(Untitled)

[one__song]

The first thing any person familiar with Roger's quarters would notice would be... well, that he was in it. On Saturday night, no less, when he was supposed to be working double duty at the club. The second thing that could be noted was that it was significantly more crowded. A portable wardrobe had spring up by the window. A small foot locker

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[weary_head]

"Roger?" Dean shouted over the bang of the front door swinging open. His cheeks were red, flushed with the sprinted journey from the Club, ass cheeks preemptively smarting from the kicking they'd be receiving when Helen had no one left to tend bar.

"You in here?" Finding the living room empty, Dean headed for Roger's room, too many jumbled thoughts warring for dominance in his head. What if Roger was sick? What if he was hurt somewhere? What if he was gone?

The thought lanced through Dean as surely as would a knife, but already he knew that wasn't right. He could still feel Roger here, and somewhere close. That it didn't do much to make him feel better worried Dean all the more.

He put his hand on Roger's bedroom door and pushed. His mouth hung open to find Roger there on the bed, appearance so tortured that Dean didn't even notice the sudden abundance of stuff in the room.

"Jesus."

[one__song]

Instead of the full jump that should have come with the violent sound the door made as it was ripped from stasis, Roger just felt the muscles in his stomach twitch, and he looked up at the sound of Dean's voice. He couldn't bring himself to speak, so he just cleared his throat, just to let him know he was alive. His eyes found the last words of the letter again, and he scrubbed his hand over the rough surface of his lips and chin. He could feel his throat and eyes begin to sting with the threat of tears once again and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he saw a disheveled outline of his best friend. He knew he'd missed his shift, and it only occurred to him right then what Dean must have thought.

"I'm OK, Dean," he rasped softly, a finger running over the crease of the letter.

[weary_head]

"Yeah," Dean chuckled, the sound all rasp and no amusement. He didn't know what was up with Roger, but he was not okay.

Dean crossed the short distance to the bed, going so far as turning Roger's face up with his hand to get a look at him. He might get popped for it in the near future, but Dean didn't much care.

Still, whatever Dean had been expecting, the sight of Roger's red eyes as they met his made him go rigid. The next words out of his mouth were more command than question. "What happened. What's going on."

[one__song]

As if Roger had the energy to lift his hand, much less put enough force behind it to push away or pull a punch. He just let Dean lift his chin and kept his gaze there for as long as Dean did, and when he broke the gaze, it was just to carefully close his hand around the letter and hand it off to Dean. It would do more in the way of explanation than Roger could at that moment.