Author:Mirrordance

Title: One Night

Summary:He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.

" " "

One Night

" " "

1

California

" " "

It was raining outside. Cats and dogs insane rain, like God was throwing everything at you, kitchen sink, bath tub, shower and all.

He jogged to the building door and was soaked to the skin, even though he just parked his car across the street. He coughed wetly on his sleeve, used same sleeve to swipe at his mouth. If there was any blood, he did not see, nor did he care, really. He wasn't gonna stay long, he didn't give a shit about looking too neat. Besides, blood on a Winchester's sleeve? That was just like a coffee stain on a lawyer's tie, or chalk on a teacher's elbows. Just another day on the job, here...

Car after car lined the road around the apartment building. He had found a lucky little hole in a tight spot, like no one else could get into or out of, like only he knew how. The Impala stuck out like a rock n' roll flipping finger, gleaming and lordly in the rain against the surrounding prissy/pricey cars. There was a party going on, despite the foul weather, and he just let himself inside.

It wasn't his first time there, so he knew precisely where to go. He was getting weird glances here and there, and it wasn't the first time for this either. Up and down the length of his ratty old clothes from the men, up and down the length of his body from most of the women. The people here had the smart, airy, expensive looks of overindulgent intellectuals. The men looking down on him. The women thinking all they had to do was want and try and they'd get him (if they only knew, this was as true of barmaids as it was of college coeds).

He recognized the look, because Sam had that sometimes, like when they'd walk into a bar together, him, dad and way back when he was still 'Sammy' and he just looked a bit more expensive than everyone else, a bit misplaced. Dean should have known, damn it, even at age four Sam seemed set apart from the rest of 'em.

The music was blaring. It was shitty-assed stuff, like the lame ones you keep hearing on the radio, over and over. A bunch of drones, these kids.

He grabbed a beer, smiled sourly at the guy manning the tap, who was looking at him as if he could see right through that Dean was an outsider.

Crasher.

Trespasser.

Unwelcome.

Or maybe it's just me, Dean thought, that old feeling hitting him again, old anxieties, old fears...

I shouldn't have come.

He's probably busy.

He doesn't want me here.

He'll have better things to do...

But he was going under the knife tomorrow, damn it. He wasn't sure if he was ever going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it?

" " "

"For the last damn time," came the irate reply to the uncharacteristically polite knock, "Get laid somewhere else!"

Dean found the retort funny. His lip quirked, as he stood against the door of his brother's room.

"But don't you miss me even a little bit, sweetheart?"

Pause. Dean pressed his ear to the door.

Potent, unbearable silence.

And then the sounds of a flurry of comedic movement. From inside, he heard the distinct sound of slamming books, things falling on the floor, the scraping of a chair, a muffled "Ow, damn it," and the thundering footsteps of his favorite Sasquatch lumbering toward the door. He stepped back from it as it was thrown wide open.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Why does he look taller every time I see him, Dean wondered inanely, looking up at his brother with an uncontrollably goofy grin on his face. He couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. He wanted to come here all cool and suave, damn it. He had come in scared shit-less instead, and two seconds later he was grinning like an idiot. Sam just tore him up like that, all the fucking time.

Dean raised up the untouched plastic cup brimming with brew, "I was looking for a beer."

Sam shook his head at his brother in mixed amusement and dismay. Dean hoped he was the only one who can tear Sam up like that too, "One of these days, Dean, I just might believe you."

Dean grinned wider, and offered the cup to Sam. "This one's yers. Mine's gone home already," he lied, patting at his stomach. His doctor wouldn't have been amused to find alcohol in his system. Which made the prospect more tempting, of course, but he didn't want to hang around the hospital any longer than he needed to.

"Nah," Sam said, shaking his head, "I can't. I'm--" he ran a weary hand over his eyes, "I'm kind of--"

"Studying, huh?" Dean asked, peering inside the room (noting that he wasn't at all being invited inside), trying to keep the disappointment from his face, "You have like, what, a test or something?"

"The test," Sam replied in a breathy, tired laugh, "Yeah..."

"Sorry," Dean said, spreading his arms out and shrugging, "I uh... I guess I shoulda called first, checked if you were busy..."

Set a fricking appointment, he thought bitterly, except he kept it to himself because it would have let too much of his pain out.

That is, he added, If you answer the phone at all. Which you seldom do, lately. You're living in the California sunshine, dude. I hunt around in the dark and climb trees to get a fricking signal. How hard is it to pick up a ringing phone in your pocket?

