Of Parking Tickets and Late Night Wax
A/N: For a close friend of mine who recently had a bad day.
The DA's office was going to hear it from Sam Winchester. On top of Professor Elkin's last minute cancellation and bumping into a stranger's iced coffee, he now has a parking ticket for 'obstructing traffic' and an expired registration. A), it was barely quarter to three and b) the Charger wasn't even a year old, seeing as it was a late birthday present from his mechanic brother who scored a pretty good deal for someone working minimum-wage, which could only mean…
Alright, that part was his fault. He loved Dean but he had to stop relying on old tricks and start paying his own expenses just as soon as Sam had to stop looking at him through rose-colored spectacles. Being the younger brother at twenty-three, Sam didn't have the license to get away with murder on minimal charges without the loss of one or more disposable thumbs. He was barely of legal drinking age, which meant he was classified under the negligence-for-tolerance-and-tolerance-for-alcohol-and-indecency stereotype—and having college studious on his application didn't do anything to improve those standards.
Aside from his patent abhorrence toward police officers and caramel Frappuccinos, Sam wasn't a bad kid, really. He was enrolled in General Studies along with the Pre-Law program at Stanford—AKA the class that he spent an extra twenty minute commute on come to find that his own instructor can't even commit to—and, despite his hectic schedule, had managed to maintain a decent social life. He made friends with everyone from future nurse practitioner Pamela Barnes to Ash Harvelle, an MIT graduate who stops by Elkin's for monthly CPU checkups.
But Sam had to concede, his greatest feat as far as making friends went had to be Castiel Novak. They met by chance as two clumsy freshmen walking through the AP corridor and later bonded over Vonnegut and the History Channel. Since that fateful day, the law major has been beholden to Cas for his unwavering compassion. It was more than likely that after a rough day like this one, Sam would be hailed with a warm hug and an encouraging smile that, yeah, may have sounded cheesy or cliché but always seemed to effortlessly lift out whatever he was irked about like a fresh carpet stain.
Yes, being roommates, Cas occasionally crawled under his skin but it was mostly because of stupid insignificancies like shutting the toilet seat (if only he'd been straight; he would have made some lucky woman very happy) or leave his one-use toothbrush sitting precariously on the edge of the sink. He swore up and down multiple times that Cas was Human 2.0, devoid of any mental or physical technicalities that would make him less perfect.
Sam returned to his dorm closer to three thirty—the sun still high and the streets bleeding into the campus still derelict—and immediately began shrugging off his sweater after he stepped through the door. If he was lucky he could still catch the stain while it was semi-fresh and saturate the thing in lather before he was short a shirt.
He neared his nightstand that held spare tees when he heard a strange noise. It sounded stifled but it was tangible. After a moment's hesitation, nothing came of it. Sam was in the process of removing his shoes when the noise came again, louder and clearer—it was definitely something human.
He lunged for the .45 Caliber underneath his pillow in one swift move. Cautiously, he advanced toward the other side of the room toward Cas's bunk. His best friend/roommate wasn't due for another two hours at least, so that had to have meant that someone else was getting their freak on underneath his bed. Their hall was next to a fraternity, so Sam's money was on a freshman using the 5 o-clock excuse. Either way, he'd run before he shot. And even if he didn't it was his grave mistake because concentrated rock salt may not leave a nasty wound, but it hurt like hell to get blasted with. Sam learned that the hard way.
Then the covers moved. Sam leveled the gun on the bed but not before the covers began to pull back. He was more startled by the fact that the stranger's face wasn't that of a stranger's—his blue eyes were an immediate giveaway.
"Cas?" he uttered incredulously.
Said man heaved his smaller stature into an upright position. Sam stowed his gun in the side pocket of his jeans, sat down, and scrutinized the young gent. (He had told Cas about the "family business" early on so that he could avoid awkward moments like these.) He was still in the clothes he wore yesterday. The bottom half of his eyes was swollen and sullied red, no different from his nose and lips. Physically, he didn't look incapacitated but that didn't explain why he wasn't looking at him. Sam's never seen him cry, he didn't know how to take it. He grabbed his face in his hand. It probably wasn't the smartest move but dammit he was out of options and his sanity was leaning further and further out of reach.
Thankfully, his compulsive action earned him the small response, "Sorry I woke you, Sam."
Prudently, he scooted closer. He didn't want to asphyxiate him in noxious lovie-dovie fumes if he wasn't seeking solace, but he was nonetheless concerned for his wellbeing. "Cas, it's three in the afternoon. What's up?"
"Not much," he replied, running the back of his hand over his nose, "just muddling through allergies."
"You're a terrible liar."
Cas eyed Sam's exposed chest like he'd seen a ghost—which was totally not "just an expression" for a Winchester. "Where's your shirt?"
"Don't go changing the subject on me, Novak," he warned.
