Fic: Starch and Flannel
Whatever the demon had done, the man had still been Sam's closest friend for over a year. Tag to 5.20, in honor of Sam's 27th birthday.
To: rwarner@stanford.edu
Re:
Becky,
Brady's dead.
The mouse hesitated over the send button.
Most of him has been dead for a long time.
Sam.
When the New Mail message flashed almost immediately, Sam expected to see his own message bouncing back from Rebecca's old address. Instead he found a response.
are you ok? where are you? call me if you need help 7815553457
Sam turned off his laptop and walked outside into the parking lot.
The accusing voice of Meg Masterson's spirit still rang in his memory, "Fifty words of Latin a little sooner..."
"I should have known." Sam said aloud. He hadn't wanted to know. Hadn't wanted to believe Brady's problems were anything but grief and confusion, or that the car accident had been anything but an accident.
August 30, 2001
Sam wandered down the stairs to the cafeteria. He'd been at Stanford a full week, and in that time his life had grown more and more surreal. When he presented himself at the door of the dormitory, alone and carrying a single bag, his RA handed him a key and said that he should tell his parents to park by the north gate, because it would be easier to carry his things in through the side door.
Within half an hour, Sam discovered his new roommate, Matt, was from Los Angeles and had arrived by minivan that morning with father, sister, and mother, bringing no fewer than five bags, each bigger than Sam's one. Sam had also learned that college dorms, unlike motel rooms, did not come with sheets and towels.
Soon, Sam also knew that Matt loved to sleep, and his breathing, deep and regular, sounded nothing like Dean's. With Dad there (Soft and even, rolling though his broad chest when sober, a throaty snore when drunk) Dean slept as if comatose, as if he might never have the chance to sleep again. When they were alone, Dean slept with a hand on his beloved knife, waking at every sound. Matt, a city boy, slept through car alarms, yelling in the corridors, and Sam getting up to read at three in the morning.
Blinking wearily after another restless night, he staggered into the dining hall. Dining halls, now those were a concept he could get on board with. Whatever he wanted to eat, as much as he wanted, three times every day...
Sam had to admit, Dad always made sure they had something to eat. "Like feeding dogs, to make sure they'd always come back." Sam had grumbled more than once. Still, he'd grown nine inches in the last year, putting him eye-to-eye with his father, and his most recent neighbor Mrs. Wilkins thought he might not be done yet. Every last hint of baby fat had vanished from Sam's waist and cheeks, and elbows and ribs stood out under his skin.
Sam got in line and piled his plate high.
"You should try the jam," a voice said behind him.
Sam turned to look.
"They got blackberry jam today. It's my favorite kind."
The speaker was a guy, right around his own age with fine features and neatly trimmed black hair, disheveled from sleep. Sam gave the pot of lumpy jam an uncertain look, but there didn't seem to be any of the purple seedless stuff he usually put on toast, so he grabbed a helping.
"My name's Brady."
*********************************
Brady's premed program had little in common with Sam's prelaw, but they were both taking Composition that fall, and soon they were proofing each other's papers. Sam helped Brady with Latin, and Brady got Sam through his science requirement. When November rolled around and Sam finally admitted he had no Thanksgiving plans, Brady made it seem the most natural thing in the world to invite his new friend to dinner on the other side of the country. His parents bought plane tickets for both boys and picked them up at the airport.
Their apartment on West 76th Street was like nowhere Sam had ever been before. The huge oak dining table was surrounded with a crowd of cousins, neighbors, friends, colleagues, people whose relationship to the family was unclear, and several strays such as himself, including a pair of clients from Brady's mother's pro bono law work. Despite the chaos, she took the time to talk to Sam about his goals. She stressed the importance of forming personal relationships with his professors and trying to win internships, rather than just fading into the crowd. When Sam opened his backpack on the plane, he found a brand-new LSAT prep book with a note inscribed on the inside flap.
Sam,
It's never to early to start practicing for those tests.
The Los Angeles District Attorney's office offers paying summer internships to rising juniors and seniors, look into the requirements now.
Thirteen months later, Brady flew back to New York for Christmas alone while Sam visited a girlfriend's family in San Francisco. Two days after New Year's, Brady called.
"They're dead."
"What? Who's dead?"
"My parents.... Oh, my God."
**************************************
Brady had never recovered from his parents' death, or so it appeared. After failing most of his spring courses, he'd switched to the business track. Instead of spending his evenings in the campus coffee shop, trying to figure out the meaning of life, he became a regular face at a bar that never questioned his fake ID.
Sam had never suspected, not once. With no salt line before his door, no holy water in his fridge, there was nothing to give the demon away.