Sam smiled tightly, the light not at all reaching his eyes. He planted his hands to his hips, looking more than a little bit confrontational, as if ready to defend himself from anything Dean might say to try and convince him to ditch the books and hang out instead. Which Dean might have done any other night except he wasn't in any shape to bite this time. He had every plan of keeping his mouth shut, afraid of the blood and the truth and the pain that might get spilled out.

"I should go," Dean said with a smiling wince, the way only he knew how to mix them.

Sam's brows furrowed in surprise. "What?"

"Well you're busy," Dean pointed out, "No big deal, bro. I was just in the area..."

An embarrassing lie, he chided himself. It sounded like something he'd tell a chick, and a not-so-smart one at that. So of course Sam picked up on the nuance because he was, well he wasn't a chick, obviously, and he was far from stupid too.

"You just wrapped up a job here?" Sam asked, skeptically.

"Yup," Dean said, decided to dig in deeper, "Not like I went all the way out here just to see you, Stanford. If you're busy, like I said, it's no biggie. I can always catch up with you later."

Sam frowned at him. "Dean... is there anything going on that I should know about?"

I never could fool you, Dean thought, Not at aged eight and most certainly not now.

"Is dad okay?" Sam asked.

"He's fine," Dean replied, "I'm fine, every thing's fine. I was just around, I said. I'll be by again one of these days. No biggie."

Gotta stop saying that.

"It's just that I haven't seen you in ages," Sam said, still looking suspicious, "And I know there's a bunch of hunters based here who usually take care of what's going on--"

"Why would I lie, huh?" Dean asked him with a confident smirk.

Sam looked at him wryly, and knowingly, making the confident look slip down a notch.

You'd lie, those perceptive eyes were saying, Because you're John Winchester's son, and it's always easier to lie than to say I miss you, or I just wanted to see how you were.

Dean waved irately at him, "Whatever, dude. I'm motoring." He looked at Sam wistfully, and nodded toward the desk and the books. "You ah... you still killing them out there?"

"I'm one of the best," Sam said, proudly, and before Dean's eyes, seeming as if he was going taller again.

Dean smiled, open, heartfelt, and generous this time. "That's good, bro."

"Thanks for dropping by, Dean," Sam said, "I'm really sorry--"

"Don't flake out on me now," Dean chuckled, patting his arm, "Hit the books, dude, I'm not crying myself to sleep about this or anything. I'll see you soon."

He turned on his heel, began to walk away. His wet boots and clothes were making awkward, squishy noises on the corridors. He could feel his brother watching him. Every step, every single movement.

It's okay to miss me too, bro, Dean thought, Guess we're both John's kids after all.

The silence was weighty. When did this damn hall get so long? And was Sam really just gonna stand by his fricking door and watch him walk away? Wasn't he supposed to be studying by now? Dean was getting annoyed.

"You're burning a hole through my jacket, dude," Dean growled under his breath, as he kept on walking toward the stairwell.

Every step away from Sam was inexplicably pissing him off more and more. He went all this way to see Sam, damn it. It was the first time they saw each other in so long. Worse, it could be the last time they'd ever get to. And this was how it's gonna be? The two of them dancing around each other like this? Sam was his brother, damn it, he had every right to stick around and be a bother, even for just a few minutes.

But he doesn't want me here...

Wait a minute, I'm sick so I should get what I want.

But he'll hate me if he fucks up that test tomorrow. I don't want him to fuck it up. On top of that, I'd hate for him to hate me.

He'll hate me so much more if the doctors fuck me over tomorrow and the last time we see each other goes down like this--

He turned around, and walked fast before he changed his mind. He changed trajectories, going back to his brother. Sam had a strange look on his face, a mixture of dread and relief. Their time apart has raised up a fricking brick wall between them, that was certain sure.

I can tear it down, Dean thought, determinedly, I gotta. I can fix us.

"Forget something?" Sam asked.

"Why so cautious, Sammy?" Dean asked, good-naturedly, reigning in his temper. He peered over Sam's shoulder into his room, "You're not hiding a chick in there or anything, are you?"

"No," Sam snorted.

"Good," Dean grinned, cheekily, tilting and moving around Sam, letting himself into his brother's room.

"Dean..." Sam sighed, "I really do have to work--"

"I won't bother you, I promise," Dean said, "I just... you mind if I take a shower and change clothes here, bro? I'm soaked through. I'd really, really hate to catch pneumonia and die or something."

