fic: Edges (1/3)

[glovered]

MASTER POST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | ART POST

Skipping class
Skipping work
Skipping out on the bill
Skipping breakfast
Skipping town. - The Lifeplan

Things that Sam's already received from his brother include: a flyer from a strip club, a temporary tattoo of a bulldog, and a mysterious yet clean sock. He imagines Dean shoving things into an empty cereal box from the back seat of the car, slapping on a few stamps, and sending it off on a post-hunt high, thinking, I'm alive, I should probably let Sam know.

Sam knows he really shouldn't look for answers where there aren't any, and he doesn't want Dean's cast-off socks. He'd send them back if there was any return address, but instead he's allocated a drawer in his room where the things pile up. He's also found postcards from places like Nashville, Springfield, and Never Heard of It sandwiched into the piles of glossy junk mail that come to his second storey apartment in Palo Alto. These, he tapes to the wall above his desk after the stack has built to five, twelve, and his eyes sometimes stray to them when he should be studying.

It's just after lunch, the day after Thanksgiving break, when the latest package arrives. Like all the rest, there's probably no deeper meaning to the contents. Even so, Sam's stomach jumps when he finds the manila envelope wedged in his tiny mailbox.

"Hey," Brady says, passing by to get real cereal that's not off-brand, not possibly stolen from some gas station in the midwest. He's wearing Sam's boxers, which has never happened before and which hits Sam weird in the gut, maybe because it always used to be Sam wearing Dean's. He's also wearing Sam's hickey on his neck, but that's another thing entirely.

"Hey," Sam says, and goes back to examining the envelope. He judges the handwriting against what he knows from grocery lists and dirty lyrics. For a second he can clearly imagine Dean licking the pen tip and scribbling to try to make it work.

"You gonna open it?" Brady asks. He's digging around in the fridge, shirt riding up when Sam looks over.

"No, I'm just going to carry it around like this, without opening it." Sam comes to take a seat at the crappy table. "Hey, don't you have class?"

Brady shrugs as he closes the fridge door. "Dropped it."

Sam stops working at the envelope, short fingernail only just peeling up the edge. Brady's never dropped a thing in his life as far as Sam's aware, pulls straight A's and takes his coursework seriously.

But by the expression on his face, he doesn't seem too troubled. Actually, he seems very….something. Content, maybe...when Sam takes a second to really look at him.

"It really is good to see you," Brady says, and reaches out a hand. "C'mere."

Sam hesitates before complying. And when he does get up, and when Brady loops an arm around his waist, Sam shivers. His feeling that something's wrong only grows. They're just guys who fuck around sometimes, friends blowing off some steam. Casual intimacy has never been part of the equation, never this.

"Thanksgiving with the fam was great, but I'm glad to be back," Brady says, pressing his face to Sam's hair. "The rest of this year's gonna be great, I can feel it."

Brady is blond with straight teeth. He's one of two point five kids from a well-manicured home in Petaluma, with a mother who brews beer and a dad who writes guest sermons for the church two blocks over, studying Latin just like Sam's dad, although only one of them is really using it. They have one family dog. He drinks occasionally and manages to balance his extracurriculars with his curriculars in a way that should look good when he applies to med school, and while Brady had Captain Planet on his bed sheets as a kid, Sam grew up sleeping on the same, sweaty mattress in three hundred motel rooms across the country, where itchy sheets soothed bad dreams.

And yet despite how polar opposite they are on paper, Sam and Brady get along pretty great. Sam met him rush week at a frat party where Brady told him the only Greek he'd be pledging was the library, and they started hooking up somewhere along the way. Hanging out with Brady gives him some feeling of normalcy, a welcome predictability where he's never had any before, with the added benefit of the occasional blowjob. It was only weird that first time. Brushing his teeth and looking at his reflection in the mirror, Sam had thought, Dad will never have to know.

Which is why the way Brady's started acting that week, dropping classes and wearing Sam's clothing, is off-putting. He's kind of been around Sam's apartment a lot, in Sam's stuff, and it's starting to pose a problem.

Because Sam has things that are secret. A gun, for example - not registered in the state of California or any other state for that matter. A protective charm made of string and etched stone. One of Dean's old t-shirts he takes out from time to time. A picture.

Brady finds the last on an unremarkable Tuesday, where it's wedged into a ratty old Bible of Sam's that's seen more blood than blessing.

"Whoa," he calls. "You know you have a picture of a dude in here?"

It's the same tone of voice as when he'd gone into Sam's drawer for a hat and come out with a certain pair of satin panties. Sam tamps down on panic, coming out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still in his mouth.

"Yeah," he says, experiencing a strange calm as he watches Brady examining the picture.

In it, Dean's face is turned to the camera, taking up the whole frame, that time Sam had said, come on, look normal or something, and Dean made that stupid expression just before the flash went off, mouth open in manic, fake happiness, eyes wide. The photo is perfectly captured sarcasm, and Sam's fingers itch to grab it back.