"Fifty words of Latin a little sooner..."
To: rwarner@stanford.edu
Re:
Becky,
Brady's dead.
The mouse hesitated over the send button.
Most of him has been dead for a long time.
Sam.
When the New Mail message flashed almost immediately, Sam expected to see his own message bouncing back from Rebecca's old address. Instead he found a response.
are you ok? where are you? call me if you need help 7815553457
Sam turned off his laptop and walked outside into the parking lot.
The accusing voice of Meg Masterson's spirit still rang in his memory, "Fifty words of Latin a little sooner..."
"I should have known." Sam said aloud. He hadn't wanted to know. Hadn't wanted to believe Brady's problems were anything but grief and confusion, or that the car accident had been anything but an accident.
August 30, 2001
Sam wandered down the stairs to the cafeteria. He'd been at Stanford a full week, and in that time his life had grown more and more surreal. When he presented himself at the door of the dormitory, alone and carrying a single bag, his RA handed him a key and said that he should tell his parents to park by the north gate, because it would be easier to carry his things in through the side door.
Within half an hour, Sam discovered his new roommate, Matt, was from Los Angeles and had arrived by minivan that morning with father, sister, and mother, bringing no fewer than five bags, each bigger than Sam's one. Sam had also learned that college dorms, unlike motel rooms, did not come with sheets and towels.
Soon, Sam also knew that Matt loved to sleep, and his breathing, deep and regular, sounded nothing like Dean's. With Dad there (Soft and even, rolling though his broad chest when sober, a throaty snore when drunk) Dean slept as if comatose, as if he might never have the chance to sleep again. When they were alone, Dean slept with a hand on his beloved knife, waking at every sound. Matt, a city boy, slept through car alarms, yelling in the corridors, and Sam getting up to read at three in the morning.
Blinking wearily after another restless night, he staggered into the dining hall. Dining halls, now those were a concept he could get on board with. Whatever he wanted to eat, as much as he wanted, three times every day...
Sam had to admit, Dad always made sure they had something to eat. "Like feeding dogs, to make sure they'd always come back." Sam had grumbled more than once. Still, he'd grown nine inches in the last year, putting him eye-to-eye with his father, and his most recent neighbor Mrs. Wilkins thought he might not be done yet. Every last hint of baby fat had vanished from Sam's waist and cheeks, and elbows and ribs stood out under his skin.
Sam got in line and piled his plate high.
"You should try the jam," a voice said behind him.
Sam turned to look.
"They got blackberry jam today. It's my favorite kind."
The speaker was a guy, right around his own age with fine features and neatly trimmed black hair, disheveled from sleep. Sam gave the pot of lumpy jam an uncertain look, but there didn't seem to be any of the purple seedless stuff he usually put on toast, so he grabbed a helping.
"My name's Brady."
*********************************
Brady's premed program had little in common with Sam's prelaw, but they were both taking Composition that fall, and soon they were proofing each other's papers. Sam helped Brady with Latin, and Brady got Sam through his science requirement. When November rolled around and Sam finally admitted he had no Thanksgiving plans, Brady made it seem the most natural thing in the world to invite his new friend to dinner on the other side of the country. His parents bought plane tickets for both boys and picked them up at the airport.
Their apartment on West 76th Street was like nowhere Sam had ever been before. The huge oak dining table was surrounded with a crowd of cousins, neighbors, friends, colleagues, people whose relationship to the family was unclear, and several strays such as himself, including a pair of clients from Brady's mother's pro bono law work. Despite the chaos, she took the time to talk to Sam about his goals. She stressed the importance of forming personal relationships with his professors and trying to win internships, rather than just fading into the crowd. When Sam opened his backpack on the plane, he found a brand-new LSAT prep book with a note inscribed on the inside flap.
Sam,
It's never to early to start practicing for those tests.
The Los Angeles District Attorney's office offers paying summer internships to rising juniors and seniors, look into the requirements now.
Thirteen months later, Brady flew back to New York for Christmas alone while Sam visited a girlfriend's family in San Francisco. Two days after New Year's, Brady called.
"They're dead."
"What? Who's dead?"
"My parents.... Oh, my God."
**************************************
Brady had never recovered from his parents' death, or so it appeared. After failing most of his spring courses, he'd switched to the business track. Instead of spending his evenings in the campus coffee shop, trying to figure out the meaning of life, he became a regular face at a bar that never questioned his fake ID.
Sam had never suspected, not once. With no salt line before his door, no holy water in his fridge, there was nothing to give the demon away.
"Fifty words of Latin a little sooner..."