Chapter Three

Castiel woke up at three in the afternoon. To his surprise, he was fairly sure he didn't have a hangover – he neither had a headache nor any light sensitivity, although his stomach felt a little unsettled. His bedsheets, which had been tucked around him, hadn't moved at all; he must have been sleeping the sleep of the dead. Pieces of the night were coming back to him. It was like he remembered everything – because he did, he remembered arriving, the firepit, drinks, smoking, shots, laughing a lot, talking to girls, talking to Dean. He remembered everything, but it was like all of the details were smudged together, and while he knew he'd talked and seemed to get along with people, he couldn't remember faces or what he'd talked about. That knowledge made him very uncomfortable, and he frowned, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them slowly again.

Once he figured out his surroundings, he ventured for a bathroom. Dean's house was quite a bit less overwhelming in the daytime; last night, his vision had been so skewed that for some reason he'd thought this hallway was one of the most beautiful places he'd ever been. (His memory jogged a little and he remembered colors, Dean's hand on his arm, the dull roar of his words, following him into the bedroom. There had been laughter, and again, he couldn't really remember what had happened. Just impressions of the memory. And his impressions made his face flush, eyes dilate, impressions of desire buried under his high.) Now, it was just like any hallway – the walls were painted a tasteful beige, and it was decorated with various photos of Sam, Dean, and the family mounted to it. He took pause at a full family portrait – a much younger looking Dean was smiling with his all his teeth, standing in front of his parents, who were both young and beautiful, the swaddle of Sam supported in his mother's arms. He made his way to the bathroom to get the evidence of debauchery off his body.

After he was done getting cleaned up, he pulled his clothes back on, made sure he had everything he'd came with, and made to leave. Downstairs, the place was a wreck. Worse than he'd remembered. Cup after cup of beer was on its side, and occasionally the carpet was interrupted with stains, or flipped ash trays, or a pipe that had been dropped or turned over on its side. He didn't see anyone still around – the couples who'd slept over last night had come and gone, plenty of signs that they'd been there but no fresh ones. No phones sitting on wall chargers, no coffee cups, nothing. He frowned, heading into the kitchen, catching sight of a message written on a whiteboard stuck to the fridge. He snorted a little on principle – it was so domestic looking, but then he was reminded of Dean's parents. Dead parents. If Dean hadn't bought that thing (which he probably hadn't), that meant it was a relic of their's. Something he couldn't get rid of.

Cas,

At work. Call me when you wake up, you've got my number. Your keys are in the freezer.

Dean

Castiel didn't call him. He did, however, fetch his keys from the freezer and send Dean a text several hours later, confirming he was okay and that he made it home. And when he was home, he slept.


He spent the weekend doing homework. Almost all of his classes had homework due Monday or Tuesday, so despite the slight hangover he'd had on Saturday, by Sunday he was feeling fine. Dean had sent him a couple of texts, and Castiel only responded to one. He didn't mean to be distant, but the night was sort of a fog. He remembered pleasure, a powerful body high that had wrapped him and kept him more secure than he'd ever felt. He remembered talking – and talking – and talking, and he sensed he'd said things he wouldn't have wanted Dean to know. Personal things. He also remembered Dean telling him things about dead parents, and he pressed his lips together, and on the floor next to his books his phone vibrated again. He ignored it.

If Dean was annoyed with him, he didn't show it when he sat down next to him in their Physics lecture that Monday.

"Cas!"

He attributed the sense of familiarity when Dean called him that to the party – they must have come up with that nickname then. Part of him wanted to hate it on principle; he couldn't party like that again, Dean was a bad influence. Dean was the kind of person your parents warned you about. He wore a leather jacket, for God's sake – he literally looked like the stereotypical Bad Kid in one of those drug resistance videos. And yet, he wasn't. Castiel knew that. He knew that for everything Castiel did in the party, Dean never pressured him to do it – always offered, and always followed it with 'but don't feel obligated, you don't have to.' The way Dean was smiling at him, he felt a swell of emotions (guilt) wash over him, but he just gave him a very small smile back and said "Dean."

