fic: Edges (2/3)
MASTER POST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | ART POST
His brother isn't gone the next morning like Sam had half-hoped. Instead, he's sitting at the kitchen table, with a plate of toast at his elbow and Sam's laptop open in front of him. He turns at the small sound of Sam entering the room.
"He's awake! Ah, the life of a student."
Sam grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. The clock above the stove reads seven-thirty.
Dean nods to what's left of the pot. "Have some coffee."
"This is my kitchen," Sam points out, but pours himself a mug anyway.
The sound of a car horn in the distance is the only sound for a long moment, and then Sam takes the seat next to Dean, as well as the last piece of toast off the plate while Dean's distracted.
"Hey!" Dean says, but it's good-natured and he watches Sam chew. "Better?"
Sam closes his eyes, enjoying the butter, the toasted crust. He nods and sips some coffee. It's good. "It's cold," he says instead.
He catches the faint smile on Dean's mouth before Dean clears his throat and mutters, "Such a whiny bitch, I swear. Take a look."
He turns the computer so Sam can see the gruesome picture he has pulled up on the screen - it shows the body of a guy Sam's age maybe, discolored skin and bloodshot eyes.
Sam grimaces. "Nice."
"Body of Charles Grimes, Stanford student."
Sam leans towards the screen to get a better look. It appears to be the inside of a sports shed, with athletic equipment, mats, and a mascot outfit off to the side. "I heard about that."
"Yes. You'd think you would have, seeing as you live here and all."
"Dude, stop giving me a hard time," Sam says, and returns to the picture. He'd decided against looking into this just yesterday, but apparently he'd been wrong. So much for putting it out of his mind. "How does the death of Charles Grimes have something to do with the spirit you mentioned?"
Dean looks a little shifty. "Well...I assume there's a spirit." When Sam gives him a look, Dean points to the photo. "See the marks around his neck?"
On examination, Sam sees Charles's neck is ringed in red. "From the abrasions, it looks like rope. Did he hang himself?"
"At first glance I'd say this was suicide," Dean says. "And that's what the authorities are ruling it. But that theory doesn't hold up when you consider that the death took place in a locked shed...a locked shed that can only be locked from the inside."
"Huh."
"No windows, only one door."
"And let me guess-" Sam scans the article. "No rope to be found."
Dean shakes his head. "Not even a thread. Just some football equipment and the odd boxing glove."
"Nothing that could have caused those marks."
"Exactly."
Sam sits back. "Well, it's not a lot to go on."
"But we've gone off of a lot less," Dean interjects.
"Dean-"
"Are you serious?" Dean frowns at him. "You really don't care about this anymore, do you? You know, if this is too much trouble for you, if you can't take the time out of your busy schedule to save a couple of your classmates, then by all means-"
"All right, all right," Sam says, mainly wanting to shut him up. It's too early for this. He downs his coffee, seeing that he's going to need it. "Fine. It's worth looking into."
"Well, ok then. You're in?" Dean asks, looking hopeful.
"Well, you need someone to go with you. I can't just let you run free around campus. Who knows what you'll do."
"Thanks, Sammy. I'll be the best arm candy," Dean promises. "So, first thing's first. Thought we'd go to the police station this morning, then maybe check out the library."
Sam knows what that means. "Dean," he says, not quite able to stop the whine in his voice. "You know how I feel about lying to cops."
"We'll say we're journalism students or something. It's no big deal."
"Ugh. Fine."
"Don't get too excited."
"Believe me, I won't." Sam pushes back from the table. "Just let me go change."
He pulls on socks in his room, and shoes, and then opens the second drawer for a clean shirt. He runs his fingers down the pile of clothes, until he finds the worn, soft cotton of a shirt he keeps folded at the very bottom.
If he's very still, he can hear Dean moving things around in the living room, so he allows himself a moment. He pulls the Nine Inch Nails shirt from the pile and brings it to his face, inhaling. He's never worn it, accidentally brought it with him when he left, and there's only the lingering scent of Dean's deodorant left on it.
He thinks about how Dean's in the other room, right now, real and familiar, and how from the moment he'd walked into that bathroom last night it's been like the edges of Sam's two lives are blurring.