He coughed for effect, and it was only half-fake.

"You've been through worse, I'm sure," said Sam, wryly, but his eyes had clouded in worry, as Dean had expected them to. "Go ahead, dude. I also got some clothes I can spare. Some old stuff I grew out of. I'm sure they'd fit you."

"Very funny, Sasquatch," Dean snapped, though he did appreciate the jibe, and the light that was finally returning to his brother's eyes. It was a very fair start.

" " "

Everything's fine, right?

He had watched his older brother walk away, looking for signs that he was hurt or uncomfortable. He seemed fine. And he wouldn't be acting like such a doofus if their father was in trouble. Checklist done, dad and Dean alive. All the other complicated stuff in between, he knew he could live with.

More or less.

He stared at the cacophony of weaponry that came from Dean's soaked form, laid out on the floor by his bed, when his older brother was stripping to head to the shower. He forgot how fricking big that knife was, and how the hell Dean managed to go anywhere so damn packing like this.

Sam threw a sidelong glance at the half-open, steaming bathroom door. Dean kept the curtains drawn but the door open, and made random commentary here and there. Everything they both said to each other had to be said twice, to be heard over the blowers and the water.

"So you're sure everything's fine, right?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean asked back, "You said something?"

"What?" Sam asked, not hearing him.

"I didn't hear you!" Dean said, "What did you say!"

"Everything's fine?!" Sam asked, irately because he hated repeating himself.

"Everything's fine!" Dean said, "Seriously, dude."

"What?!"

And so on. They talked about random things. Sam's sissy shampoo and separate hair conditioner (which Dean used anyway). Sam's overpriced aftershave (which Dean also used). Dean not leaving his dirty clothes and borrowed towels on the floor. It was funny how, while not looking at each other, things kind of felt like back when they were younger. Small, motel bathroom. Sam studying on a desk. Dean taking an overindulgent shower but keeping the door slightly ajar so he could take his time in the bath and be sure his kid brother was behaving at the same time.

Sam managed to finish up a chapter of his book, even with the intermittent, repetitive conversation. He grew up with Dean after all, and has apparently mastered the art of having his mind in two places at the same time.

He heard the shower and blowers die down, and his brother stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Sam let his eyes rake through his brother's chest. No fresh scars or bruises, no more sights like those that made his heart beat a little faster, the last time Dean had visited months ago. He lost weight though. While he always tended toward lean, Sam had never thought of his brother as thin before.

"Sammy," Dean teased, putting a hand to his chest, "You little perv."

"You lost weight," Sam commented, ignoring the jibe, "I'm surprised. The way you were going at the food the last time we saw each other, I halfway expected you to be as big as the trunk of the car by now."

"A long time ago, that," Dean said, wistfully, occupying himself with packing his wet clothes in a plastic bag Sam had provided. Dean being the slob that he was, Sam knew it was more out of avoidance and distraction than out of an honest desire to be neat or considerate.

"Not that long," Sam muttered, guiltily.

Dean's head shot up to him, and something flared in his eyes for a second as he considered contradicting Sam, making Sam wince, and look away in discomfort. Dean smothered the fire with a rakish grin.

"Guess time just flies by in California," Dean said, "'Cos people here are airheads."

Sam's lip quirked in appreciation.

"'Course," Dean snickered, "Who am I to diss the air here? I'm from fricking Kansas. Our tornadoes blew Dorothy away to the land of the Munchkins, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam said, eyes crinkling. His ever busy fingers began toying with the edges of the thick book he had to read through. Tonight. He took a deep breath, and released it as a sigh. He was about to open his mouth, ask Dean if he needed anything else, when his brother took the reins from him.

"Say, when was that?"

"When was what?" Sam asked, though he knew exactly what Dean meant. When was the last time they saw each other. When was the last time they talked. When.

Dean just shrugged, veiled his eyes in that defensive way of his, allowed his question to be ignored. Sam glanced at the untouched cup of beer on his desk, thought, Screw it to hell, and grabbed at it and took a fortifying sip.

"So tell me about this job," he told his older brother, "The one you just finished."

"You really want me to?" Dean asked, a little bit more pointed than either of them expected, because they both kind of just looked at each other, surprised.

"Why wouldn't I want you to?" Sam asked, quietly, evasively.