"How about that party, right?"

"It was very fun. You'll have to invite me to your next social event."

"Sure thing, man." Dean looked like he had something else he wanted to say – there were a number of physical cues that indicated that was the case, but he said nothing further. Castiel frowned a bit at that, he'd wanted a little more out of him than sick party bro, but then he scolded himself. Really, he was being passive aggressive. He was the one who'd ignored him all weekend, and now he was getting frustrated because Dean wasn't talking enough? Dean, who talked and talked and talked; Castiel probably would barely have to stimulate the conversation and Dean would just run with it, going on about stuff like Iron Maiden and what, exactly, makes Chevrolet the quintessential American car. He was at school to learn, not to… pine. Or whatever he was doing.

The professor walked in, and he began taking notes.

The rest of his week was enjoyable for the most part. In his Drawing class, they worked with charcoal, and even Castiel, who managed to keep his oil paints only on the palette and even frumpy looked more put together than most of the school, looked like an art student for a while. In painting, they continued to work on the mind-numbing still life he'd been dealing with since day one, but his painting looked good. His professor swore they'd be working with the figure after this, which gave him something to hope for. In English, the class was completely dedicated to paperwriting, and he was hashing out short essays on various topics about once a week. In Art Practices, he'd finally gotten an idea together for his newspaper project, which made him feel infinitely better. He'd abandoned whatever inspiration he'd gotten from the obituaries in lieu of something else, but the paper still set in the crumpled heap at the bottom of his bag, crushed under his supplies.

It was boring week, but it was a good week. Boring was good. It was simple.

He was beginning to make Friends Who Were Not Dean, and he didn't really know if that was a good thing. A very attractive girl in his Painting class had asked for his facebook, but Castiel had responded that he didn't have one, which seemed to throw her for a loop. So they'd exchanged numbers instead. She was very, very talkative, not unlike Dean, and she swore a lot and on Thursday, he was fairly sure she came to school inebriated, but she wasn't bad company. She seemed to be very informed about art, and in that way she was a good conversationalist. He also met a young man in Art Practices named Jimmy, who was socially awkward, but seemed like a nice enough person. His concentration was Illustration, with the intention of travelling to foreign countries and doing comic art. It seemed a little far fetched to Castiel, but Jimmy just gave him small smiles and, on a day when Castiel had expressed his hunger, offered him part of his lunch.

They were nice people, but they were Friends Who Were Not Dean.

During the week, campus was suddenly clogged with events that he was being encouraged to go to left and right. They called it Frosh Week. After classes on Monday, he found himself swindled into going to a Philosophy Club meeting, even though he had never taken a Philosophy class in his life and knew very little about what anyone was talking about. Tuesday morning, he found himself at a Greek Affairs meeting, munching on free pizza as students representing the various sororities and fraternities tried to convince him he should go Delta Gamma or Theta Zeppelin or whatever it is they were selling. On Wednesday, Dean of all people convinced him to skip Physics so they could go to the Student Organization fair. Upon inquiriry, he learned that each stall would have free food and "those sorority chicks sure can cook". Out on the impeccably manicured lawn in from of the University Center, hundreds of stalls were set up, people handing out flyers, clutching clipboards, collecting candy in royal blue bags emblazoned with KU's logo. Dean just kept smiling in that way he does, showing all his teeth and with his eyes lit up, and he and Castiel ate their way through every Greek organization, all of the foreign language clubs, most of the more obscure sports, and several social activist groups.

Dean didn't sign up for anything – no matter how many papers were shoved in his face, or clipboards asking for his name and KU email, he just smiled and said no, no thank you, it's not my thing. Castiel wasn't so lucky. He was hardly a pushover, but in a moment of weakness he gave his information to the Spanish Club (he had no interest in Spanish, but the food they'd brought was delicious), and with Dean laughing behind him he found himself signing up for the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws.