He has his face still buried in the shirt, lost in thought, when Dean's voice says, "Hey, wasn't that mine?"
Sam jumps. "No," he says guiltily, dropping it into the drawer and grabbing one of his own. "What?"
Dean rolls his eyes.
Sam pulls the shirt quickly over his head. "Ready to go?"
But he stills when Dean claps a hand around the back of his neck, letting it rest there.
"I've got a whole bag of dirty shirts, Sam," he says, in strangely intimate tones. Sam's breath catches, even though he knows that Dean's fucking with him. "If you want one."
"I don't want your shit, Dean."
He tries to shove Dean's hand away, but Dean holds on.
"It must've been meant to be or something, me never doing my laundry." Dean gives him a knowing smile that kind of makes him look like a creepy pervert, if Sam were pressed to say. "They're all sweaty from the road, the open air. In fact, here, have this one." He starts taking off the one he's wearing.
"Gross," Sam says, and sighs when Dean tosses it to him, catching it on instinct against his chest in a crumpled handful. He throws it back at him, although the impact against Dean's bag isn't satisfying. "Can we leave already? Daylight's burning."
The station is a mission-style building, huge and imposing. Sam looks up at it with resignation. Throwing themselves in the path of the cops for no reason has featured strongly in Sam's life. Sam gives today's cover story about seventy percent chance of believability.
"Just like old times," Dean grins as they're getting out of the car. He smacks a pen to Sam's chest. "Here, pretend to write stuff down."
"Fine."
They start up the police station steps, which are brick and imposing.
"If it's a chick, you're up," Dean says, as they push open the station doors.
"What? Why me?"
"Your weird superpower."
Sam snorts. "What, that I look honest? Not like I'm trying to con them out of something?"
"Exactly."
Sam tries to recall the first time he had had to get information out of someone under fake pretenses. Maybe he was twelve? He and Dean had pretended to be selling candy bars for a youth group. No, fourteen. He was fourteen and really nervous, but he ultimately pulled it off because older women trusted his face. Dad bought them cheeseburgers and extra fries when they got back with the info, and told them they did real good. Someone was going to live because of them.
It isn't the best feeling, knowing how easily he can lie and get away with it.
Sensing Sam's reluctance, Dean says, "Play to your strengths, Sammy," and steers him toward a woman bent over the front desk.
"Excuse me, kind lady," Dean says.
She slowly looks up, away from a complicated form on top of a formidable stack of paperwork. "How did you two get in here?"
Sam tries to ignore the glint of the badge on her chest. Dean elbows him, and the woman's eyes track the movement.
"We're doing an internship for the school paper," Sam says quickly, before Dean can blow their cover before they even begin. "Stanford school paper. We're wondering if you have time to answer a few questions?" He tries to look earnest, furrowing his brow and slouching a little. "We'd really appreciate the help, we really need this credit, so if we could just-"
She waves a hand to shut him up. "Ok, ok. I get it, save the explanation. You have three minutes."
Dean jumps in. "What can you tell us about the recent death of student Charlie Grimes?"
"I'm not at liberty to comment on that. The circumstances of Grimes's death are being kept confidential, as per the wishes of the family."
"We understand completely," Sam says, and he thinks she might look a little less impatient at that. "Is there anything of significance you can tell us about this horrible tragedy? Any less confidential detail?"
"Well, it was Big Game day," she says after a moment of consideration. "But the time of death was estimated to be before the game. If that's a lead at all, it's circumstantial at best. You can put that in your article, might get rid of some of the rumors that say this was somehow related to the outcome of the football game."
Sam nods, only remembering to scribble down a couple notes when she eyes the school notebook he brought with him.
"I'm afraid that's all the time I have for you, boys," she says.
Dean overdoes it in his, "Thanks ever so much," and she looks only minorly charmed when he flutters his eyelashes.
Sam tosses the notebook in the car two minutes later, pulling his jacket around him in a gust of breeze. An oak tree showers its leaves. It's fall.
"So all we learned is that Grimes died the day of the Big Game," he says, leaning against the car.
Dean puts his elbow next to him on the car. "Is that supposed to mean something to me? What's the Big Game?"