Brady raises his eyebrows at it. "Friend?"

Sam snorts, and manages around the toothbrush, "Something like that."

"Huh."

"Here." Sam reaches for the picture. When Brady hands it over, Sam puts it back inside the Bible, which he holds under one arm as he goes back to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth.

He doesn't want to discuss what Dean is or isn't, not with Brady or anyone else. It's been over a year since he and Dean have seen each other, with no plan to change that anytime soon, but even so, Sam can feel a red string connecting them, tugging.

Thankfully, Brady doesn't ask about the picture, instead wandering away to keep doing work. And when they get back from the library that night, Brady gets Sam spread out under him on the living room couch, and Sam forgets the old Brady a bit more in favor of this new one, accepting this reckless edge. It's an awkward angle but they make it work.

He has a nightmare that night involving some general idea of tumbling blonde hair and impending doom, and he wakes up glad he's still fourteen, back-to-back in bed with Dean.

Then, he wakes up fully to find he's actually alone, in California and going to college, where his friends all have Mac laptops and refer to him by his last name. The life of ghouls and dark, nocturnal things is not on hold, he reminds himself as he catches his breath, his eyes wide open in the dark, that life is genuinely over.

It's four weeks before Christmas and the streets are wet outside, the sky pinking. Sam doesn't go back to sleep after his nightmare that feels more like a portent. Instead, he takes a five-thirty run followed by a six-thirty shower, so that by mid-morning he's already been up five hours when Brady introduces him to Jess.

"Did you hear about the guy they found last week-" he hears a girl's voice say from the living room. "Killed himself."

"Yeah, tragic," Brady says back.

"He was a Junior-"

Sam comes out of his room, down the hall. He sees the girl is tall like an Amazon, with blonde hair that shines gold in the light filtering through the open door. Meanwhile, Brady looks somehow malevolent, standing in the shadowed coolness of the room. Sam is inexplicably reminded of religious iconography, Brady the demon to this girl's angel. He shakes his head. Weird morning.

Brady looks up when Sam comes in. "Jessica," he says brightly, waving Sam over. "This is Sam Winchester. Sam, Jessica Moore."

"Hi," Sam says, as Jess waves at Sam with just her fingers. He wants to know where Brady got a key or whether he broke in, but now's not the time to ask.

"Brady tells me we have the same criminal law class," Jess says.

"Hey, no way," Sam says.

There are footsteps on the stairs, and the mailman drops a stack of coupon books and a manila envelope with a nod before he steps off.

Sam wasn't expecting another package so soon. He takes the envelope, letting the junk mail fall to the mat, feeling an embarrassing jolt of anticipation when he sees the all-caps scrawl, the pen nearly run out by the end of the address, that makes it obvious who it's from. He wants to smell the paper, lick the place it's been licked closed, imagining the envelope might retain traces of Dean's mouth and fingertips.

He opens it there, spine to door frame, with the sound of cars moving quietly by on the street that's one floor down and sunny. He reaches in and pulls out a pamphlet advertising the "Museum of Oddities," and he skims it. The museum is apparently world-renowned and tucked away in a tacky old corner of Las Vegas.

He unfolds the pamphlet and sees there's no note but that Dean's circled a few so-called facts throughout, scribbling yeah right next to one about ghosts that says you close your eyes and count backward from a hundred and they'll be gone.

It pings Sam like sonar. Dean and Dad are in Nevada. Which means they're close, separated from him by just eight hours of farmland and desert, the San Joaquin Valley. He doesn't know what he feels, realizing that, but it's something like nausea.

"Who's it from?"

He doesn't jump, but it's a near thing. He turns to find Jess and Brady are looking at him expectantly. He'd forgotten they were there.

Jess comes to stand next to him. "You do a lot of snail mail?" she asks, interested.

"No. I mean, I don't ever write it," Sam fumbles,and reminds himself that people don't have secrets like this here.

He notices a small thing at the bottom, then, a hard object, and shakes it out into his palm.

It's just a pin, reading the word 'ODD.' He ignores the dip of disappointment, like part of him maybe expected Dean to try harder, to climb inside the envelope and mail himself instead. He imagines Dean saying, this is for you, nerd boy, and at first he considers tossing it, but then he gets over himself and pins it to his hoodie.

Brady taps it, right over Sam's heart. "What does this mean?"

"No clue," Sam says.

And after Brady and Jess leave, Sam walks into the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich. He eats it slowly, doing his homework. He finishes the reading for one class, then writes three pages of an essay for another. He stretches. Drinks enough water. Doesn't think about the life he used to have, and the person he used to be.

He has Criminal Law the next day. It's one of his favorite classes so far, and it's made him realize he might be interested in legal work. He can imagine calling Dean up, after he graduates maybe, maybe on the way to law school, to tell him that he hasn't completely let the family down. He can still bring the bad guys to justice by working inside the system - just human monsters instead of real ones.

