["Bobby"]

Sam pushed an overgrown strand of chocolate-brown fringe away from his head, head hovering over a 400-page text book that look, if not as old as Stanford itself, perhaps older. Gentle music drifted to him from the speakers of the battered black stereo that waited in the corner of the room for his roommate to come in and change its laid back pace to something a little more coarse than Sam's tastes.

Midway through the paragraph on the ethical treatment of animals in science laboratories, Sam's scratched-up cell phone mewed from the desk space beside him. Turns out, even on silent, broken gadgets couldn't be quiet.

"Hello?"

"Sam," He could almost hear the older man's weathered smiled. "How's it going?"

"Not too bad," Sam smiled softly, sliding a green promotional book mark from the local optometrist between pages 120 and 121. "How 'bout you, Bobby?" He closed the textbook gently.

"You haven't called your brother in a while," Bobby told him, bypassing Sam's inquisition.

Sam sighed, toying absently with the battered corner of the work desk. "It's a two way street."

"Don't mean you can't be the first car on it," Bobby replied gruffly. "He'd still wanna know if you're alive, son."

"Well, you can tell him I'm doin' fine here at Stanford, studying hard. Staying out of trouble." Sam tried to sound optimistic.

"He's family, Sam," Bobby reprimanded. "You can't escape that."

"It's not him I'm escaping."

Sam sensed a hesitation.

"Yeah, well, can't blame you for that. Damn stubborn son of a bitch, your daddy. Just promise me you'll call Dean, okay?"

"Yeah, soon," Sam sighed heavily.

Bobby couldn't try to believe his false promise.

"I've gotta go, Bobby." Sam pulled his text book open to the bookmarked page.

Bobby's voice dipped with disappointment, "See ya, kid."