"It's an annual football game held between Stanford and Berkeley," Sam tells him. "I remember last year the school went insane, all school pride and covered in anti-Berkeley banners. Our unofficial mascot is the Stanford Tree so there were a lot of signs featuring a tree violating a bear. That kind of thing. I didn't go to the game this year." He shrugs. "I had a big paper due so I was in the library all day."
"Of course," Dean says, and his tone is weird, almost...fond. Dean's always secretly thought everything about Sam was hilarious. Of all the things Sam's had reason to doubt, he never doubted that.
Dean notices Sam looking at him, and clears his throat. "You have-" he says, motioning. "On your head-"
He reaches out, and Sam starts as he feels fingers card through his hair.
"What?" he says stupidly as the leaves flutter to his shoulders.
"Library?" Dean responds, and Sam's left staring after him as Dean heads around to his side of the car. His cheeks feel warm in the cold air, replaying the moment.
The woman at the library seems similarly unimpressed when he and Dean find their way down to the periodical section in the basement. She is wearing an actual pince nez and takes one look at Dean and starts in on a stern lecture about how to use the microreader.
The machine is dusty with disuse, and Sam escapes her notice by slowly unfolding his notebook in front of him and setting out his pens. He listens as Dean assures the librarian that he is, in layman's terms, a pro at microfiche.
He groans in relief once she's gone.
Sam opens the laptop to the article on Charles Grimes. "So we're looking for, what? Newspaper articles from the date of the murder?" he asks. "Any other deaths on campus?"
"Seems like a good enough place to start. Because if this is a spirit, fifty bucks says there's a significance to that date." Dean pulls up a creaky chair and says, "Ok, I'll take the microfiche, since I'm so well-trained. You take more recent publications."
Sam briefly thinks about the essays he has due the coming week, but shoves the worry aside without too much trouble and opens a filing cabinet in the corner. It groans under the weight of many stuffed folders. Sam pulls out an armful and opens the first onto the table, finding it stuffed full of yellowing school newspapers with black and white photos of Stanford in the eighties.
It takes almost an hour of digging through old records and film to find anything, but during that time, Sam learns a lot about his school. He also learns more than he ever wanted to about the history of football on campus and spends a considerable amount of time watching Dean out the corner of his eye.
His almost misses the article dated just last year.
"I can't believe it," he mutters. He folds the paper in front of him.
"Find something?" Dean asks through a mouthful of the beef jerky he'd fished from his pocket sometime in the last twenty minutes.
"Yeah, I think so. Listen to this: 'Larson Smith hangs himself in an athletic shed on the Stanford football field.' That sounds like something, right? And it happened just last year."
Dean pulls his chair closer and leans in, the warmth of his shoulder pressing Sam's. "Great. I can't believe I just went through the last fifty years' worth of newspaper articles," he gripes. "This Larson kid a Stanford student?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, a senior. Or super senior, actually. He was a communications major, but was having a hard time. Seems the guy couldn't pass the one science class he needed to graduate, so he was here for a fifth year."
"Dude, I know what a super senior means. How come the police didn't say anything about this when they found Grimes?"
"Students commit suicide each year, I guess. And since they're suicides, there's no ongoing investigation like there would be with a string of murders. Case closed."
"Until us," Dean says. He raises an eyebrow. "What do you think, Sammy? Still think there's no case here?"
"Fine, I admit that the connection is pretty compelling. Larson could definitely have come back as an angry spirit." Sam leans into the laptop, re-examining the picture of Grimes's body. He taps the screen, at the marks on Grimes's neck. "Larson hung himself, so there's your rope."
"But what about the dates?" asks Dean, checking both articles. "They're different."
"So, maybe the death wasn't on a specific date, but both did…"
"Fall on the date of Big Game," Dean finishes.
"Because the date changes," Sam says.
"Holy shit," Dean says, and Sam wipes away a chunk of beef jerky that falls out of Dean's mouth onto the keyboard. Pointedly. Dean doesn't notice, instead continuing, "Right, so, Larson kills himself on the day of the Big Game. Spirit comes back and kills Grimes the next year, makes it look like a suicide. With ghost rope. We've got our pattern. Booyeah."
Sam taps his chin. "But why'd he kill Grimes specifically?"
"Beats me. What else can we find out about this guy?"
