take care o’yourself Sammy.”
He walked out the door and shut it behind him.
Moments later, Sam heard the telltale sound of the Impala’s engine starting up, and her tires leaving her name on the parking lot asphalt. Sam grabbed his cup of, now ice cold, coffee and threw it at the wall. The stain looked fittingly like a brown blood splatter. Sam slumped against the door and slid down.
He was sobbing before his body reached the floor.
“Sam come on man, open the door.”
Sam glared at the door from where he was slumped on the couch, seriously questioning what he did to deserve Brady as a friend. He picked a pillow off the floor and chucked it at the door in response to the continuous pounding coming from the other side.
He let out a sigh of relief when the knocking stopped, only to let out a groan and bury his face in the couch cushions a moment later. The doorknob jiggled, and Sam had broken into enough motels to recognize the sound of a credit card sliding behind the lock.
“Jesus Brady. Your family owns like half of California why the hell do you know how to do that?”
“Breaking into the country club pool just doesn’t have the same thrill if you’ve got the key.” Sam could hear the grin in his friend’s voice as he strolled into the apartment.
Brady rounded the couch, and even though they had been friends since their first semester bio class - Brady was the “next generation of surgeon” - Sam would never get over his clothes.
More money went into one outfit of Brady’s than one semester of Sam’s books. Everything was custom tailored, even his jeans, and yeah Sam could admit that it was worth it for the way the denim hugged his thighs and ass.
Sam wasn’t gay, not by a long shot, but he figured getting off with your brother entitled you to a healthy sexuality crisis.
Brady was a different story, as likely to pair off with one of his frat brothers as he was to go home with a co-ed, but he was off limits as far as Sam was concerned.
“You doing a science experiment? Tryin’ to see if you can become one with that couch?”
“What do you want Brady?”
“It’s Jason’s birthday. We’re going out to the bar on University.” Sam opened his mouth to object. “And before you start your bitching, this is not an invite. This is me telling you that you and I are leaving this apartment in an hour because you need to at least pretend to be a human being for one night a month.
I can either drag your scruffy ass out of here in your sweats, or you can get up, take a shower, put on pants that don’t have an elastic waistband, and come out with your friends.”
Sam just stared at Brady. He was used to getting lectures from Sarah, and Tom if he was doing too much reading for philosophy, but not from Brady. Brady was the guy who would run him a cold shower at 2am, get him back in bed, and never mention it ever again. It was comforting, in a familiar way; that sense of being cared for without any hugs or tears required.
“Come on man, we miss you.”
“Alright. Alright, I’m in. No need to break out the waterworks.”
Sam rolled off the couch, his foot sending beer bottles skittering across the floor. His joints were stiff from his lack of doing more than going to the kitchen to get more beer and chips, and the weeks on the couch might have wrecked his back for life. He rolled his shoulders back and tipped his neck, audible pops relieving some of the stress.
He could feel how stiff his shirt was, he hadn’t showered in at least five days, shaved in longer. He knew he probably looked like hell, and he felt a warm blush creep up his face as he looked at his continuously composed best friend.
“Hey man, don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there.” Sam nodded silently. “Jesus, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get in the shower.”
Sam laughed lightly and began making his way into the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the closet on his way.
“And shave while you’re at it Winchester, you look like a yeti!”
He turned the shower on and looked in the mirror while he waited for the water to warm up. He barely recognized himself. He had circles under his eyes, a scraggly beard, and his collarbones were more noticeable than they had been when school ended. He reminded himself of John.
At that sobering thought, Sam peeled himself out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. The water pulsed over his shoulders, loosening him as it turned his skin pink with heat. He washed, rinsed, repeated, and then repeated again. He scrubbed at his skin, sloughing off sweat and spilled booze. When the water started to cool, he shut it off and toweled off.
Fifteen minutes and a can of shaving cream later, Sam emerged from the bathroom clean shaven and holding a towel around his waist. Once he was clean, he couldn’t find it in him to put the same clothes back on again.
He ambled down the hall, towel knotted tight, and stopped short when he saw the state of his room.
The bed was impeccably made; new sheets, hospital corners and all. The floor was bare, although his laundry hamper looked about ready to give out. Brady had been standing in front of Sam’s closet, hands on his hips, but turned around when he heard Sam come in.
Sam coughed, feeling emotion welling up in his chest. “Thank you.”
“Hey man, don’t worry about it.” Brady flapped his hand at the air, likely trying to physically shoo away Sam’s thanks.