"What do you want me to say?" Cas defended sharply, sniffling into his scrunched-up sheet. "That I've been cooped up in my bed all day, crying my eyes out like a single mom stuck on the Hallmark Channel? That's real manly."
Sam shook his head. "Manly? Cas, what—?"
"They never showed, okay?" he blurted. "My family, they never showed."
Clarity hit him like a bat out of hell. A few weeks ago, there was a special orientation in the conference hall. Parents and family were welcome on campus for one last shindig before their sons and/or daughters were shipped to their respective dormitories and never heard from until the distant holidays. Sam remembered because Dean used the one-time occasion to visit him. He remembered the rush of joy he felt when he was swept into his big brother's arms. He never heard the end of Dean's appraisal that night, how proud he was of his kid brother and how their parents would've been too.
Cas didn't have the luxury of any of that. Cas was so certain his parents would show that he rented a gorgeous tuxedo and waited hours before he was informed that they weren't on the guest list. Cas had a feeling it had to do with his sexuality because the last time he said a word to them was when he was eighteen, packing for Stanford, and dropped the g word. That was two years ago.
Cas insisted immediately after the event that he wasn't bothered and shrouded it well underneath layers of tear-stained sheets until today.
"Have you tried calling? Maybe their flight got cancelled or they lost the address to the school—"
"Don't make excuses for them," Cas replied swiftly, averting his gaze to stare at his fingers. Yeah, even Sam had to admit that those were pretty lame defenses. He'd really have to work on his coaxing if he was going to be a lawyer. "I know when to leave well enough alone."
Sam scrunched his mouth at that; he could practically feel the tension in the room. He wanted to tell Cas that he liked him the same—that no matter life's cruel hand, he would never fail to be where he is now, beside him at his beck and call. But Cas knew. He knew that his best friend would always be there for him over his own blood family, and that's why he was in tears.
"Well if you're gonna stay in bed so am I," he said, lifting from the mattress.
Cas sat up straighter. "Sam, you have a ten o'clock tomorrow, you can't—"
"Cas, please, I can't strain my voice. I think I'm coming down with a nasty strep." Sam faked a cough and smiled when he saw the corners of his Cas's face turn up as well.
"Sam Winchester, you are a bad influence."
"You lie."
Sam threw his arms up, laughing hysterically. "I swear, dude. I met Paris Hilton on a hiking trip near Toronto Lake. Dean got to sleep with her sister, but they were pretty nice."
"So were they both wearing steel-toed boots…?" Cas's eyes crinkled at the corners and Sam had half a mind to refrain from shoving him off the top bunk. He muttered an insufficient "shut up" and pulled Cas closer to his chest not before ruffling his hair. It was nearing nine o'clock and Sam, now clad in flannel PJ bottoms and a sleeveless white shirt, decided it was a perfect time for one of their famous crappy horror flick viewings. They were both equally as broke, so the only way they could afford movie nights was to, well, not pay for them. Luckily, the Wi-Fi in their building was solid so he could stream House of Wax effortlessly on his war-torn laptop.
It was halfway to the part where Wade's jaw was getting sliced by the culprit when he heard soft snoring on his shoulder. Sam smiled, closing his PC, and carried his roommate down the stairs to the lower bunk. (Sam thought it would be in his best interest to never let his best friend fall asleep on the top bunk again. If he wasn't mistaken, Cas still had the scar on his upper thigh to prove it.) Sam laid him down on his back, letting Cas situate himself how he wanted.
He couldn't bring his own body to bed quite yet. Countless hours of research and cramming for finals turned him into a night owl, leaving him to seek out nocturnal activities that would keep him occupied for a few more hours without waking his roommate.
He decided to write to Dean back in Lawrence. If he was lucky, he could still catch him while he was awake… which was only when Carmen was deliberately keeping his eyes open… yeah, on second thought he'll skip the instant chat and send him an e-mail. He plugged in his headphones to rid his mind of brother sex.
A few sentences into his body paragraph he glanced over his screen to find Cas shifting idly onto his side, hugging his sheets like his college tuition depended on it. Sam set his laptop aside, swung his legs over his lumpy futon, and made his way to the other side of the room. Just looking at him made him hot—the guy was bundled in three layers of fabric and it wasn't even October yet. Suddenly Sam felt selfish, hogging a lot of unnecessary warmth.
Mind you, both bunks barely classified as twins so Sam slipped into the sophomore's bed by a hair's breadth. He knew he was probably breaching some bro-code of conduct but he didn't care. Inadvertently, one of his hands snaked around his Cas's stomach; pressing his back flush against his frontal. Cas stirred mutely, causing his head lean into Sam's neck just above his collarbone. He felt his roommate's breathing even out as he fell asleep soundly underneath his nose. Sam held on tight with everything he had and waited for his own body to undergo the same trail.
It wasn't until the following morning when he had unconsciously leaned down and kissed his very much conscious best friend that he realized the DA's office was the least of his problems.