Sam runs his finger down the article he'd found. "Larson grew up in Sonoma county where his parents took him river rafting every summer. Parents torn up about his death, obviously. He was a good writer and had a lot of school pride. He was the mascot all four years."
"Four? I thought you said he was a Supe?"
"A what?"
Dean makes an impatient noise. "A super senior. Keep up."
"No, that's not a thing," Sam tells him, and turns back to keep reading the article. "Anyway, I guess eventually he was told that his failing grades made him less than an exemplary student, and his title as mascot was taken away. That was around the time he killed himself."
"Tough break. But that still doesn't explain why he killed Grimes."
"Wrong place at the wrong time?" Sam guesses, then jumps in his chair as his phone buzzes.
"Mr. Popular," Dean says, trying to look over Sam's shoulder at the screen. "Is that whatshisname? The blond guy? You know, the uptight one?"
Sam talks over him. "No, it's Luis. He and Jennifer are getting lunch and invited us."
Probably to get the d/l on him and Dean, Sam thinks with some despair.
"I could do lunch," Dean says in all seriousness.
"Fine."
"Oh ho," Dean crows. "So you do want me to hang out with your friends."
"Dude, I barely even know them," Sam says. Then he remembers what Jess had told him. "Luis did know Charles Grimes, though. Maybe he can tell us what the connection was between Grimes and Larson?"
"Sounds like a plan," says Dean. "Is Brady going to be there?"
"You're obsessed with Brady," says Sam.
"I guess that makes two of us." When Sam looks at him, Dean's grin is fake, kind of worried almost.
Sam files away the folders for a moment, and finally says over his shoulder. "It is possible he'll be there."
"Good to know," Dean says, and then, inexplicably, "Thanks, babe."
Sam turns slowly.
"Dude, not you," says Dean, and gestures to where he's tenderly shutting off the microreader. "She's been real good to me."
"You've always had an unhealthy relationship with inanimate objects," Sam says, thinking of the way Dean's always lusted over Dad's car. "Come on, I'm starving."
Luigi's is a small place a couple blocks from campus, sandwiched between a Starbucks and the bus station. It was the first place Sam stumbled into when he got to Palo Alto last August. He remembers how the slice of veggie pizza he ordered had tasted like freedom, and not just because it was the first time Dean wasn't there to make them get pepperoni.
He doesn't mention that to Dean now, as they order their pizza at the busy counter.
"I'm glad you're here," he says instead, to which Dean responds, "You're paying, bitch," and then goes to find their booth.
When Sam walks up, Brady's saying to Dean, "-I'm actually more into Metallica."
"Man after my own heart," says Dean, and Brady smiles tightly.
"Really?" Sam says, interested, to Brady. "I would have said you were more into Top 40 stuff."
"Things change," Brady says cryptically.
"Sam. How's it going?" Luis asks, moving over so they can all fit.
"Good, good." Sam scoots into the booth. "I've been showing Dean around. The...sights and stuff."
And by sights he means the dustiest basement room of the library.
"How long is he planning on staying?" Brady asks Sam, but Dean cuts in.
"Not sure yet," he says. And if Sam's honest with himself, he kind of likes the edge to Dean's smile when he says, "Actually, I didn't expect to like it so much here, but so far it's been great. Was thinking of staying awhile, maybe. Isn't that right, Sammy?"
"Yeah, great," Sam says.
"Great," Brady says blandly, looking between the two of them.
Sam takes a long drink from his straw. Dean starts talking to Luis.
"Are you coming to the party tonight?" Jennifer asks Sam. "After the game, I mean."
"I was thinking about it," he says. He'd heard something earlier during his Wednesday class, but hadn't planned on Dean showing up and dropping this case in his lap. "You?"
"Yeah, I'm friends with a bunch of the cheerleaders." She leans in. "You can bring Dean."
"Right," Sam says. He laughs an uncomfortable sort of laugh, and she gives him a sympathetic look.
"Hey, sad story about your friend Charlie," Dean's saying to Luis. "I just heard."
Luis looks down at his hands, mouth screwing up. "Yeah, it's really tough."
"Tell me about him. Was he into football?"
