"S..am." The voice on the other end of the phone was broken, choked with some nameless emotion.

Sam stopped rooting around in the little dorm icebox and shut the door, the bottles of beer they always had stocked up with the energy drinks giving the clink of rattling glass as he did. "Brady?" He wrinkled his brow, bracing for the worst, his defenses on guard immediately. "What's wrong?"

"I don't feel well." There was a pause and then he blurted. "I...I'm so confused."

"Woah," Sam said. "Calm down." His own voice took on a tone of patience as he drew himself to his full height, his immediate attention on the pending crisis at hand. "Confused how?"

"I...I can't explain it. It's like I've been blacking out or...something. I..." Brady cleared his throat. There was the sound of him moving, banging into something maybe.

"Are you drinking?"Sam asked.

No response.

"What are you on, man? ...pills? You hitting something stronger than Redbull and Ritalin?" Sam's eyes focused on the labrador picture on the wall. "Brady?"

"I. I'm..." Brady sounded terrifyingly disoriented.

"Okay." Sam ran a hand through his mop of brown bangs. "Let's start with the basics. Where are you?"

A pause. "Home. I'm in my bedroom." Sam realized that the sounds he had heard must have been Brady opening and closing dresser drawers.

"Okay good. Where is your family?"

"They're here."

"Why don't you go and tell them you need to see a doctor, okay? Just stay on the phone with me and go find them and tell them what is happening."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Distress was creeping into Brady's voice again. "I can't let them know what a f...fuck up I am. I'm such a fuck up, Sam!"

"Tyson..." Sam seldom used his first name. "You're scaring me, man."

"Sam," there was a quaver in the voice and he could almost see Brady huddled next to the wall in his mind's eye. "I just need someone to talk to."

"I'm here." Sam said patiently. "I can't help from where I am. You're states away. I don't even have a car to come get you."

"You don't have to get me." He sounded a little calmer suddenly. "I did get drunk and I woke up and found prescription...something that I must have taken." Sam heard the rattle of a half empty pill bottle. He knew the sound well enough from his father needing constant antibiotics and pain meds.

"Brady. Come on, man. Don't experiment with that shit. I've told you." Sam's voice grew harsh.

"Look, I know chemistry. I've only popped a few Ritalin once or twice to keep me awake and help me focus. You know that. Like literally once or twice."

Sam sighed. Dean had tried to keep his illicit activities largely away from him. The trouble was that Sam wasn't an idiot, and he knew that rather than admit a job was too much for him, Dean would turn to whatever helped him through it. Mostly alcohol and women- but Sam knew on rare occasions he'd used something of the pharmaceutical quality that he'd gotten his hands on somehow.

And here was Brady doing the same thing. Over fucking med school... at least Dean was dealing with life and and death and blood. Then it occurred to him Brady would be too. He'd just be on the repairing end rather than the knifing end.

"Well no more, okay? Just sleep it off, go talk to your family and have a good holiday. And I'll see you in a few weeks, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah I will. Thanks, buddy. You're always here for me."

Sam huffed, a little exhale through his nose. "Yeah I know." Then slightly suspiciously, as if it forbade something ominous, "Why are you getting all sappy on me?"

A small laugh. "Because you love that shit."

Sam huffed again. "Maybe. I'll be waiting with a dozen roses and a bottle of wine when you come back."

"Good. I like red."

"I know you do. Take care, buddy." Sam's thumb hovered over the end call button when Brady spoke again.

"Sam, how are things with you?"

Sam looked around the empty dorm. He liked having his own space. He was used to being alone while Dad and Dean were on hunts. It gave him time to think. Time to indulge his withdrawn nature. "I'm okay. I'm catching up on reading, picking up some extra hours at work."

"You ever call your brother like I said to?"

Sam paused. "No."

"You should..." Then there was a small hesitant pause and it seemed the timbre of Brady's voice changed just slightly. "Actually. Maybe if you did he wouldn't talk to you. It's been a while right?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's been a long time."

"Seems like if he really loved you he'd have made an effort."

Sam snorted, instinctively knowing that that theory was way off the mark. "He loves me. Our family is just screwed up."

"Worse than the Brady's?"

"Way worse."

"You're better than that." Brady sounded strangely authoritative. Confident. "You don't need that crap in your life."

Sam furrowed his brow at the conflicting opinion, chalked it up to whatever drug his friend was coming off of.

"Yeah, well that's partly why I walked out."

There seemed to be pointed interest on the other line of the phone. "You knew when to say you'd had enough. Good for you, Sam. You miss them?"

"Um." Sam hesitated, very uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. "Sometimes, I guess." He felt that hurt flare of anger he often did when he thought about his father throwing him out when he'd been accepted to Stanford. He could keep a good lid on it when he had to. He tamped it down. He waited for Brady to speak.

"I'll see you soon, buddy."

"Yeah you too, Brady. Stay off the crap, okay?"

"Nope, no crap for me. Starting now, I'm not taking any crap from anyone ever again. Take care of yourself."

Sam hung up and tossed his cell phone down on his too small mattress. He put his hands on his hips and gathered his thoughts. Maybe he'd push Brady to seek counseling when he got back. Sometimes he wished he, himself, could seek counseling. But what the fuck would he tell them? He'd have to lie about everything from the beginning of his life to now. There was only one, maybe two, people on the planet who really knew Sam Winchester.

Dean.

Dean knew him. Dean knew everything about him, just as he knew everything about Dean. It was nice at times, the shorthand they'd had between them. The easy familiar rhythm that made words unnecessary. Everything they meant to convey spoken with a raised eyebrow or a snort or a roll of the eyes. He and Brady were damned good friends, but they'd never achieved that level of intimacy. That sibling shorthand. Suddenly for the first time in a while, beneath all the hurt and anger, Sam truly, deeply missed his brother.