"You stalking me or something?" Jess asks when he takes a seat in the first row. He looks over, and sees that she has her things nicely arranged in front of her, one seat between them.

"Hey, you're the one who showed up in my apartment," Sam points out, pulling out a pen and a notebook he'd gotten at the ninety-nine cents store. "You always sit here?"

"Yep. I get here twenty minutes early just to make sure I get the good seats." She nods to the otherwise empty row. "You know, just in case there's any competition."

"Right, right."

Sam glances with some trepidation at the pink notebook she has flipped open, the page half-filled with cramped, but legible writing.

"You scared of me, or something?" Jess says, and thunks an alarmingly thumbed through textbook on the small desk. There are at least fifty multi-colored post-its sticking out of the side.

"That depends," he says. "You already finished the whole book, didn't you?"

She smiles with a kind of nefarious glee, and nods. "All of the books."

"Well, then," he nods. "There's only one answer to that. Yes. I am terrified."

"Nothing wrong with being the best," she says, sitting back faux casually.

Sam grabs her phone as it falls off the desk. "Uh," he says, handing it back. "Here you g-"

"Dude," she says, taking it back, her eyes wide. "Thank you. How did you even do that?"

"Good reflexes?" Sam offers. He's interrupted when the professor turns on his mic.

Although he loves the class, he isn't sure how he feels about Professor Chase. The man seems nice enough and is way smart, but his knowledge of criminal behavior seems to go beyond the purely academic.

"Hello, class," the professor says, rustling his papers and speaking to the auditorium. "An important announcement before we begin. As I'm sure many of you are aware, an upperclassman passed away just before break."

A murmur passes through the room, and Professor Chase waits for the students fall silent.

"This is a horrible tragedy, a terrible blow to our Stanford community. Grief counselors will be on call for anyone who needs to talk and a candlelight vigil will be held there tomorrow night to pay your respects."

He begins his lecture after that, but the mention of death leaves a feeling of cold in its wake, the very mention of a spirit.

Sam is obviously no stranger to death. He saw his first dead body before he could go on the big kid rides at Six Flags, and has witnessed the aftermath of enough gruesome events to have become numb to it. So a morbid part of him is glad when he feels a pang of sadness and regret at the news.

Next to him, Jess is staring blankly at her books, even as the professor discusses prisoners' rights. Sam remembers suddenly how she'd been talking to Brady about a death while at his apartment. He wonders what the circumstances of the death were, but then makes a conscious effort to stop himself from following that thought process. Because the chance that the death is in any way supernatural is slim, and just because he could look into the death, it doesn't mean he should.

The tone of the lecture hall that day is quiet, subdued, and after class the students file out quickly. Jess is walking just up ahead, ringlets bouncing down her back. Sam isn't going to ask what she knows.

But then she turns on her own, adjusting her bag, and catches sight of him. "Oh, hey, Sam."

"Hey." He jogs to reach her, and knows he has to ask. "You doing ok? I mean, after that announcement you seemed pretty upset."

Her eyebrows draw together in confusion, just under the cute mole in the center of her forehead.

"About the guy who...you know-" Sam cuts off, hamming it up somewhat, playing a normal, concerned guy. He feels like a dick. "-died."

She sighs. "Oh. Right. Charlie." Her mouth turns down at the corners. "It's really creepy, what happened. I guess his body was found in the athletics shed."

"Murdered?"

She gives him a sharp look. "No. Killed himself. He was a really happy guy. A friend of mine knew him pretty well. He says it was just so out of the blue."

Sam nods. Suicide. So there's no case here, nothing supernatural about it, he tells himself. Never mind the fact that plenty of supernatural deaths are framed as suicides.

The change in Jess's demeanor is stark. "Hey," he says without really thinking. "You want to grab a drink tonight?"

When she smiles, it's amused. "A drink?" she says.

"You know, with friends. I'll see what Brady's up to."

"No, I mean I'm not twenty-one yet."

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, neither am I. I have a fake ID."

"Ok, what the hell. I'll borrow someone's." She looks cheered, somewhat, and Sam realizes belatedly that it was what he was going for. Jess smiles at him again. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam is fresh from the shower that afternoon, drying his hair with a towel, when he walks into his room to find he's not alone. His first instinct is to grab the nearest - binder - and hurl it at the intruder, but he resists manfully. A moment later he realizes it's just Brady.

"I didn't even hear the door click open," he says, toweling off his chest with his heart rate high. He watches Brady's hand push what he thinks might be one of Dean's postcards back under a notebook. He frowns.

Brady comes over to give Sam a long kiss before leaning against the dresser. He's wearing a smile that's curled like a cartoon bad guy's. "I was just grabbing a pen," he says. "How's your day going?"

"Uh," Sam says, and blinks the water out of his eyelashes to see he was wrong, that Brady's smile looks normal now. He's fucked in the head, he sees vestiges of evil everywhere. Force of habit. "My day's been ok," he says. "I told Jess I'd meet her and some of her friends for drinks. You in?"