Sam kicks Dean under the table to tell him to back off. Luckily, Luis takes the overly direct question as friendly interest
"No, he wasn't too into football," he says. "He was more into basketball."
"Oh." Sam carefully doesn't look at Dean. That ruins that connection.
Luis continues, however. "Since he was going to be school mascot, though- Well, that tree mascot, not the official-official one. Since he was going to do that, he was going to have to go to all the football games, too." He laughs quietly, and finishes, "He wasn't too into that. Thought football players were dicks."
"Sounds like a good guy," Sam says.
"And he died the day of the Big Game," Dean says, looking at Sam significantly.
Luis meets Dean's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."
"Sounds like our number's up," says Dean abruptly, elbowing Sam to move over so they can slide out of the booth.
"I'm so sorry about what happened," Sam says to Luis as he's getting up.
Luis nods. "It is what it is, I guess."
Their number's not up. When they reach the counter, Dean slips his hands in his pockets and idles there, staring into the middle distance.
"Where's the pizza?" Sam asks, suspicious.
Dean shifts closer, and Sam glances at him, sidelong.
"The costume was hanging in pristine condition on a hanger next to him," Dean tells him, in hushed tones, like they're meeting undercover.
"Huh?" Sam says.
"In the picture of Grimes's body. The tree costume was hanging there with it's big crazy looking eyes." Dean mimes this with both hands. "I didn't realize it was significant until now."
Sam thinks back to the picture, and nods. He had noticed it. "And Luis says Charles was taking over as mascot," he says.
"I mean, it makes sense, right? Because maybe Larson's spirit wasn't too pleased about that."
"Yeah, and if Larson killed himself because he felt like he didn't have anything left to live for after the honor of being unofficial mascot was taken away, his spirit has got to be royally pissed about anyone else taking his place." Sam feels a smile spreading across his face that he can't help. "Angry spirit ganks guy who steals his clothes."
"Jeez. Talk about school spirit," Dean says, and lets out a low whistle. "You're lucky I let you get away with taking my shit."
"I don't take your shit," Sam protests. "That just ended up in my bag somehow."
"You know, it's funny," Dean says, ignoring him. He moves out of the way so someone can pass with drinks.
"What's funny?"
"I dunno. That Brady kid-"
Sam turns to look at the table, where Brady's sitting in an annoyed slouch while Jennifer and Luis eat their pizza.
"It's almost like he's-" Dean says, then shakes his head, laughing to himself.
Sam waits. "Like he's what?"
"Like he's jealous or something. I mean, he's obviously a tool-"
"Dean."
"-no offense. He's obviously just jealous of how awesome I am. But it's just, I don't know." Dean shakes his head again. "It seems like he's annoyed I'm around. Like, who gets jealous of someone's brother, you know?"
"Yeah, for real," Sam laughs, feeling sick to his stomach. "He's got some issues."
Dean throws an arm over his shoulder. "You know, sometimes I feel like we're the only not crazy people in the world."
Sam ducks his head. "Right?"
He allows himself to lean into Dean a bit, telling himself they're just brothers, hanging out. Dean's always been better than him at casual affection, always mussing Sam's hair and grabbing him by the arm. It's no big deal, and Sam tries not to feel like he's ruined it by being the way he is.
"Winchester!"
He and Dean jerk their heads up at the same time. Professor Chase is coming toward them.
"Don't worry. It's just my teacher," Sam tells Dean out of the corner of his mouth.
But Professor Chase doesn't spare Sam a glance when he reaches them, instead holding his hand out to pump Dean's.
"Dean Winchester?" he says, grinning. "Patrick Chase. You may not recognize me, but I recognize you. Friend of your dad's."
Sam's stomach drops out.
"Oh, hey," Dean says, a cool smile of concealed panic spreading over his own face, although why he'd be worried Sam doesn't know. Dean slides his arm away from Sam's shoulders, almost guiltily.
"I thought that was you," Sam's professor says. "Never expected to run into one of John's kids in my favorite pizza joint on the West Coast."
"Both of his kids, actually," says Dean, jerking his thumb at Sam. "You might remember my younger brother Sam?"
Sam feels himself standing up a little straighter, accidentally.
