I don't know where this came from but I was stuck on writing my reverse big bang (stay tuned for that Nov 13th, if I ever get it finished) and I wanted to warm up, or procrastinate. Well, here ya go.

Sam is golden brown and smiling almost as dazzingly as the sun-glinted cars parked around the campus. He walks with strides wide enough to eat up the pavement, from one end of the plaza to the other in seconds. He's a Stanford God, the way he settles into the surroundings like they belong to him. Dean's never seen his brother so happy, it's like looking at a completely different person. A stranger. The California kid that probably surfs on weekends and eats organic. Dean doesn't know a thing about this kid.

He watches Sam join a group of kids on the grass, backpack slipping off his shoulder to sit beside him. They all laugh at something he says, but Sam's never been a particularly funny person. He sits tall and takes up as much space as he needs, but he never used to be very confident, either.

Dean wonders if this is the guy Sam needs to be to fit in around here, like a chameleon changing colour. Or maybe this is who he was always supposed to be, bright under all the grey.

He's seen all he needs to see. Sam's safe, he's happy, he's doing good.

Dean starts up the engine again, she has a distinct sound that Sam knows as well as he does, but traffic's bad at this hour. The Impala melts into the tight jam of cars. He should head for the highway, out of town, but he ends up searching for the nearest motel.

It's hot as hell this time of year and he's got the AC up high as it can go. The room is sparse, just a big single bed and a TV on the opposite wall, but at least it's clean. Still, pay-per-view is only entertaining up to a point. He's tempted to check out the student buildings, see if he can catch sight of Sam. The kid's probably studying right now, or, if he's smart, he'll be out getting drunk and having a good time.

Which is what Dean really wants to do right now.

No word from Dad, no case to check out, and nothing on TV. He grabs his keys and heads out.

He catches sight of a few bars, all packed with students. He immediately declares them a no-go, Sam could be in any one of them. Bumping into Sam will start a conversation he's ready to have. There are a few diners he passes, too, but he'd rather not eat sober and alone. He needs a drink, and he needs something to occupy his mind.

A bright sign pop's up: Cherry's. A strip club. Perfect. The parking lot is mostly packed and he can hear the swell of a pop beat even before he opens the car door. He checks his wallet and finds a wad of dollars suitable for slipping into g-strings. He perks up even further when he spots a poster promising the best hot wings in Palo Alto.

It's sunset-dim inside and full of half-dressed men and women alike. It's fancier than most places he's been, it's not clouded with cigarette smoke, for one. He finds a seat at the bar and watches a red-head in a tiny mermaid two-piece swing around the pole gracefully as if she were underwater. Dean signals for a beer from the guy behind the bar, who's topless and hairless below his neck, wearing nothing but a pair of cowboy flares on his bottom half. His spurs click as he approaches with Dean's drink.

"So... is this, uh," Dean tries, gesturing around vaguely. "You have chicks and dudes?"

The cowboy smiles. "We have male and female dancers, yes. Most of our customers are men, but we get some women in, too. Either way, we don't judge you for what you're interested in."

"I'm just here for the girls, thanks," Dean says pointedly. He sips his beer and glances around the room. There's a booth full of middle-aged women cheering on a guy dressed in army green as he dances, on the other side of the room there are a group of men huddled around the stage where the mermaid is now spinning upside-down. He turns back to the cowboy and says, "It's kinda cool, I guess. Gender equality and all that."

Cowboy is still smiling like he finds Dean amusing. He doesn't say anything more, just bids him goodbye with a wink.

Dean turns on the bar stool so he's leaning against the bench, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. A blonde girl in a silver bikini stops in front of him and asks, "Looking for company?"

Dean's about to say hell yes, but his eye drifts to the other side of the room where a dude in tiny shorts and a feather headdress is serving drinks off a tray to the same group of women that had been cheering on the guy in camouflage, they leer at the guy like he's a juicy red steak and toss tips onto his tray. But none of that draws Dean's eye, not the feather headdress or the growling cougars. No, Dean's staring wide enough that his eyes might pop out of his head because that's his little brother.

Sam turns around, a white stripe painted on each of his cheeks, rolling his eyes now that the women can't see, and he heads towards the bar. Silver bikini girl has lost interest and left, passing Sam with a friendly pat on the shoulder, like they work in neighbouring cubicles in an office. Sam hasn't seen Dean yet, if he had, he'd be ducking for cover. He sets his tray on the other end of the bar as cowboy fills it up with another order of cocktails. Dean can't help himself. He's off the bar stool, drink abandoned on the counter, and he walks right up to his brother.

"It's fun to stay at the YMCA, isn't that right, Sam?"

Sam spins around so fast his headdress almost falls off. "Dean?" he sputters, glancing around the room with a look on his face like he fears Dad might just pop out of nowhere, too.

"It's just me," Dean says.

"What are you doing here?" Sam hisses. He grabs Dean's arm and pulls him towards a door that says Employees Only. They end up in a small room filled with metal grey lockers. Sam's staring at him with a mix of mortification and fury. "Why are you here, Dean? Have you been following me?"

Dean shrugs. "I just came to see how you were doing. I saw you at the plaza and you seemed fine so I booked a motel for the night before I leave tomorrow. If I'd known you worked here, believe me I never wouldn've stepped foot."