"'Cos you never want me to," Dean said, in a quick ramble, apparently in a bid to get rid of it before he changed his mind, "'Cos you hate it. But it's all I ever do, so it's all you can talk to me about, and you don't think I'll understand all the Stanford stuff. That's why we don't talk. 'Cos there's nothing else to talk about but the thing you hate."

"There's plenty other stuff to talk about," Sam said plaintively, and unconvincingly. Dean was being more than fair. It was true. He hated talking about hunting. He hated seeing his brother's bruises and scars, tracks that mapped his dangerous life without Sam. If he could bring Dean to Stanford with him, he would. Stash him in his book bag. Keep him in the dorm. Just... have him around. Safe.

The further he was away from his former life, the more he realized he was pissed as hell at Dean. Not for choosing to hunt and help people, no, it was hard to hate a noble guy. Not even for choosing to stick with their dad, because that was precisely the thing that Sam loved about his brother anyway, his devotion to his family. He realized he was pissed as hell at Dean for not wanting the same things that he did. And he was pissed as hell at Dean because it made him feel like an asshole, to want to be safe, to want to have a normal life.

And so the phone calls stopped. And then the answering of them. Never one to give up, his brother visited him. And now here he was again, and Sam was just relieved he didn't have to lie about being too busy.

Not that he didn't care about Dean. Far from. He was just in that impossible position where he knew he had to do his own thing and at the same time, regret that his decisions left him in a spot where he could not look after the people he loved.

"Yeah," Dean said with a wince, "Sure."

Sam pressed his lips together. "I don't... I don't hate it, really."

I don't hate you...

"I just..." Sam stammered, "I worry about you, all right? Sometimes it's just better not to know anything, you know? Alive is enough, 'cos if I think of the other things, I just... I go crazy, you know? I thought I was going to lose it, my first few months here, knowing you were out there doing god knows what and me, not being able to do anything about it."

Dean scratched the back of his neck in discomfort. "What a bitch, huh?"

"What?"

Dean licked his lips, thoughtfully. "I can't drag you back with me. Which works out 'cos I don't think I really want to. I mean I do, but I want you to be here more, doing... whatever it is you're doing. You on the other hand, you can't keep me here. Which works out too 'cos I don't think you really want to; you gotta do your own thing and you want me to do mine, I get that. So we both can't do what we don't want to do. It's all supposed to work out, right?"

Except it doesn't.

'Cos why the fuck are we so unhappy?

Sam smiled a little. "Think we can just blame this one on dad?"

"Nah," Dean said, sharing the dark humor, "I think we got into this one ourselves." He chewed at the inside of his cheeks, thoughtfully, as he raised up the shirt Sam was lending him, which was laid out neatly on the bed. He blanched. "What the hell is this?"

"What?" Sam asked, offended. No matter what he had said to Dean, he couldn't stand to give his older brother ratty old clothes. He had picked one of his nicest ones, a structured white polo with subtle artsy white-on-white stitches on the arms.

"It's a fricking Euro-shirt, is what," Dean commented distastefully, "Dude, since when--"

"Beggars can't be choosers, Dean," Sam sighed, feeling irritated enough to begin to turn back to his books.

"Where you been shopping, dude​?" Dean asked, shaking his head in amazed dismay.

"You know what, never mind," Sam said, snatching the polo from his brother's hands and tossing him the weathered t-shirt he had used to sleep in last night. Yeah, live with that.

"This is way better," Dean said with a wide, approving smile, not minding that Sam had picked up the wrinkled shirt from a heap on a chair, as he raised it up and looked at the standard old graphic tee.

"You are irrepressible," Sam sighed, watching as Dean slid into the shirt. The damp boxers he had to bear, of course, but he did borrow sweats from Sam. The clothes were a size too large. Sam couldn't stay annoyed at the sight of him, floating a little bit in the clothes, like he used to look like when they were younger, trying on their dad's gear.

I look as cool as dad, Sammy...

"I can't go out like this," Dean said, making a face and looking down at his clothes.

"No," Sam chuckled, "You can't."

"You laughing at me, Joe College?" Dean asked, raising a brow at him, "You don't think I can pick up a chick in your stupid duds?"

"I don't doubt you can pick up a girl even if you were wearing a dress, dude," Sam said, not rising up to the challenge, raising his hands in surrender, "But do you really want to?"

"Looking like this?" Dean snapped, "Hell no."

Sam shook his head as he laughed, "There's a laundry room at the end of the hall, if you wanna toss your clothes in."