"Well as I live and breathe," Professor Chase says, eyes squinting up in a smile. "I could have sworn I recognised you. The last time I saw you you were hardly five feet tall, and now look at you. Tall as a bean pole."
Sam shakes his hand as well. "Yes, sir."
Chase is a hunter. It makes sense suddenly, and explains why he's always seemed rough around the edges to Sam, uncomfortably familiar. And he vaguely remembers him now. Some hunt in Mississippi, years ago.
"So what brings you boys to the Bay Area? You working a case?"
Sam flinches at the words being uttered so casually in public. But the rabble of ten, twenty, conversations overlapping in one room does well in covering it up.
Dean clears his throat. "I'm actually working this one," he says. "Sammy just goes to school here."
Sam nods. "I'm actually in your criminal law class."
He's not able to help the surge of pride he feels at the impressed look that crosses his professor's face.
"Hunter kid going to college," Professor Chase says. "Wowee. Good for you, son. That's a real tough thing to achieve."
"Thank you, sir," Sam nods. He's worked damn hard for this. "What are you doing here, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I'm a guest lecturer this year," Chase says. "Hunter's gotta make a living somehow, am I right? Also the library's great. Full of useful lore, primary sources."
"Right," Dean says.
His cell rings. "I gotta take this," he says, and answers. "Chase."
Sam sees that their orders are up, and he takes his plate, two slices of cheese pizza drooping over the edge. Dean does the same.
"Meat party," he whispers to Sam, nudging him to show off the pizza that's piled high with pepperoni and mini sausage pieces, the crust stuffed with bacon.
"I can see that," Sam whispers back.
"Right," Chase barks into the phone. "Yes, twenty minutes."
He snaps the phone closed.
"Faculty meeting," he explains, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. "That's as exciting as things get around here, boys. Hate to stay, hate to go, you know how it is."
"I understand you completely," Dean says.
"Sam, apologies for not saying hello sooner. I have my assistant do my grading, so I didn't notice the last name. Feel free to come to office hours. I'd love to discuss your future."
"I'll do that," Sam says.
"You boys say hello to your old man for me."
"Sir," Dean nods, and Chase takes his leave.
After the professor's out of sight, Sam gives Dean a look, and Dean raises his eyebrows as if to say, I know.
"How do you know Professor Chase?" Jennifer asks Dean when they're setting down their plates at the booth.
"He's actually an old friend of our dad's," says Sam, then freezes in horror. After a beat he corrects, "Sorry, my dad."
Dean stills with his slice of meat party halfway to his mouth.
"Anyway, they're old hunting buddies," Sam babbles. "Once they caught a grizzly bear."
Jennifer frowns. "Isn't that illegal?"
"In Alaska?" Sam tries. He doesn't look Dean's way, hoping his brother will keep his mouth shut at least until they leave, at which point Sam can maybe find a way to explain.
The conversation moves from there, and Sam feels nauseated, the idea of almost being caught out. The idea of what Dean's might be thinking. And what if Chase calls their dad-
The implications of these things leave him more upset by the minute, so that he gives his second slice of pizza to Brady, and by the time they leave he's jittery and sick to his stomach.
"Aren't you going to ask what happened back there?" he asks miserably as they're walking to where Dean parked the car in front of a fire hydrant.
"It's pretty obvious," Dean says casually. "So you didn't tell them you had a brother. That happens. I guess."
Sam flinches at the way he says it. It's like he's done the worst imaginable thing.
"Um, yeah," he says. "Sorry about that."
"Whatever, Sam."
He suffers Dean's silent judgement the whole way back to the apartment, the chilly sun barely warming his cheek where it's pressed against the window, and he doesn't try to say anything until they're going up the stairs. "Um, do you think Chase is going to tell Dad he ran into us?"
He's surprised when Dean answers, following him into the quiet, cool apartment.
"Maybe."
"You tell him you'd be here?"
Dean tosses his jacket on his stuff by the couch. "I don't tell Dad everything, Sam."
"Ok, I was just wondering," Sam mutters. There's a small part of him that hopes their dad finds out, if only because then he might ask after Sam, wonder about his other son for once.
Dean kicks off his boots and perches at the edge of a chair.
"That was really fucked up, Sam," he says and if it were possible, the words would be frayed at the edges.
