A/N: Just a thought that popped into my head. Of course it's kind of angsty, because…well, that's what I do.
Disclaimer: not mine, yada yada.
Review—I implore! : )
College is everything he'd expected, and, he's beginning to fear—nothing that he wants.
The first day is a long stretch of wondering around the campus, dazed circles of the great buildings, getting him just excited enough to turn and make a jubilant remark to Dean.
Except Dean's not there.
And back to the start, of loneliness, of depression…and worst of all, the sneaking, whispering sensation that he's made a mistake.
If Dean was here, he'd say something reassuring, or maybe not, just scoff and call Sam a whiny little girl—but he'd say something…anything.
It's too tempting, so Sam gives in to the ache in his heart and the abyss in his mind and lets himself imagine.
It's still the wrong side of comforting, but it keeps him from feeling so utterly empty.
"Dude," imaginary-Dean pesters him, "did you see that pub on the way in? O'Leary's. Irish. Red-heads."
Sam half-smiles. "College isn't all chicks and shots, Dean," he answers, in his mind.
He can almost see Dean's disbelieving headshake. "Then why the hell are you here?"
Sam doesn't answer that one. Safe—too safe—in his own thoughts, it's dangerously easy to open up and explain every fragment of the Why. His brother may not really be here, but Sam has a vivid imagination and he can't bring himself to envision the would-be pain on his brother's face.
I left because Dad was holding me back, and you didn't stop him.
I know you love me, Dean, and I love you too—but not enough to stay.
That burns, and surely, it isn't true. I loved him enough to stay, but he didn't ask for that.
He didn't ask because he loves you too much for that.
Sam shoves the thought away, knowing full well that in a contest of self-sacrifice and long-suffering devotion, Dean wins hands-down.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way, man," he pleads miserably, but imaginary-Dean doesn't answer the thought.
He's back in full force later, however, when Sam is doing his first day student-errands…getting his schedule ("Dude, chick at the desk looks hot. Ask her when she gets off."), buying his books ("The hell, Sam? Art history? What kind of pansy crap is that?"), even stopping in to grab some new shirts at a local thrift store ("Plaid not good enough for you, college boy?") ("There's a bloodstain on the collar of this shirt, Dean. A bloodstain. It's going to raise some eyebrows.").
His roommate is a clean-cut guy in jeans that were made to look distressed and a collared shirt that probably cost eighty dollars. "I'm Tucker," he says, extending a hand to Sam with a smile that's cautiously polite. "Tucker Crandall."
Imaginary-Dean snorts. ("Tucker Crandall? Seems like a smarmy bastard.")
Sam almost laughs, then catches himself. "Nice to meet you. I'm Sam."
("Guess you don't have to put up with Sammy anymore, huh.") Imaginary-Dean sounds almost wistful, and Sam frowns. He doesn't need to be guilted by a figment of his imagination.
He grabs lunch at the dining hall. It's a little like the countless high-school cafeterias he's known, but nobody tries to trip him. In fact, the crowds part before him and he realizes, suddenly, that he probably can take care of himself.
He'd known that. Of course he had; that was why he was here. But it hurt, just a little.
("Don't get cocky, jerkface.")
He feels his shoulders relax. The pain lessens, jut a little.
("Why are you getting a salad? You don't have to prove anything to anyone now; get a freakin' burger!")
He's about to come up with a witty (mental) retort when he catches a whiff of perfume.
"Um…hey there."
He turns, looking down.
Brunette in a sundress. She's cute. Dean would say something else, but it's Sam's mind, thankyouverymuch, and he won't put up with imaginary-Dean's…colorful…remarks.
"Hi," he says.
"Salad," she says. She smiles. "Healthy choice."
"Yeah."
He feels (and looks, probably) like a buffoon. A giant buffoon.
"Hey…so, um, some people I met and I are, like, going out to O'Leary's tonight. To get to know each other." Her eyes flick up, flirtatiously. Flirtatiously? He thinks so, anyway. He's not the expert at this.
"Cool." He stares at his lettuce.
"You should…you should, you know, come. If you want."
He finds his tongue at last, and of course, misuses it. "Yeah—thanks, I just…I need to unpack a lot of stuff and I thought I'd check out the library…"
She's nonplussed. Of course she is. "Oh. Okay. Well, if you…um, change your mind—that's fine. See ya."
He didn't even catch her name. Imaginary-Dean is cursing him out, almost wearily. ("Seriously? She got past the salad and you blow it with the library?")
Sam smirks at his own ineptitude. ("Well, I do actually want to see the library.")
Imaginary-Dean's voice grows fond. ("'Course you do, geekboy. You're hopeless.")
Hopeless or not, the library satisfies Sam's wildest dreams. He wanders the aisles, picking up a book here or there to flip reverently through its pages, breathe in the scent of clean paper and acrid ink…
("Sammy, it's boring in here. You're huffing books; what am I supposed to do—get high off the reference center?")
And just like that, he can picture Dean leaning up against the shelves, a twinkle in his eye even as he pretends to be impatient. The truth is, Dean never really minded taking Sam to libraries. They made him happy, and that's what Dean cared about.
But Sam's got to keep up appearances, so he says, "Shut up, Dean."
The words echo in the empty space, and Sam's throat freezes up. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.
But he did, and his eyes are forced open to see—really, truly, see—that Dean isn't here.
No comforting presence, even in his mind.
Sam feels emptier than ever.