Thursday, the Baptist Collegiate Ministry was having a cookout in front of their building. Castiel was a Methodist like his mother, so joining the BCM probably wasn't going to happen, but he spent quite a bit of time there, munching on cheeseburgers and talking to people. Being there, surrounded by people who loved God, reminded him that he really needed to find a church, and there were three or four he'd seen driving around campus that looked promising. After he'd finished his fourth free burger, he bid them adieu and promised himself that on Sunday, he'd be going to church just like his mother had raised him to.

He spent most of Friday at school, working in the painting studio to finish up his piece and starting on a liquid graphite rendering (in a new position) of the still life they'd been working on for the past two weeks. In this position, he was facing the skeleton directly, and it made for a very strange piece. All the other elements of the still life, from the vases to the flowers to every other little knickknack their professor had thrown together, was visible in the negative spaces between the bones, and it almost looked as if they were blooming out of it. He worked on the drawing with his laptop open next to him for several hours, listening to some of the bands Dean had texted him to try out, and when he considered himself finished, he spray-fixed his drawing and packed up his things. It was a good day, a productive day, and yet when he thought of the empty apartment waiting for him at home, the hedonistic part of himself wished Dean was throwing another party.

Instead, he went to the Wash World off the corner of Lamar from his apartment, and cleaned everything he owned. Doing laundry at the Laundromat always looked so cheap, even a little soothing, in movies and TV, but it was neither. It cost $1.25 per load, and since Castiel had three loads of laundry, he was out $7.50 and three hours of his time by the time everything was washed and dried.


On Saturday, he texted Dean. The apartment could always be cleaned more, but Castiel was sick of cleaning, and he didn't know anyone else that well. Yes, there were people he'd met in art, but he wasn't quite on the level with any of them yet where he could ask if they wanted to spend time with him. Dean, however, was. So he sent him a message asking if he wanted to see a movie. About thirty seconds later, his phone rang. Castiel frowned. His mother used to do this – he'd send her a text asking her if he could go somewhere, and instead of just responding, she'd call, which elevated the sense of urgency. Regardless, he swiped the screen and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

Wherever Dean was, it was loud. "What- Hey! Cas, sorry, I'm on break right now at the shop and I thought it'd be faster if I called."

Castiel realized the crackling sound in the background was an electric welder. "Right." He cleared his throat, speaking a bit louder. "Yes. I finished up my homework for the weekend except for an English theme and I need something to do. Would you like to see a movie with me?"

Dean yelled something that sounded an awful lot like LIKE A DATE?

Castiel found himself shouting into the phone, feeling a bit silly since his apartment was completely silent. "WHAT?"

"LIKE A DATE, MAN."

Ah. So that was what he'd said. He felt his ears flush.

"NO, LIKE… I DON'T KNOW." He dropped his voice, still speaking loudly but not outright yelling. He felt silly. "Nevermind. I see this breeches a social norm. Perhaps you could bring some of your other friends if you feel uncomfortable with it just being you and myself?"

"WHAT?"

Castiel rolled his eyes in frustration – really, Dean couldn't have answered his phone somewhere a little more quiet. "I SAID. YOU CAN BRING SOME OF YOUR FRIENDS IF IT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE."

There was a shrill noise on the other side of the line, grinding, and then near silence.

"Shit, Cas, sorry about that, what were you saying? They're doing reno in here too, and on top of the shop sounds this place is a friggen nightmare. I should have just texted you."

Castiel hated repeating himself. Castiel hated repeating himself even more when apparently Dean was feeling a little (sexually harassed? Isn't that how he'd put it when Dean had asked him to his house party?). He let out a sigh, lowering his voice again. "I'm not asking you out on a date. I'm asking you to a movie."