The room's weirdly quiet as Sam waits for an answer. His skin prickles for reasons he can't say.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Brady says. "Let me take you out to dinner first. You like Chinese, don't you Sammy?"

"Sure." He pulls a t-shirt over his head, then a flannel shirt. "Could you not call me that?"

"Of course." Brady touches Sam softly along his arm. "She likes you a lot, you know. Jess."

Sam forces out a laugh, feeling his face go ruddy. "Hey, something's been up with you. Are you doing ok?"

Brady nods. "I'm good."

"Just, since Thanksgiving. You've seemed...off."

"Everything's great," he says, smiling. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Sam lets it go.

They hit up a bar that night that has Route 66 style decor. There's gaslamp lighting and the antelope skull over the door deliberate and shiny, not sunbleached or layered with road dust.

"Brady! Sam!" Jess says from a corner booth. When she stands, she's in a navy blue tank top and dark jeans, with a leather belt that reminds him of Dean's. Sam still finds her kind of terrifying.

"Hey-" he says, before she gets her arms around his neck and hugs him in a way that is basically casual grappling.

Being touchy-feely does not come naturally to him. Sometimes Dad used to grip his shoulder, and he and Dean had scuffled a lot, but those were the exceptions; everything else was monsters.

"Hey, Jess," he says, patting her on the back awkwardly and smiling over her shoulder at her friends. He notices how her hair smells like warmth and cheap shampoo. Something clean.

"We're on our second round," she says, and drags him into the seat next to her.

"Cool, looks like we better catch up."

"Shots," one of her friends says, handing him one and introducing herself. "Jennifer. I think I've seen you around. You're, like, super tall."

The guy at the table holds out a hand to shake Sam's. "I'm Luis. Hey, Brady, how's it going?"

Brady claps him on the shoulder. "Hey, man."

"Are we going to keep playing?" Jennifer asks after they've taken their tequila shots and Luis slides Sam a beer.

"You interrupted a game of Truth or Dare," Jess explains. "Which means it's your turn."

Sam laughs. "Yeah?"

Brady squeezes his knee under the table. "Come on, Sam."

Sam shifts casually away, uncomfortable, and flicks a look at him under his eyelashes, wondering if he's being a dick without realising. It's just, they don't do anything in public. Ever.

"Sam," says Jess. "Truth or dare?"

"Well...." he says, not exactly dying to play, but knowing you can't just duck Truth or Dare. He feels this deeply, in the well of learned things. And none of these people are his brother, so he's safe.

"Dare," he says gamely.

Everyone makes impressed noises.

"Big man," Luis says.

Sam raises an eyebrow back. "Believe me, I can take it."

Brady shakes his head, laughing. "Shouldn't have done that."

Sam raises his eyebrows, ready. He's hardened by years of dares ending nowhere good, 'nowhere good' being the roof of the gas station, waiting to drop his jeans onto the next person to come out of the convenience store, or the car, drinking a concoction of the last-inches of liquid from the many plastic bottles in the back seat foot wells. He'd totally hurled out the window that time, hot Oklahoma wind whipping it all back behind them, splattering the side of the car.

Things are turned on their head, here in the real world where dare is fine, tame. Here, truth is the enemy.

"Oh, really," Jess says, elongating the words like she's got something up her sleeve. She raises an eyebrow, "You're real brave, aren't you, Winchester?"

He rests his head back in his hands and fixes her with a smirk. "Something like that," he says.

Luis laughs. Jennifer looks intrigued.

"Ok. I dare you to..." Jess thinks about it for a second, then says, "All right. I dare you to...answer three questions truthfully."

Sam sits up straight. "Hey-" he protests.

Her expression is wide and innocent. "What?"

"Well, isn't that like asking a genie for more wishes?"

"So?"

He shakes his head. "Can't be done." He knows this. And djinn don't answer any wishes, not really.

"Sorry," she sing-songs. "Wasn't specified, so the ruling stands."

"What, got something to hide?" Brady asks, nudging Sam with an elbow, and Sam sends him a sidelong look.

"This is stupid," he says. "Just for the record. But okay, hit me. "

"Yes, excellent," Jess says. "Ok, question one…Where did you grow up?"

"Really? That's your question?"

"Yep. You're this big mystery."

"Says who?"

"Says him." She nods to Brady. "And I asked around, and everyone seems to agree."

Sam's spent his entire college career thus far evading questions about his life, answering with half-truths. "I honestly can't list everywhere I grew up."

"Hurry it up, Winchester," Luis says. "I have something really good for Brady, and he's totally going to pick Dare, I can tell."

"Oh yeah?" Brady says. "Bring it."

Sam shrugs and starts listing, beginning with Lawrence, then skimming over the rest, naming cities. When he's said at least twenty small towns, Jennifer says, "Jesus, you weren't kidding. You a military brat?"

He shrugs, uncomfortable with being honest and not used to being the center of attention like this. "Something like that."