Dean glanced at Sam's books, partially neglected on the desk by his arm, as if weighing whether or not he should be staying around. It made Sam blink and pause too. It was never easy, getting back in the groove with his brother, but it was always fast and it was always damned deep. The ease had crept back into him, somehow, the way it always did, lifting the weight, lifting the months apart away. But from past experience, Sam also knew that the crash was coming soon. It wasn't the first time he and Dean danced around each other awkwardly, then fricking tangoed like they were never apart, and then just stopped dead.

He remembered the last time Dean visited, the pattern had been the same. He had fallen into his brother's easy charms. And then made the mistake of paying attention to Dean's battered body, as he had just come from a rough hunt. And then the black thoughts splayed about in his head again, making him irritable or worse, than one thing Dean couldn't stand, Sam had been dismissive.

He could have died.

He's an idiot walking wounded.

This could be the last time he and I get to talk.

Anytime we talk could be the last time...

"I think I will," Dean said, softly, and turned on his heel a hair's breath before Sam could open his mouth to change his mind.

" " "

I wonder how long I can keep my clothes in, Dean thought, rubbing his chin as he stood in front of the dryer, and still fit in 'em when the damn things get out.

He wasn't surprised, that Sam had softened to him again. It was just the way that they were, he supposed. Brothers through and through. For all the good and bad of it. And he was scared enough about tomorrow to admit he missed the Sasquatch. He went all this way, damn it. Just...not aloud. At least, he hoped he could keep his mouth shut. 'Cos he starts saying I missed ya Sammy and his kid brother would surely know something was going on--

"Um, you press that button there..." some random kid managed to sneak up to him. Nerdy-like, a prissier version of his intellectual brother. Thin, jittery and uneasy, especially since it seemed that at this point, he didn't think that Dean was very smart, staring at the machine like that.

I was distracted, Dean thought crossly, No need to be such a snob about it. Nerds are so overrated. They're intellectual bullies, throwing their weight around. I start throwing my weight around and pounding on you and we'll see who wins. Idiot.

"Thanks," Dean said, smiling at him sourly, putting the heat down to the lowest notch, and then taking the timer up to a half hour. That should be a good extra half hour with Sammy.

"Your clothes will shrink a little--"

"I like 'em tight and warm and yummy and it's none of your business," Dean snapped, adding in a low mutter, "Smartass."

He strode back to Sammy's room, to find his brother stooped over these insanely thick books. They looked like dad's journal, battered and well-used and ridiculously post-it-ed. He could see Sam's chickenscratch on notes strewn all over the place. And because he was who he was, he also caught sight of a bag of Cheetos and a can of soda that Sam made ready for him.

"What's this, college dinner?" he asked his brother with a delighted smirk. Until he remembered he wasn't really supposed to be having anything. He couldn't help the pout that kind of just sprung from his mouth.

"You don't like it?" Sam asked, surprised, "I thought you'd be thrilled. Breakfast of champions and dinner of kings and all that."

"Nah, I already ate," Dean said, sitting on the edge of his brother's bed, "Thanks though."

"When did that ever stop you?" Sam asked, his eyes alight with memory and teasing. He turned back to his book, reading on quietly as Dean watched him.

Sam had that uncanny ability to continue operating normally even under scrutiny. He was used to it, Dean supposed, doing everything under the watch of his brother or his father. It was never something Dean could handle, being watched the way Sam had learned to live with.

"So how's dad?" Sam asked, faux-casually, although Dean saw his cheek twitch, just a little.

"Same old," Dean replied with a shrug.

"He went off on his own, huh?" Sam asked, taking on an edge in his voice again, "You guys do that a lot?"

Dean could only see his brother's profile, but he knew something made him mad, for some reason. "Once in awhile," he murmured, distractedly, "I could swear you're pissed right now."

"He's not supposed to be leaving you alone," Sam said, trying to keep his voice level and mostly failing, "What the hell is he thinking."

"Chill out, drama queen," Dean said with a half-laugh, trying to calm his brother, trying to get back to the nice, calm spot they were just stumbling into, "I'm ancient, and the Winchesters are in demand, huh? We gotta spread out once in awhile. Not a lot, mind, so relax."

"The last time we saw each other," Sam said, his voice low and his head hanging as he refused to look up at Dean. He flipped a page of his book, and though agitated as he was by the conversation, Dean would still have bet his left eye his brother had managed to retain what was written there, "You getting hurt like that. He hadn't been with you, right?"