"But if I was asking you on a date, to any movie you wanted to go to up to and including the one you had in mind, would you still say yes?"

Oh.

To say Castiel's mind was racing would be an understatement. On some level, he was panicking. His first thought was of his mother. She was very pretty for her age; she hadn't even had him that young, but she aged gracefully, only the slightest peaks of crow's feet in her eyes revealing what she'd seen in her life. Her hair had always been blonde, usually wrapped up in attractive buns because that had been the fashion for female professional's in the 90s and that was what she wore. She wore dresses, or dress suits, and never too much makeup because she said it was improper for a lady to paint herself into objectification. He remembered her, in the blue dress with the thin white belt at her waist, how she looked like she was from a different time when she picked him up from school the day he realized he had a crush on a boy named Zach. He remembered her smiling and asking how school was, and how the guilt festered in his stomach, less like a crush and more like a disease.

He remembered his first kiss, and how Becky Rosenbaum's lips had been so soft, how her whole body had been soft, and how he'd felt something stir in the bottom of his stomach, a low rustle of desire. He remembered his second kiss, with a different girl, and his third and his fourth, and even his first girlfriend, whom he dated for three weeks before she broke it off. She'd said he was boring, and he'd agreed. When he touched her, those rustles of desire he'd felt with Becky, on the floor playing spin the bottle at Mary Abernathy's 12th birthday party, those rustles were gone. Stifled. He remembered girlfriend number two and three; once he'd really hit puberty, his voice dropped so low you'd think he gargled glass before bed, the girls were interested. And he always sort of was, sort of wasn't.

He remembered prom with Erin Smith, who wasn't that pretty but she made him laugh hard, and carried herself like she knew things. Bad things. She'd been from Delaware, then Tennessee, then California, and finally, England, and when he'd asked her about it, she'd been standoffish, mysterious. Mysterious like Dean. He'd been into that, into the way she made dirty jokes, listened to old music, introduced him to weird independent films – in the small town of Destiny, she'd been something else. He'd grown up with every beautiful girl in Destiny, and something about seeing the same girls discovering their sexuality whom he'd seen peeing themselves laughing at the 2nd grade talent show turned him off.

He fingered Erin on prom night, and they never talked after that. It had been awkward, robotic, and his penis stayed half-hard whenever she rubbed him through his pants, but never any more than that, and when he was done fingering her all he'd really wanted to do was wash his hands. He didn't want to slam her into the wall and mount her, he wasn't overcome with the kind of desire all of his friends had for each other, their hormones telling them to procreate resulting in unwanted pregnancies and shotgun marriages. He just didn't feel it.

He thought of his old church. Thought of worried women coming to the front and telling stories of their nephews, who might be homosexuals, and asking everyone to pray for them. He thought of his mother, looking affronted, bowing her head in prayer, no doubt asking God to forgive them, for they knew not what they were doing.

He thought of Dean, gripping his arm and dragging him up the stairs, helping him into bed. He thought of red and blue lights over Dean's face, of green eyes and freckles, of firepits and weed and screwdrivers in red plastic cups. He thought of pizza and laughter, of calloused hands, of Dean's hands on an electric welder, not building art with it in the sculpture shop but piecing cars back together. Of dirty rags and greasy jeans, of leather jackets that smelled like whiskey and pipe tobacco, of stupid jokes and classic rock. He thought of Dean, sweat running down his white wifebeater, hands gripping steel as he heaved weights the first time Castiel saw him, and he felt it. He felt it the way he'd felt it with Becky, spinning a root beer bottle because they wanted to be cool with adults, drink of out dark brown glass and pretend it was beer, but they were just twelve, and they weren't ready to do the things adults do.

The spark of desire, low in his gut.

It scared him.

"Cas? You there, buddy?" Dean sounded nervous. "Listen, I'm, uh, sorry if that was presumptuous. You just keep staring at me the way you do, and I thought you were into it. I'll just never talk to you again, don't overreact and try to stake me for being a fag or something."

