A/N: So this is a little two-shot I'm using to procrastinate my multi-chapter fanfic... so yeah.
Palo Alto: January 24, 2003
Sam stretched and rolled out of bed. Saturday had come—finally – and he could relax. For a little while, there wouldn't be a lecture to attend or notes to go over. He had a couple of essays to write, but Saturday morning wasn't the time for that. Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, he shuffled into the kitchen of the small apartment he rented with two other people and poured himself a bowl of generic-brand Cheerios. No sooner had he sat down at the cluttered table, a dark arm reached across his field of vision and smacked a newspaper on top of a pile of mail.
Luis, AKA the roommate who actually helped pay the rent, grunted a "Morning" and grabbed a bruised banana from the counter. Sam raised an eyebrow.
"You're up early," he observed, noticing the digital clock on the stove read a quarter past eight. "Where you headed?"
"Picking up a shift for someone," Luis answered miserably as he pulled on a sweatshirt. "It's hell." He headed for the door. "Oh, and if Sir Ty Fucking Brady decides to grace us with his presence, tell him he can shove it up his—"
"Yeah," Sam grinned, "I know. This is, what, the third time he's skimped on rent, right? Don't worry, I won't let it slide this time."
"Well, good," Luis said, taking a bite out of the banana. "'Cause it's getting really old really fast. See ya."
"Have fun," Sam said to the sound of a closing door. That left just him and the cereal. And, he thought as he caught sight of the newspaper, the Funny Pages.
He skimmed the headlining article before flipping to the comics. He chuckled under his breath, a little self-consciously, as he read Garfield's misadventures. As he skipped to the next comic, his eyes fell upon a small blurb on the opposite page.
And, well, old habits die hard.
"A reminder from the Palo Alto Police Department: around this time of year, muggings and other street violence increase in occurrence. Be sure to walk in pairs at night if you have to, but it's suggested that residents stay indoors after dark…"
A large part of him wanted to ignore the curiosity the blurb provoked, but instinct won over. He quickly flipped to the middle pages of the paper, knowing from years of experience that the unexplainable often hid smack-dab in the middle of the ordinary.
There it was.
It wasn't an editorial, or even a lengthy paragraph, but it was something. Sam read the few sentences that told of the disappearances of several students over the last five months. That was it. No connection between the disappearances and each one spaced out so far apart that the police couldn't make a case (not that they had much to go on). It probably shouldn't have ended up in the newspaper in the first place, had the writer's sister not been the most recent victim.
It was only a hunch, but he had gotten far by going with his gut feeling. But at the same time…
Sam sighed and flicked his bangs out of his eyes. Curse his knack for finding the supernatural. He knew he couldn't look into this case, not with the LSAT looming in the future and the everyday stress of Stanford. He couldn't risk any distraction, no matter who it hurt. Not him, not Luis, not his deadbeat roommate Brady, and not the families who would never see their sons or daughters or friends again.
"But I can't do nothing," Sam hissed, crumpling the newspaper in his fist. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he scrolled through his list of contacts until he found the only number without a name attached to it. The phone rang three times before the other line was picked up.
"Now is not a good time," an exasperated voice answered the call. Sam winced at the sound of glass shattering and a woman's scream.
"Dean, please tell me you're not on a job right now," Sam said.
"Just another day at the office, Sammy," Dean replied after a long pause and the distinct slick noise of a blade running through something Big and Bad. Sam rolled his eyes.
"Look, I can call back—"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean said quickly, "It's just a nest of bloodsuckers, nothing I can't handle. Besides, it's been what? Four, five months since we last talked?" Seven, Sam corrected silently, and not on friendly terms.
"A nest? By yourself?" Sam hissed into the phone. "Are you insane? Please tell me you have Dad with you at least."
"Dad's been sorting through some personal stuff," Dean spat out as he ganked another vampire. "And by that I mean I haven't seen him in the flesh for a while. He calls every now and then, but—" Dean grunted and was thrown against a wall. Sam heard the phone clatter to the floor.
"Dean?" Sam asked, suddenly realizing his brother was sacrificing his focus by talking to him.
"Gimme a second, I gotta take care of something," Dean wheezed. Sam listened, his lips a thin line of worry, as the muffled sounds of a fight came over the phone. "Okay, I'm back."