“Brady. Thank you.” His friend nodded, the most serious Sam had ever seen him. The moment ended.
“God Winchester, just a new set of sheets, stop looking like I found your lost puppy.” Brady turned back to look at Sam’s closet. “Now that you’re all cleaned up, clothes. Man, you have got to let me take you shopping I swear to god…”
He looked at the options for a beat more, then grabbed a light blue button-down and tossed it at Sam.
“Grab your dark jeans from the bin. Just run them through a puff of cologne, no one will notice.”
****
Everyone was happy to see Sam. He was greeted with smiles, hugs and claps on the back, and only one admonishment from Sarah. Jason gave him a drunken, but heartfelt thanks for coming out. An empty bar table caught Sam’s eye and he moved to make it his home base for the night.
Someone ordered shots for the whole group, probably Tom, and Sam welcomed the rush when it hit his blood. He indulged them in a dance or two, but then used a headache as an excuse to retreat to his table by the wall.
He relaxed into his chair and played with his napkin coaster, content to just watch his friends dance and make general fools out of themselves. Every once in a while, Brady would swing by with an extra drink in his hand. He’d set it down in front of Sam, clap him on the back, and merge back into the crowd.
When more than twenty minutes had gone by without a visit from Brady, Sam started to get antsy. If Brady left without him, he was seriously going to get his ass kicked later. Scanning the crowd for a sign of his best friend, Sam found him standing on the fringe of the dance floor talking to a leggy blonde.
Brady said something to her - Sam could only imagine what - and she laughed and shook her head. Brady leaned in and whispered something in her ear. When he pulled back, she looked at him and then nodded.
Sam understood; he’d been on the receiving end of many a Brady pitch speech. Guy should’ve gone into sales.
The next thing Sam knew, the blonde was making her way over to his table, two drinks in hand. Sam found Brady again in the crowd and gives him what he hoped was his best don’t you dare face, but Brady just responds with an obscene gesture that roughly translated to it’s part of my job to get you laid kid.
The blonde has reached his table by now, oblivious to Sam’s discomfort. She set the drinks down on the table before kicking out a stool and sitting down herself. “Aren’t you supposed to ask if this seat is taken?” He winced internally, some of the sarcasm got lost on the way from his brain to his mouth.
“Well, I could, but judging by the way your friend,” she tilted her head in the direction of Brady, who was still standing there just watching their interaction, “just told the bar to send drinks over at fifteen minute intervals until we leave I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
Sam glared at his best friend, who simply gave him a wink and then disappeared into the dancing crowd. The only suitable response to that was to drain his drink in one swill. Since he was in the company of a lady, Sam only drank half.
“Aren’t you supposed to introduce yourself?” Apparently the girl was quicker than Sam gave her credit for. He laughed, then extended his hand. “Sam. Winchester.” He recognized the glint in her eye, and knew what she was going to say before she even started. “Yes, like the rifle.”
She shook his hand with a strength that took Sam by surprise. “Jessica Moore. Not like anything.”
Sam took in her green eyes, full pink lips, dishwater blonde hair, and that smirk that betrayed just how much she was enjoying the exchange. He felt a familiar punch-pull in his stomach. As he smiled and finished the second half of his drink he couldn’t help thinking to himself, maybe not, but you’re close enough.
The next morning, hung over enough that it felt like a construction crew had taken up shop in his skull but not hung over enough to give him convenient memory loss, Sam sat up in his bed. His stomach roiled as the night replayed itself in flashes. There was anxiety, fear, guilt, but there was a small fluttering feather of hope that maybe, just maybe, this could mean something for them.
Sam rolled out of bed, ignoring the way the room kept moving even after he stopped. He found his plaid lounge pants and slid them on before padding softly down the hallway.
Dean was standing in the kitchen, already in his jeans and dark grey t-shirt, grabbing things from the fridge and tossing them into one of the many pans working on the stove. For a moment Sam was afraid for his stove, it wasn’t used to this much abuse.
“Oh good morning your highness, so nice of you to grace us with you presence.” Dean threw his greeting over his shoulder as Sam pulled out a barstool. Breakfast was a process when it was being made by Dean.
“Had to make sure you weren’t burning down my apartment.” Dean scoffed as he tossed - since when did he have potatoes in his apartment - into a pan.
“So. What’s for breakfast?”
Dean turned and looked at Sam with a look of mock horror. “Sammy I’m appalled. One year away and you’ve already forgotten my hangover remedy. Carbs -”
“Grease and fat.” They said in unison. Sam smiled.