"Ok, ok. Second," Jess says. "What do your parents do?"

Sam sighs. "My dad's on the road a lot. Business. My mom died when I was six months old." He drinks down half his beer. "Next?"

"Ok, final question," says Jess, moving through the ensuing awkward silence. "Who's been sending you mail? I saw the way you looked when you opened that envelope yesterday."

When he doesn't answer readily, Jess raises both eyebrows.

"Uh," Sam says.

Brady knocks their shoulders together. "Yeah, man. I haven't been able to get a straight answer out of you."

Sam feels sick at the idea of telling a lie, but part of him, some part that is dark and deep, feels even more sick at the idea of the truth seeing daylight. It would go something to the tune of, my brother, Dean, Dean, my brother, this dick who just let me walk out, ten PM, middle of fucking nowhere.

"Sam?"

That wild urge to tell the whole truth and nothing but makes him reckless.

"Dean. Love of my life," he finally says, which is true, more than he should have let on. "We don't talk anymore, though."

Jennifer leans forward. "An ex?"

"Sort of. It's like, complicated," he finishes lamely. She gives him an unimpressed look, but not before glancing sympathetically at Brady.

"Well, that was a lucrative dare," Jess says. "Did not expect to get that much out of you. Next, Brady...."

Sam feels instant remorse for letting on. But he tells himself it's no big deal. Of all the people to let in on his screwed up feelings for his brother, his college friends are the least dangerous. It's virtually impossible for them to find out the whole story. This information will be at worst referenced from time to time, and most likely just swept under the rug. He needs to loosen up, stop being so paranoid all of the time. He's normal now, with a normal college kid life.

After Brady's taken a shot of the hottest hot sauce the bar has on offer while Luis laughed and offered him more, and Jennifer's chosen truth and told them about the time she went streaking through downtown San Francisco, Sam escapes to the bathroom.

"Love of your life, huh?" Brady asks, somehow coming in so quietly that Sam hadn't even heard the door open.

Sam continues unzipping his pants.

"Something like that," he says again.

Brady's face looks red in the mirror. Maybe it's the hot sauce. His expression is uncertain for a moment, and then he seems to make his mind up. He raises an eyebrow and then looks meaningfully at the crotch of Sam's worn jeans. "You need me to take care of anything?"

"No, everything's fine," Sam says slowly. "I've got the, ah, next two minutes pretty well-covered."

He waits for Brady to go.

Brady smiles at him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Alright. I get it. I'll get you another drink and let you think about it."

The look Brady gives him leaves him no doubt what he'll do if Sam does decide to think about it.

"Ok," Sam says, as Brady leaves. He spends the next minute, thinking with some chagrin how Dean had always tried to get him laid. Ironic that it only works when he's not around.

The door swings open again as Sam's finishing up, zipping up his pants.

"You know, if I wanted my dick in your mouth right now, " he says without looking up, "I'd put it there."

"Sorry, Sammy. I just ate."

Sam shrieks.

"You're not the first to offer me a hot dog," says Dean's reflection in the mirror. "Not even the first today. I had one for lunch, actually, just outside of Bakersfield."

Impossibly, Dean's still there when Sam whirls around away from his reflection.

His eyes don't betray much when he looks Sam over. "Hey."

Sam nods, a jerk of his chin. "Hey. Uh, hi. Shit. Dean."

He clears his throat, wondering what he's supposed to do in this situation. But then Dean smiles at him, bright and clear, and Sam can't help but grin back, and Dean's eyes squint up, so happy to see him. It's like a mirror of a mirror of a mirror, and so on.

Dean goes to clap him on the shoulder just as Sam takes a step forward with an arm out. It comes out a strange half hug, more a chest bump with a hand in there, and they separate almost immediately.

"You're here," Sam says, not able to keep the wonder out of his voice.

"Yes. In a bar bathroom. A-Plus. Your tighty-whities are jammed in your zipper."

Dean is right. There is a moment of silence while Sam fixes that, unzipping and zipping again, and when he's done, Dean grabs the door. "Buy you a beer?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and follows him out like he's in some sort of trance.

He lets Dean order for him at the bar, taking the moment to look him over now that the shock is ebbing. Dean looks good. Sam wonders how many times had he tried not to miss this, Dean flagging down the bartender wearing that jacket with the collar popped, hair in the deliberate disarray he knows takes Dean twenty minutes in front of the mirror. A stupid smile spreads across Sam's face, which he hides away as soon as Dean passes him the beer.

"Two for you," Dean says and, gathering the next bottles lovingly into his arms along with a basket of fries, "Two for me. Now let's go, I've been driving for like nine hours straight."

"Go where?"

Dean looks at him like maybe Sam's lost a few brain cells since the last time they saw each other. "To the table," he says. "Hang out with your buddies."

Sam glances to the table in question with a sudden horror, remember what he'd admitted only five minutes ago. That's the last place he wants Dean.