"You should have backup."
"I had backup," Dean said, feigning bravado, "but he had this weird thing about going somewhere you had to pay to go to school. What a creep, glad I ditched him."
Sam found himself rolling his eyes again. "The word you're looking for is 'college', and there are some things more important than money." Not that we ever had much of that.
"Right, like women, booze, and cars."
"Sure, Dean, that's exactly what I mean."
"Alright," Dean said, "quit your bitchin'. Look, I know with all the crap that went down with Dad there's only two reasons you'd be calling me. Either you misdialed a Chinese takeout place, or you're in actual trouble: and as much as I hope you're just drunk and hungry, I'm guessing it's the second. So spill."
Sam steeled himself. "I think there's a case in Palo Alto."
"The kidnappings? Naw, I'm pretty sure that's just humans, man," Dean said.
"How did you…"
"I've got my ear to the ground for shit in your area. I know you've got your school… stuff, or whatever, so I looked into it. No case, just some messed up guy with a thing for roofies and raves."
"But—"
"Nothing, trust me, Sammy," Dean assured him. "It's a bust."
"Oh."
"Sorry to disappoint," Dean snorted, "I didn't know you were interested in picking up a hunt for old times' sake."
"I'm not," Sam said sharply.
"Fine, whatever. So that's why you called?" Dean's voice had an odd edge to it. "Just the hunch?"
Sam drummed his fingers against the table. "Yeah, sorry if it took time away from chasing monsters and chicks or whatever it is you do these days. I won't…" his throat clenched when he remembered what he made Dean promise two years ago.
"If I leave," he said quietly, his back to the motel, "I leave for good. Just like Dad said. And I don't want you to call or visit or check in or anything, okay?"
"Sammy…"
Sam took a deep breath and faced Dean. The look on his older brother's face was enough to make the eighteen-year-old flinch away. "No, Dean, I mean it," he forced himself to say. "I want out, man. I can't be Dad's grunt anymore. It'll be easier this way."
He could pinpoint the exact moment Dean realized that this was real, this was happening. His brother's face relaxed into a cool mask just like the one he wore when Dad was giving him hell for something or other.
"Right," Dean replied, "Easier." He tilted his head away, brow furrowed. He sniffed and shook away whatever he'd been thinking of. "Sammy," Dean sighed, "Sammy, you gotta do what you gotta do. I'll stay out of your hair."
"Promise?"
A sad, tired smile that had seen too many goodbyes tweaked the corners of his mouth. "Cross my heart, little brother."
Dean kept his promise for a long time, longer than Sam thought he would, but as soon as the second of May rolled around, there was a hesitant message left on his answering machine. Sam would be lying if he said he hadn't been happy to hear his brother's voice again.
"I won't, you know," Sam continued awkwardly, "bother you again."
"No, no, Sammy, it's not that. I, uh, just," Dean loudly cleared his throat. "I just thought—never mind, it's not important." Sam pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing away the remaining grit. Could this conversation get more uncomfortable?
"Okay," he said with finality. He had a paper to write anyway. And he promised to meet that girl from his Latin class (what was her name again? Jenny? Jackie? Something like that; he'd have to figure it out before he left) for coffee. Yeah, he was really too busy to sit around listening to Dean breathe into the phone and stumble over small talk.
There was a pause from Dean's side, like he was waiting for Sam to say something else. He cleared his throat again. "It was nice hearing from you again, Sammy. Don't be—"
Sam hung up without saying goodbye. Dean wouldn't mind—though he had started acting a little weird at the end there. Sam pushed it from his mind and returned to the Funny Pages, smoothing out the wrinkles he'd caused.
By the time he'd finished the comics, his cereal bowl was empty – that included both cheerios and milk—and his feet were freezing. He tucked them up into the blanket and folded the newspaper. He probably should get dressed at some point, the thought crossed his mind lazily. Or he could just keep on sitting here and—
His eyes fell onto the date printed just below the bold font that read Stanford Weekly. January twenty-fourth. Huh, he smiled a bit, that was funny. Dean turned twenty-four today; it was his golden birthday. His smile froze. And slowly melted away as the realization hit him.
It was Dean's birthday.