"So it's just pure coincidence that you happen to walk into the place where I work?" Sam says, clearly not believing a word Dean says.

"It really is," Dean swears. He glances down and immediately regrets it. Sam's waxed from the chest down, shorts not leaving much to the imagination, packing more muscle than Dean remembers him having. He quickly locks his eyes somewhere over Sam's shoulder, just so he doesn't have to rinse them out with soap. "What the hell happened to a full-ride?" he asks. "Doesn't that mean you don't need a job?"

"It doesn't pay for everything, Dean," Sam sighs. "Last summer when school was out, I was on a tin of soup a day. I had to find somewhere to stay while dorms were closed. I swore I wouldn't be unprepared like that again."

"You could have called," Dean argues. "Why didn't you call? I'd have given you some money, if you asked."

Sam's quiet for a moment, lips pressed together like he's holding in what he wants to say but can't. Finally, he says, "Dad said to stay gone, I'm just doing what he asked."

Dean snorts. "Now you listen to him?" he finally turns to look him in the eyes. Sam doesn't look angry anymore, just resigned.

"I want to do this by myself, Dean," he says. "It's a good job, really. The manager is nice and she looks out for us. The tips are good, too. Besides, I just serve drinks. I'm a waiter, technically."

"Waiters wear shirts, Sam," Dean snaps. He can hear a cheer of rowdy men on the other side of the door and his fist curls. "What if someone gets too handsy, huh? You're just a kid, Sammy, you shouldn't be working in a place like this."

Sam raises an eyebrow, arms folded across his bare chest. "I'm twenty, Dean, not a kid."

Dean's about to argue that Sam is a kid, will never stop being a kid to him, but Sam's not done talking.

"Look, there's a no-touching policy here. If a customer grabs something they shouldn't, security escorts them out. Even if someone did get too handsy, you really think I can't handle myself?"

Dean scratches his head. "I know you can handle yourself," he mutters. "Don't mean I have to like that you're a stripper."

"Waiter," Sam corrects. "Besides, you're the one who came to a strip club and now you're judging me for working here." He sighs again, feathers rustling on his head. "Look, I need to get back to work. Will you be here in the morning? We could get breakfast or something."

"Sure," Dean agrees, fishing a card from his pocket. Sam takes it, eyebrows pinching together with clear distaste.

"FBI, Dean? Really?" he says. "Do you know how illegal that is?"

Dean waves him off. "Whatever, Chief. Just give me a call in the morning, okay?"

Sam half-smiles. "Okay."

Dean doesn't sleep much that night, but when does he ever. Sam calls at seven, when the sun is fresh enough that the ground is still cool, and he sounds much fresher than someone who served drinks until 2am should. He gives directions to some place Dean thinks probably sells gluten-free bagels and kale smoothies, and he's sadly proven right when he arrives to find no coffee on the menu. Sam's sitting outside and Dean makes sure to show him how unhappy he is with the choice of cafe.

"What kind of place doesn't sell coffee?" he grumbles, dropping into the empty seat opposite. He freezes when he notices the Styrofoam cup Sam's drinking from. "What's that?"

"Coffee," Sam answers mildly. "I picked it up on the way here."

"Could'a gotten me some."

"Nope. It's what you get for spying on me."

Dean huffs and glances into the cafe's window. "Do they at least have bacon?"

Sam doesn't bother suppressing a smirk. "This is a vegan cafe. No meat or animal products."

Dean doesn't want to try to wrap his head around that. He rolls his eyes. "Fine, I get it. I shouldn't have spied on you."

"And..." Sam prompts.

"And?"

"And you're sorry for interrupting me at work."

"Right, yeah. Whatever. Can we just go somewhere else, please?"

Dean's stomach is growling as they get up and head down the street. Sam's quiet as he sips his drink, but eventually says, "So, how are things?"

"Same as usual. Been working jobs, toasting ghosts, you know. Dad's... somewhere," Dean answers. "He texts me to let me know he's okay, though. I was in-between jobs so I thought I'd come see how you were doing."

"You know, you can do that by actually talking to me," Sam suggests. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, shuffling to the edge so people can get past. "How many times have you visited without me knowing."

"Only a couple," Dean hedges. "What about you, though? How did you end up at a strip club? I mean, you're not that sort of guy."

Sam rolls his eyes. "How do you know what sort of guy I am? You're being a little judgemental, don't you think? You always go to strip clubs, but now you're suddenly all high and mighty about it."

"I'm just worried, I guess," Dean admits. "You're my little brother."

Sam smiles, fully this time. "I'm fine, Dean. I promise. You don't have to worry. I should be the one worrying, you're the one hunting monsters. I'm just handing out drinks in spandex."

Dean can't help laughing. "You looked ridiculous in that Indian costume."

"They're called Native Americans, not Indians, Dean," Sam says, in his usual voice he reserves for when he thinks Dean's being an idiot. "I don't really like that costume because I don't want to appropriate their culture, you know. I did a Native American studies class and the feathers on the headdress actually symbolise - why are you looking at me like that?"

Dean shakes his head. "You're such a nerd. Come on, I want coffee."

A/N I don't know why but I had this vision of Sam being a stripper (sorry, I mean waiter) and I had to put him in the YMCA costume just so Dean could make a dumb joke about it. Now that I've got this out of my system, I should really get back writing my reversebang.