"Uhm," Sam says. What the hell had he been thinking? "Shit. I don't think that's such a good-"

"No, that's cool," Dean says, feigning nonchalance. "You don't want to be seen with me, I get it."

"No, it's not like that. Just-"

"Great," Dean says, flashing him a grin, and heads toward the table.

"Shit," says Sam.

But he can't even muster up the requisite panic because Dean is there, in the same room as him. He drove out here to see him. Dean drove out here to see him. Not that he would ever admit it, Sam knows. Would probably make up some story about a case. But Sam knows.

When he catches up, Dean slaps him on the back and grins at the table. "So, I've been on the road all day. Which one of you has an embarrassing story to tell me about Sam here?"

He slides into the seat where Jess had been five minutes ago, and Sam feels a sense of deep foreboding as he takes his seat next to him.

Brady looks bemused, eying Dean like he's sizing him up. Doubtless recognizing him from the photo and the story Sam had just told. He sees a brief flicker of how Dean would look if you saw him for the first time, Dean in his composite parts. Freckles. Wide mouth. Wide shoulders. Crooked smile. Never has managed to shave clean.

He elbows Sam. "Introductions?"

"Oh, right," Sam says. "Meet Luis, Jennifer. We just met today actually. And this is, you know, Brady."

"Brady?"

"The hot dog guy," says Sam out of the corner of his mouth.

Dean's face clears in recognition. "Oh, right, right."

Brady looks at him strangely, before saying, "And Jess saw some people from lab, so she's over by the pool table."

"And I'm Dean-" Dean starts, but cuts off when Sam begins choking on beer. Thankfully, he doesn't give his last name.

"Oh hey," Brady says, as he pats Sam on the back. He looks significantly at Jennifer and Luis. "He's the guy, right? The guy who's been sending you all the packages and letters."

Dean sounds pleased, turning to Sam. "Oh, you got those."

"Yes, I got the sock," Sam confirms, wishing he could melt into the seat.

"We were just talking about you." Jennifer tells him, and then elbows Sam. "You said you two didn't talk any more."

This is a disaster.

"Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?" he asks Dean, getting ready to stand.

"But I just got here," Dean says. He sends Jennifer a wink. "And I still have all this beer to drink."

Sam wishes he could take everything back, doesn't know what he was thinking. His brother's about to find out something that will either give him fodder to embarrass Sam for life or ensure that he really won't speak to Sam again.

As it is, Jennifer gives Dean a confused look. Sam wishes he could tell her that she's got it wrong, that Dean isn't flirting with her, he's actually just a jerk who likes making Sam uncomfortable in public.

"So, what do you do, Dean?" asks Brady.

Dean waves a hand. "Oh, you know. I'm on the road a lot, always on the job. Performing acts for the general public, new town every week. It's a hard life, but someone's gotta do it."

Brady nods. "So, you're in a theater troupe? Something like that?"

"No, I'm more like a superhero," Dean says, knocking Sam's knee with his own as Sam snickers. "So what is it that you do, Brady?"

Brady straightens. "I'm a student. But I have an internship this summer at the hospital my uncle owns."

"Oh, an internship," Dean says. It's the kind of middle-class statement he and Dean used to make fun of. Thankfully Dean cuts off when Sam gives him a sharp look. He taps Sam on the chest, on the pin. "Hey, that's the shitty pin I sent-"

"From Nevada, yeah. It just got here."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Man, you were supposed to lose that thing, not wear it all over."

"Looks like it ended up on my jacket instead."

"It was a joke. It's ugly. Take it off, you're embarrassing yourself."

Sam grins. "I dunno, I kind of like it."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, touching the pin again, hooking his finger under it. "It's like you missed me or something."

"Shut up," he says. He feels lit up from the inside with uncomfortable happiness and annoyance, equal parts. And from the way he's still grinning, he's sure everyone can tell.

"Sam," Brady says, slipping his hand over Sam's knee again, and Dean stills next to him.

"Well, that's our cue." Sam stands, knocking Brady's hand away. "Dean and I have to head out."

Brady puts his hands up. "Whoa, where's the fire?"

"Sam has to study," Dean says. He rolls his eyes. "Jeez, Sam. Way to ruin everything."

Brady frowns. "Study for what?"

"You know-" Dean waves a hand. "Calculus or whatever."

"But...Sam finished calc last quarter."

"English, then." He grabs Sam's jacket. "Let's go."

"I'll see you later," Sam says apologetically. The farther away from people they are, the better. "It was nice to meet you guys. Brady, I'll catch you soon."

He walks out quickly, keeping step with Dean and experiencing the fresh feeling of relief of getting away with a lie. The street is cold and mostly empty, and the sounds of the bar are muted once he and Dean are ten steps down the sidewalk, completely gone after half a block. It feels so normal to turn his head and see Dean walking next to him, the silhouette of his brother cut by street lamps, shadowed in night. If not for fourteen months of silence between them, it's almost like they were never apart.

Dean begins to slow, and Sam sees that the Impala is parked a half block up.