"It wasn't his fault, Sam."

"He was supposed to be with you," Sam insisted, "He's not supposed to be leaving you alone. When I left--" Sam set his jaws, looking annoyed at himself that this was coming up. "I thought you'd be covered," he finished, quietly, "I wouldn't have--" he killed the thought right there.

You wouldn't have left if you'd known? Dean filled in, Is that it?

It's not your fault either, bro.

Dean glanced at the Cheetos. Man was he jonesing for one right about now...

He stretched out on Sam's bed, away from the sight of the food and the sight of Sam, two of his favorite things in the world. He yawned.

"You look wiped, Dean," Sam said, neutrally, walls back up, "Power nap, or something. I'll wake you when your clothes are ready. You shouldn't be hitting the road feeling like crap."

"I'm fine," Dean muttered, staring up at the ceiling. He was annoyed with himself. He was sleepy. He can't remember the last time he felt sleepy. He felt beat, tired, ill, hurt, et cetera. The best rest he gets is when he's unconscious. He hasn't slept well in so long. And now that Sam's here that's when he gets hit? Unfair. It made sense that he should feel most at ease with his brother there, of course, but logic did not often equate to fairness, and this. was. simply. annoying.

"Well maybe for a little bit," he reconsidered, murmuring, as he closed his eyes.

" " "

Dean woke up with a start and the sun was rising and he was pissed as hell at Sam for not waking him except... except he turned his head to find his brother's sleeping face, right next to his and suddenly, it was like they were kids again.

His eyes warmed, and his face broke into the widest smile he's had in a long time. He knew, because it felt so damn alien that he had to touch his cheek, make sure his jaws don't come off.

The Winchester brothers laid down shoulder to shoulder on the bed, even as their feet were planted on the floor. Sam was hugging a heavy book to his chest. Dean has seen this exact picture many times before. That chest has been a home to history books, geometry books, comic books, their father's research... basically anything that Sam found interesting or necessary enough to burn the midnight oil over and fall asleep thinking about.

Dean watched him for a long, long moment. He had to leave, he knew that. But he also knew that this is exactly what he came here for. Some assurance that they were both still who they were, and that Stanford and lonely hunts and an overbearing father couldn't change that. I mean sure, they spat at each other. What pair of brothers or good friends didn't? But Sam was still Sammy, and Dean knew he still had a spot in his brother's life, even if that spot wasn't talking on the phone or seeing each other a lot. Even if that spot was just the thought of Cheetos-ing for dinner or sleeping with a book on your chest. There was still something about his brother that was inexplicably his.

We don't need fixing, Dean knew, We'll never need fixing no matter what. We just need a little bit of time to remember that, once in awhile.

He smiled to himself as he got up. Few people could move around a sleeping Winchester without waking him, but of course the three of them had all learned how to do that with each other. Sam didn't even stir, a testament to both Dean's skills and, he hoped, Sam's subconscious trust in him.

He rubbed at the print on Sam's shirt against his chest. Man, he was tempted to run away with it. And for the record, he found that white polo nice too except he didn't feel he should have anything so nice when he was just lounging around. Sam deserved the very best. And they had so little, he couldn't bear to take even this ratty shirt away with him.

He sighed, as he walked to the laundry room to collect his things. The dorm sounded empty, it was still fairly early in the day and everyone was probably still asleep. He stripped right then and there and put his own clothes on. Frowning in thought, he tossed in the wash the clothes he had borrowed from Sam. They shouldn't take too long to wash and dry. That doctor's having him all day today and god knows how long after that, so Dean decided the guy can probably wait just a little bit.

" " "

Sam jolted awake at the sound of his alarm. He groaned and stretched, and found that he had the room to. Dean was gone and from the look of things, he's been gone awhile. Sam sighed heavily, wanting to just stay in bed but knowing he had to get ready for his test, which was by now only an hour away.

He didn't expect to fall asleep so long or so deep, really. He just wanted to shut his eyes for a little bit. Besides, he hasn't slept well in so long, how could he expect last night to be any different? But then Dean was there and then suddenly, well... his belligerent brother had an ironically calming effect.

He sat up, found the clothes Dean had borrowed on top of his desk. They smelled freshly washed, and he had left a note on top.

'I usually wake up with a hot chick wearing my clothes. Now I feel like your bitch and it's pissing the hell outta me. I'm out. Knock 'em dead, dude.'

Sam just shook his head and laughed quietly to himself.

To Be Continued...