“I remember, just hadn’t needed it in a while. Forgot how gross it looks.”
That was a boldfaced lie, of course. The morning after his birthday there was nothing Sam wanted more than a patented Dean Winchester breakfast. He’d tried to do it himself, but the eggs came out too watery and the bacon tasted like ash and had just made everything worse. Dean didn’t need to know that though.
The kitchen lapsed into silence as Dean eyeballed the perfect amount of milk and cheese to mix in with the eggs. It was criminally insane to expect things not to be awkward, but Sam hoped he wasn’t pushing it by wishing they could get through this with minimal discomfort.
“So uh, I don’t know what you wanted to do today.” Sam fiddled with a takeout menu left on the counter from last weekend. “Obviously we’re doing breakfast here, but we could go to the beach? Or just go for a drive?”
Dean made no moves to respond to Sam’s questions, just flipped the eggs.
Sam sighed and absentmindedly looked around the apartment. He spotted an olive green duffel bag on the couch, t-shirts poking out the opening.
“You’re leaving.” Sam could see Dean’s shoulders tense.
“Yeah well, I should be getting back…” He didn’t have to say to Dad for Sam to know what he meant.
“You don’t have to.”
Dean scoffed. “Right. And what exactly am I supposed to be doing instead?”
“You could stay.” And god but did Sam hate the way his voice made that sound like a question. Dean just looked at Sam like he’d suggested selling the Impala for scraps.
“No, really. Dean, you could stay here. Well not here,” Sam gestured to the small living arrangements, “but I’ve been working. I’ve got some saved up. We - you - there are plenty of apartments in the area.”
“You could get a job. Any mechanic would take one look at the Impala and hand over their shop. Or uh, in the fall, you could apply to the community college. Not that you couldn’t get in somewhere better because you totally could, just probably need to get a year under your belt then transfer. You know, if you wanted to.”
Sam’s head was spinning with visions of showing Dean the area, getting him a spare key, Dean helping Sam pick classes for the fall quarter, coming home to Dean’s, surprisingly good, cooking after a long day at the store.
He was so caught up in his head that a few minutes passed before he realized that Dean still hadn’t said a word, hadn’t so much as moved. He raised his hand and rested it lightly on Dean’s shoulder, shrugging off the hurt when Dean flinched away. “Come on Dean. Say something.”
“Sam.”
Dean turned around. His face was the perfect, practiced mask that he wore while talking to a witness; stone cold, except for his eyes. He could never get the eyes right.
“Have you lost your mind?” Sam felt the bottom of his stomach hit the floor. “Do you have any idea what that would do to Dad? He needs me Sam. I’m not just gonna walk out on him.”
“What, you mean like I did?” The look on Dean’s face saved him the trouble of responding. Sam laughed. “Great, Dean. That’s real fucking nice.”
“Sorry to spoil your fairytale, princess.” Dean’s tone was like a slap to the face. Sam’s mouth gaped while his mind spun.
“Is this about last night?”
“Holy shit, it is, isn’t it?” Dean’s jaw tensed. “What the hell Dean?”
Dean stepped closer to Sam, toeing the line of his personal space. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself last night.”
“Bullshit.” Dean’s eyebrows shot up.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on Dean, I know this isn’t just me here.”
“You don’t know shit”
“I was there asshole. I know you wanted it too.”
“I was drunk, and you were a warm body. Sue me for having a physical response.” Sam felt shame and nausea creep up his throat. His whole body was thrumming with shock and rage.
“Fuck you.”
Dean took another step towards Sam and looked him dead in the eye.
“You wish.”
Sam recoiled as if he had been slapped, then wound back his right arm to go in for a punch. Dean was too fast, caught Sam’s hand in midair and pressed his wrist in a way that had white hot pain shooting up his arm.
Using his pain as a distraction, Dean pushed Sam up against the kitchen wall. Sam had been gaining inches on Dean before he left, but the last year had brought them eye level.
“You gonna hit me Sam? Break my face with your fist? Or-” He leaned in so close that Sam could smell bitter coffee on Dean’s breath. He was smirking, spite in place of the usual brotherly taunt.
Dean laughed then. A harsh, hollow sound that Sam had never heard come out of his brother.
“Do you wanna kiss me, Sammy?” The name sounded so wrong, slimy, and turned his stomach. “Pick up where we left off?”
Dean pulled back, took in the scene he was making, and shoved a thigh between Sam’s legs. It was like someone took the night before and twisted it up, making it as wrong as it probably should have been. He leaned forward until his breath ticked Sam’s ear.