"Dean," he says, slowing as well but for different reasons. There are things he has to set straight.

Dean looks at him curiously. "What?"

Sam takes a deep breath, and sets his jaw. He's not taking another step until he gets an answer. "Why are you here?" he asks.

Dean hesitates, before meeting Sam's eyes. "A hunt."

But Sam knows him, can tell that's not really why. He grins, shaking his head. Dean is so full of shit.

"Yeah?" he says. "A hunt?"

Dean shrugs easily now, like he's chosen his story and is sticking with it. "Yeah."

And it's just like Dean to lie to his face, while all the time his actions reveal the truth, clear as day.

"Ok," Sam says.

They get in the car, and it feels so normal to be sitting on the well-polished leather, the feel of his knees hitting the glove compartment. Normal, everything is so normal.

"So," Dean says when they've driven in silence for a block in the direction Sam indicated. He clears his throat. "So, that Brady kid-"

Sam doesn't want to have this conversation. "What about him?"

"I don't know, Sam. Is this the new you or something? Like, I've heard stories about what goes on in college."

"It's not like that."

"Ok, ok." Dean drums his fingers on the wheel. "Haven't seen my kid brother in a while, just wanted to know what was up with him. So sue me."

"It's not a thing," Sam says again. "Take a right here."

He's not lying. He and Brady are just friends. Guys who like getting off with little to no emotional baggage.

His phone vibrates then, and he reads a text from Jess that says, Ex-boyfriend? And you didn't introduce me? before he pockets it again.

He's aware he was an asshole, leaving like that. To Jess, who he asked out for drinks, to Brady, who has been nothing but a good guy. He knows it objectively but a part of him doesn't care. None of it seems to matter right now, now that Dean's here.

He tries to find it in himself to be annoyed at Dean for showing up out of the blue like this, but it's an impossible thing. Seeing him after a long absence feels like his head is clearing, like he's on even footing again, not running from anything. He'd hopped a Greyhound bus that night and has never let himself regret it, but suddenly the weight of the choice he made is heavy on his shoulders and he's homesick. For something. For this car. For his brother.

"How's Dad?" he asks, wanting desperately to know about him, too, an uncertain tremor in his voice like he's been on an extended trip and has only just found enough quarters to call home.

Dean shakes his head in response, streetlights sliding over his face. "He's good, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean pauses, as if deciding whether to say more, and finally continues. "Actually, he got his arm sliced open by an ugly mother last month. But it's healing. He's ok."

"Good."

Sam doesn't feel angry at the thought of their dad for the first time in a long while, which is kind of freeing, really.

"And your case?" he asks, air quotes implied.

"Right, my case," Dean plays along, saying in a cowboy twang, "Would you believe me if I said there was a spirit in these parts?"

"Oh yeah?" Sam rolls his eyes. "What kind of spirit."

"Creepy fucker," says Dean.

"Sure, sure." Sam grins.

But Dean, inexplicably, says, "Shut up, I'm serious. I'm going to look into it first thing tomorrow."

Sam stares at him, and there's no hint of a joke on Dean's face. "You're really serious," he says slowly.

"Yeah. Thought maybe you'd help me out? Get back in the saddle."

"So," Sam clarifies. "You actually came all the way out here, to where I live, after a year of not seeing me...for a case?"

Dean's eyebrows meet halfway up his face. "Why else would I be here?"

"Well, Jesus," Sam half-shouts. "Don't sugarcoat it or anything."

"Sam," Dean says, in furiously placating tones. "Don't worry about it, man. I'll be out of your hair in no time."

"That's not-" Sam says, but then falls silent, remembering that Dean's total cluelessness is one of the many reasons it's better Sam left when he did. He feels a red hot anger simmering in him, something that makes him want to do something unnameable, he doesn't know what. He can't believe he got his hopes up.

"Sam, come on!"

They're on the street where Sam lives, but Dean keeps driving. "You just passed it," Sam says.

Dean looks surprised, and swerves over to park. "Oh. Great."

Sam knows it would have been easy to work out which his place was if Dean had expended just the tiniest bit of effort and done his research. Dean's surprise is just proof that he really hadn't come here to see him.

"Great," Sam doesn't agree, and gets out of the car.

He's been entertaining the romantic idea that had Dean looked in on him at least once - hell, maybe even a couple of times - to make sure he was doing ok. He's had moments where he's imagined the weight of eyes on his back as he went about his daily life, to class or the bar, imagining maybe Dean was checking up on him from afar or had just wanted to see him, but didn't know how to come up and start a conversation after the way they left it. But it's clear now that Dean's never been there.

Sam takes the stairs in threes, fishing out his keys and jerking the door open wide.

"Sam, come on," Dean says behind him.

Sam ignores him, flicking the light on to reveal the small living room.

He's somewhat gratified when Dean whistles, low, and asks, "How'd you afford this place?" like it's a palace rather than one of the shittier apartments off-campus. Most of his friends are going to live on-campus the rest of the four years, but Sam won't be able to afford it.