Sam breathes a sigh of relief. If they talk about it maybe he can make things ok. "I'm sorry, Dean."
Dean spreads his hands. "It's like, I know things are bad right now. I mean, between us- but to not even mention your brother? Your family? That's just cold."
"Dean," Sam says. "It's not like that."
He considers telling Dean about the times he's started to dial his number, but doesn't. He'd always stopped before pressing the call button. He wants to tell Dean that he hasn't tried to forget anyone, Dean or Dad, not even once. If he can't talk to them, he definitely can't talk about them to complete strangers, who, no matter how close Sam gets to them, will never understand.
"So, that party Jennifer mentioned," Dean says, moving on, obviously taking Sam's silence as answer enough.
Sam groans. "We are not going." The idea of further interaction between his brother and the general public seems inadvisable at best.
"Why not?" asks Dean. He sounds exasperated, and rightly so. "Football, Sam. America's favorite past time."
"It'll just be a bunch of frat guys and booze," Sam points out.
"Hey, I like booze. And you apparently like-" Dean shrugs, a fake apologetic smile on his face. "-frat guys."
"Douchebags in polo shirts? Thanks, Dean. That's real tempting."
"Exactly." Dean shakes Sam's shoulder, gently. "Sounds like it's right up our mutual alleys," he says, then, expression going steely, "And you owe me for denying my existence."
"Ugh," Sam says, and goes to drop onto the couch.
He closes his eyes, and tries not to think, just listens to Dean move around his kitchen, opening the fridge door, the clatter of beer bottles and the pop of the cap.
"My fridge is yours," Sam says, benevolently, belatedly. He's not sure Dean hears him, but Dean seems slightly mollified when he comes to sit next to him on the couch, putting a cold bottle into his hands and turning on the TV.
They watch a Mexican soap that Dean seems to be very familiar with, apprising Sam of the story even though he's even worse than Sam at Spanish.
"Is this what you've been doing since I've been gone?" Sam asks suspiciously. "Do you usually sit around watching soap operas at four in the afternoon?"
"It just happens to be on every day," Dean says. "I'm not in charge of what's on TV."
Sam's gets settled and downs his beer and takes the next one off the coffee table. Dean, who can't hold a grudge against Sam to save his life, eventually explains the more intricate mafia plotline with obvious glee, and Sam feels the anxiety drain out of him a little for the first time since Dean showed up. Here, on the couch with his brother and away from the rest of the world, he feels tentatively better, better than normal even.
When the doorbell rings two hours later, they're both sprawled back, watching as two women cry and clutch at one another on-screen.
"You gonna get that or what?" asks Dean. He looks good, stretched back holding a beer against his thigh, and Sam lets himself look for a second, reluctant to get up from his place on the couch while their knees are pressed together like this. He thinks lazily that what he wants instead is to get his hands all over Dean, if Dean would let him.
Instead, he forces himself away, throwing his pillow, which Dean catches one handed and shoves under his head with his eyes still glued to the screen. "Thanks," he says.
"Dick."
"Thanks for noticing," Dean says. "It's one of my best features."
There's a knocking now, loud, and Sam goes and opens the door. He's actually surprised to find Brady on the other side.
"Oh," he says. "Hey. Did I forget something at lunch?"
Brady looks uncertain. He brushes his hair back with both hands and doesn't make eye contact. "I had to come by," he says. "I mean, I couldn't not come by."
He looks nervous, worried, but Sam thinks something about his expression doesn't fit. It looks somehow rehearsed.
"I figured we had to talk," Brady says.
"Talk?" Sam hedges.
Brady gives him a look like Sam's said something monumentally stupid. "Yes. Talk. As in, not ignore one another."
"Oh. Have we been ignoring each other?"
Brady purses his lips. "Sam, you know I care about you, and we've been together for almost a year-"
Sam stares at him. "Together?"
This stops Brady short. He says slowly, like it might help Sam understand, "Yes. Together. We've been sleeping together. And going on dates. Spending most of our time together. Since last year."
Sam is uncertain hearing this news, although from Brady's disappointed expression he suspects he shouldn't be.
"Brady," he tries. "I'm going to be honest here, man, and say that I've never thought about it."