“Is this what you want Sam? Big brother showin’ you the ropes.” Dean threw some of his weight behind his leg, the pressure on Sam’s cock too painful to let him get hard. Thank god for small miracles.
Dean eased back, and looked at Sam. His eyes flicked over Sam, taking in his flushed cheeks, the dampness under his eyes. Dean shook his head and let out a harsh sigh as he let go of Sam and stepped back.
“Thought you wanted to be normal. Thought that was why you left us in the first place.” His voice had lost its bite; now he just sounded sad, tired.
“This isn’t normal, Sam. This. It, it makes you…”
“What Dean, makes me a what?” Sam felt tears burning his eyes. Dean looked away, and Sam could’ve sworn he saw his chin tremble for a moment before he brought his gaze back up.
“I’m not going to say it. Don’t make me say it, man.”
“Go.”
“Sam-”
“Get out, before I drag you out.” Dean nodded, walked over and grabbed his things from the couch.
Sam followed him as he moved towards the door. “I don’t want to hear from you again. Don’t call me, and don’t you ever fucking show up here again, got it?”
Dean had his handle on the doorknob.
“Dean!”
“Yeah Sam, got it.” He opened the door and stepped, only to pause straddling the door jam. After the countless state lines they had crossed together, this line would be the last. “Take care o’yourself Sammy.”
He walked out the door and shut it behind him.
Moments later, Sam heard the telltale sound of the Impala’s engine starting up, and her tires leaving her name on the parking lot asphalt. Sam grabbed his cup of, now ice cold, coffee and threw it at the wall. The stain looked fittingly like a brown blood splatter. Sam slumped against the door and slid down.
He was sobbing before his body reached the floor.
“Sam come on man, open the door.”
Sam glared at the door from where he was slumped on the couch, seriously questioning what he did to deserve Brady as a friend. He picked a pillow off the floor and chucked it at the door in response to the continuous pounding coming from the other side.
He let out a sigh of relief when the knocking stopped, only to let out a groan and bury his face in the couch cushions a moment later. The doorknob jiggled, and Sam had broken into enough motels to recognize the sound of a credit card sliding behind the lock.
“Jesus Brady. Your family owns like half of California why the hell do you know how to do that?”
“Breaking into the country club pool just doesn’t have the same thrill if you’ve got the key.” Sam could hear the grin in his friend’s voice as he strolled into the apartment.
Brady rounded the couch, and even though they had been friends since their first semester bio class - Brady was the “next generation of surgeon” - Sam would never get over his clothes.
More money went into one outfit of Brady’s than one semester of Sam’s books. Everything was custom tailored, even his jeans, and yeah Sam could admit that it was worth it for the way the denim hugged his thighs and ass.
Sam wasn’t gay, not by a long shot, but he figured getting off with your brother entitled you to a healthy sexuality crisis.
Brady was a different story, as likely to pair off with one of his frat brothers as he was to go home with a co-ed, but he was off limits as far as Sam was concerned.
“You doing a science experiment? Tryin’ to see if you can become one with that couch?”
“What do you want Brady?”
“It’s Jason’s birthday. We’re going out to the bar on University.” Sam opened his mouth to object. “And before you start your bitching, this is not an invite. This is me telling you that you and I are leaving this apartment in an hour because you need to at least pretend to be a human being for one night a month.
I can either drag your scruffy ass out of here in your sweats, or you can get up, take a shower, put on pants that don’t have an elastic waistband, and come out with your friends.”
Sam just stared at Brady. He was used to getting lectures from Sarah, and Tom if he was doing too much reading for philosophy, but not from Brady. Brady was the guy who would run him a cold shower at 2am, get him back in bed, and never mention it ever again. It was comforting, in a familiar way; that sense of being cared for without any hugs or tears required.
“Come on man, we miss you.”
“Alright. Alright, I’m in. No need to break out the waterworks.”
Sam rolled off the couch, his foot sending beer bottles skittering across the floor. His joints were stiff from his lack of doing more than going to the kitchen to get more beer and chips, and the weeks on the couch might have wrecked his back for life. He rolled his shoulders back and tipped his neck, audible pops relieving some of the stress.
He could feel how stiff his shirt was, he hadn’t showered in at least five days, shaved in longer. He knew he probably looked like hell, and he felt a warm blush creep up his face as he looked at his continuously composed best friend.
“Hey man, don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there.” Sam nodded silently. “Jesus, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get in the shower.”
Sam laughed lightly and began making his way into the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the closet on his way.