"Full ride, remember?" He goes and puts his wallet and keys on the counter. "And loans up my ass so I can eat."

"Well, it's great."

Despite himself, Sam takes a second to see the apartment as Dean would. The thrift store TV and his roommate's XBox, the ratty couch with the one pillow. The kitchen table spread with open textbooks and a crumpled Twinkie wrapper from the gas station habit Sam's still trying to kick.

"Roommate?" Dean asks and Sam nods.

"But he pretty much started living with his girlfriend after their first date. Haven't seen him in weeks."

"Sweet deal. Looks like you can be as messy as you want."

"Shut up."

Sam goes to close a few of the books on the table and neatly pile the loose papers. He loves living alone, and this is just one reason why. He loves the space, the fact that no one's going to shove his homework into the couch cracks or use his textbook to smash a monster's head in.

"Remember how you used to fuck with my school stuff?" he says. "That math book?"

"It was the one time," says Dean. "The first thing I grabbed from the back seat. It was like you wanted me to be eaten by that slime monster thing or something."

"Would have been fine by me," Sam says, vividly reliving in memory the moment where he had to drop a gooey Intro to Algebra 2 book into the roaring salt fire.

Dean ignores him, walking around looking at his stuff, toeing up the edge of the rug in the entryway to reveal smooth floor.

He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously, Sammy? You asking for trouble?"

"I actually had a different rug that I drew sigils on-" Sam explains. "But then we accidentally set it on fire. A party-"

"At least lay down some salt, man." Dean flicks out his pocket knife and squats down. "I swear. Civilian life has made you soft."

"I'm not soft," Sam says and tries to stay pissed off as he watches Dean scratch away at the laminate floor, he really does. But he sees the careful flick of Dean's wrist, the tug of Dean's lip between his teeth, with a fondness he's only ever felt for his brother.

When he's finished a couple spindly runes, Dean drops the rug back into place and stands. "You're welcome," he says, giving Sam a look of censure, and never mind, this time Sam doesn't find it hard muster up some annoyance.

"I'll get you a blanket," Sam says, and leaves the room.

When he comes back with his roommate's quilt, he's surprised by how very young Dean looks, tired and rumpled and sitting on the couch with his boots kicked off. He tosses Dean the blanket and then turns again, ignoring the pang in his chest. He throws over his shoulder, "Good luck tomorrow."

"You know, I don't know why you're suddenly pissed," Dean calls as Sam starts toward his own room. "But there are people dying - in your own backyard, might I add - and all I'm asking you to do is help me save them."

"I'm going to bed," Sam says.

But he doesn't go anywhere. He stands there in the hallway instead, awkwardly listening to Dean as he pulls some stuff out of his duffle.

"Chill, Sam," Dean says after a minute, and when he turns around Sam sees that Dean has magically materialized a six-pack from his bag and is muttering, "I swear, you're worse than-"

Sam frowns. "Than who?"

"Just some girl," Dean says. "Get over here. Stop hovering."

Whoever it is is not just 'some girl,' it turns out. Dean tells Sam the story of his failed relationship over plates of frozen waffles, after they've demolished both the six-pack and some more beer from Sam's fridge. She was a reporter in Missouri who wouldn't put up with Dean's shit, and definitely didn't believe him when Dean told her about what he and his family do.

"Can't believe you told here there are monsters," Sam says, shaking his head.

Dean folds up a syrup-drenched waffle into his mouth, and it's only because of years of talking at each other with their mouths full that Sam understands him when he says, "Well, it's not happening again, that's for sure."

"You think she'll ever take you back?" Sam asks, hypnotised watching Dean lick syrup off his fingers. He feels drunk and a little sad about the idea of Dean spilling his heart out to someone.

Dean shrugs. "Maybe one day. And that's a big 'maybe.' But eh, what was I going to do? Settle down? It's ultimately for the best." He heaves a dramatic sigh. "I'm a lone wolf, Sammy. A lone wolf."

"Yeah, that's you," Sam says. And although Dean doesn't say it outright, Sam knows, like he knows everything about Dean on some deeper level, that Dean had loved her. Maybe still loves her.

Despite the subject matter, it's a good talk. Dean being in Palo Alto, in Sam's apartment, feels only right, almost normal. He's used to knowing everything about his brother, and vice versa, and Sam catches himself sinking back into things. He has to remind himself not to get too comfortable, that Dean is an ill fitting puzzle piece that Sam will try and fail to fit into his life here. But the truth is unfortunate and he doesn't want to think about it. Isn't going to think about it. Not tonight.

When Sam gets up from his place on the floor to head to bed, Dean says, "Hey, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Sorry I pissed you off earlier."

"Sorry about your heart," Sam responds.

Dean grunts and fluffs the pillow on the couch before collapsing face-first onto it. "I'll live. Pretty much indestructible."

It's true. Sam turns off the light. "Goodnight, Dean."

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