Brady blinks at him. "But I introduced you to my parents. We had brunch."
Sam is at a loss. For the past year he's been trying to live the life he wants to live, going to school and making friends. Fitting in. He's never thought that what started as random hookups with a guy in his dorm hooking up could lead to anything big.
"What do you think was going on?" Brady asks, and Sam feels guilty. Brady's always been such a good guy.
A guy who has...feelings, apparently. If all this is true, then how he'd been getting sketched out by the way Brady'd been acting, that creeping feeling that something was off, how Brady had kind of moved in after Thanksgiving...It was possibly because Brady'd thought they were in a relationship.
Sam looks at Brady now, who's frowning in the doorway, tall and smart and really nice, and thinks, I'm so screwed up.
"Sorry," is all he says out loud. "I really suck."
Brady doesn't respond, and Sam tries to imagine them dating as Brady apparently thought they were. He doesn't know what it means that he'd never even considered it, wondering for the first time what it would take for someone to be someone he truly felt close to.
His only thought is of Dean. Their shared history, events that have made them see the world in the same colors. What he has with Brady is borderline healthy, something casual, normal, while what he and Dean have is a tangled mess of roots that go so deep, and he can't see anything coming even close
Some of what he's thinking must show on his face, because Brady's face goes stormy.
"You know, you could have told me about this guy before he just showed up," he says.
Sam frowns. "Dude, I didn't know he was coming."
Although Brady's expression sours, he's a nice guy. It's what drew Sam to him in the first place.
"So are you coming tonight?" Brady says, offering the subject change like a laurel branch. "After the game? It would be cool to hang out."
"Maybe," Sam says. He thinks about telling Brady the truth, that he actually has a date tonight. With a ghost, in the athletics shed.
The tension breaks somewhat when Dean suddenly joins the conversation, yelling from the living room, "Is the school mascot going to be there?"
"Of course the mascot's going to be there, it's after the game," Brady answers loudly, and then lowers his voice. "Sam, listen to me. I may not know this Dean guy well, but he comes off as kind of...weird."
"Dean? Yeah, that's an accurate summation."
"All I'm saying is, he doesn't seem good for you."
"Not good for me? Dude, he's my-" Sam catches himself, cutting off a laugh at the idea as he remembers that he lied. It's not Brady's fault he doesn't know. "I mean, I've known him forever. He's part of who I am."
"Fine," Brady says, uncharitably. "Maybe I'll see you."
He turns and leaves without waiting for a response, and Sam closes the door behind him. He wanders to the living room, where Dean is sitting where he left him but looking away from the screen.
"Shut up," Sam says, but with little heat. He collapses back on the couch.
Dean shakes his head. "You're kind of an asshole, dude."
"Am not."
Dean flips off the TV and says with uncharacteristic concern, "I mean, just...you know. Cut the guy a break. He's in love with you of all people."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's just," Dean says, mildly. "I just feel for the guy, is all."
"Well, anyway," Sam says. "He's been useful. You heard him, that mascot's going to be there."
Dean's face breaks out into a grin. "Looks like we have to go to that party after all."
"I know," Sam says, then mutters, "That's what I'm worried about."
"Dude, what's your problem?" Dean sneers. "Worried someone's going to find out we're related."
Sam doesn't answer. "No, I'm saying if the tree costume's at the party, there's obviously going to be someone in the suit. We should wait until later, when there less people are going to be around."
"But who knows where this new kid's going to keep it? I say we waste it tonight. It's our best option."
Sam thinks about it, then points out, "Remember we're going to have to get the kid out of the suit. Seeing as he'll be wearing it."
"Oh," Dean says.
"Right. Oh," Sam says. "Now shut up and let me watch this."
And later, that night, after two more hours of soap operas and then Chinese delivery, Sam goes to change before leaving. He spots the shirt Dean threw at him earlier, off his own chest that morning, and picks it up from where it's lying crumpled on his dresser top, feeling creepy.
But he ignores that and pulls it over his head. The shirt is soft and thin with years of stretching over Dean's shoulders, smoothing down Dean's back. Normal brothers give each other hand-me-downs, he tells himself.
"Come on, let's go burn a tree," Dean says when Sam emerges.
"I call shotgun."
"Duh."
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