“And shave while you’re at it Winchester, you look like a yeti!”
He turned the shower on and looked in the mirror while he waited for the water to warm up. He barely recognized himself. He had circles under his eyes, a scraggly beard, and his collarbones were more noticeable than they had been when school ended. He reminded himself of John.
At that sobering thought, Sam peeled himself out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. The water pulsed over his shoulders, loosening him as it turned his skin pink with heat. He washed, rinsed, repeated, and then repeated again. He scrubbed at his skin, sloughing off sweat and spilled booze. When the water started to cool, he shut it off and toweled off.
Fifteen minutes and a can of shaving cream later, Sam emerged from the bathroom clean shaven and holding a towel around his waist. Once he was clean, he couldn’t find it in him to put the same clothes back on again.
He ambled down the hall, towel knotted tight, and stopped short when he saw the state of his room.
The bed was impeccably made; new sheets, hospital corners and all. The floor was bare, although his laundry hamper looked about ready to give out. Brady had been standing in front of Sam’s closet, hands on his hips, but turned around when he heard Sam come in.
Sam coughed, feeling emotion welling up in his chest. “Thank you.”
“Hey man, don’t worry about it.” Brady flapped his hand at the air, likely trying to physically shoo away Sam’s thanks.
“Brady. Thank you.” His friend nodded, the most serious Sam had ever seen him. The moment ended.
“God Winchester, just a new set of sheets, stop looking like I found your lost puppy.” Brady turned back to look at Sam’s closet. “Now that you’re all cleaned up, clothes. Man, you have got to let me take you shopping I swear to god…”
He looked at the options for a beat more, then grabbed a light blue button-down and tossed it at Sam.
“Grab your dark jeans from the bin. Just run them through a puff of cologne, no one will notice.”
****
Everyone was happy to see Sam. He was greeted with smiles, hugs and claps on the back, and only one admonishment from Sarah. Jason gave him a drunken, but heartfelt thanks for coming out. An empty bar table caught Sam’s eye and he moved to make it his home base for the night.
Someone ordered shots for the whole group, probably Tom, and Sam welcomed the rush when it hit his blood. He indulged them in a dance or two, but then used a headache as an excuse to retreat to his table by the wall.
He relaxed into his chair and played with his napkin coaster, content to just watch his friends dance and make general fools out of themselves. Every once in a while, Brady would swing by with an extra drink in his hand. He’d set it down in front of Sam, clap him on the back, and merge back into the crowd.
When more than twenty minutes had gone by without a visit from Brady, Sam started to get antsy. If Brady left without him, he was seriously going to get his ass kicked later. Scanning the crowd for a sign of his best friend, Sam found him standing on the fringe of the dance floor talking to a leggy blonde.
Brady said something to her - Sam could only imagine what - and she laughed and shook her head. Brady leaned in and whispered something in her ear. When he pulled back, she looked at him and then nodded.
Sam understood; he’d been on the receiving end of many a Brady pitch speech. Guy should’ve gone into sales.
The next thing Sam knew, the blonde was making her way over to his table, two drinks in hand. Sam found Brady again in the crowd and gives him what he hoped was his best don’t you dare face, but Brady just responds with an obscene gesture that roughly translated to it’s part of my job to get you laid kid.
The blonde has reached his table by now, oblivious to Sam’s discomfort. She set the drinks down on the table before kicking out a stool and sitting down herself. “Aren’t you supposed to ask if this seat is taken?” He winced internally, some of the sarcasm got lost on the way from his brain to his mouth.
“Well, I could, but judging by the way your friend,” she tilted her head in the direction of Brady, who was still standing there just watching their interaction, “just told the bar to send drinks over at fifteen minute intervals until we leave I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
Sam glared at his best friend, who simply gave him a wink and then disappeared into the dancing crowd. The only suitable response to that was to drain his drink in one swill. Since he was in the company of a lady, Sam only drank half.
“Aren’t you supposed to introduce yourself?” Apparently the girl was quicker than Sam gave her credit for. He laughed, then extended his hand. “Sam. Winchester.” He recognized the glint in her eye, and knew what she was going to say before she even started. “Yes, like the rifle.”
She shook his hand with a strength that took Sam by surprise. “Jessica Moore. Not like anything.”
Sam took in her green eyes, full pink lips, dishwater blonde hair, and that smirk that betrayed just how much she was enjoying the exchange. He felt a familiar punch-pull in his stomach. As he smiled and finished the second half of his drink he couldn’t help thinking to himself, maybe not, but you’re close enough.