He jolted out of his thoughts. "Steak you? What does that mean?"

"Stake me. You know? Like a vampire. Or you know, burn witches at the stake and stuff? More like that because then I'd be a flaming homosexual."

Castiel laughed before he could stop himself. He could hear Dean exhale, then laugh too, and they both just laughed for a while. His nervousness eased out of him a little, but he wasn't okay, and while the dominant part of him wanted to impulsively say yes the way he'd done in accepting his invitation the party, he knew he couldn't do that. This was different, this crossed a line into sin. Castiel had never been the type who was overly obsessed with sin, not like some of the members in his church, but he was devout. He remembered the exact day he'd been saved, and he knew he loved God, more than anyone. More than his mother, and certainly much more than Dean. He also knew there were multiple interpretations of the bible, and he tended to interpret it loosely, but this… this was different. Wasn't it? He'd been raised to believe homosexuals were pitiable. That they were so clouded with their lust that they were incapable of leading virtuous lives, and would inevitably go to hell. Dean certainly didn't seem blinded with lust, but maybe that was Castiel's own lust talking. Blinding him, trying to sway him into doing something he knew he shouldn't.

Dean continued to speak in his silence. "Uh… okay. Well. If you change your mind, call me. Or, you know what, text me. It's loud here."

"Sure. Okay, Dean."

He hung up.


Dean had unwittingly planted the seed that would lead Castiel down the path of temptation. Of course, neither of them knew this – when Castiel hung up, he'd taken a shower, made himself brunch, and headed out to the local Methodist churches, meeting some of the members and trying to figure out which one was right for him. If anything, he felt strengthened after turning Dean down – he wasn't angry at him, filled with internalized homophobia that was threatening to burst out of him. He didn't feel threatened, or disgusted, or even sorry. He felt strong. He'd fought temptation, and as always, the Lord would provide.

And the Lord did. Less than a block from his house, First United Methodist had been exactly what he needed. They'd given him plenty of reading material, talked to him animatedly about how much it pleased them to have young people interested in the Gospel of Christ, and invited him to join them again the next day. So he had. On Sunday morning, he wore his nicest clothes, his pressed slacks with the leather belt, a soft blue dress shirt, and a tie, cleaning up pretty well for an art student. He'd stayed after the sermon, meeting older people who welcomed him to town and a few college-aged members who seemed a bit wary of him. But still, he was happy. This was a good thing. He had somewhere to go if he needed to talk to God, and that was almost as comforting as hearing Dean call him Cas.

In an attempt to prove he wasn't a bigot, he sat next to Dean, as per usual, in Physics. Dean seemed surprised by this, but Castiel had told him that while he was fairly sure his feelings towards him weren't romantic (fairly sure being defined as only "there's a slight chance I'm not attracted to you"), he still wanted to remain friends. Dean had nodded and smiled, albeit it seemed forced, and Castiel tried to not be bothered by that.

He had his first real critiques that week, on his Paintings, Drawings, and Newspaper project. It wasn't as brutal as he'd expected it to be – Castiel seemed to actually have talent, not just Talent-for-Destiny. That had always been a worry of his, that when he went to school, he'd realize that just because he was good in a one stoplight town where a flat chested girl named Erin with an eating disorder was considered mysterious, didn't mean that he was good anywhere else. But he was. That was relieving – he certainly wasn't the best, but he had time to get better. His Drawing teacher left the still life up, rearranging it and taking some of the skeleton apart for a better understanding of human anatomy, but Castiel was just fine with that. It was a good still life, very stimulating, and his professor told them with pride that they'd be starting wet media. The real relief in the critiques, however, came in his Painting and Art Practices class. While the Painting critique had been brutal, they'd be starting on self-portraits, in a style of painting he'd never done before that utilized ultra-thin glazes of color. In Art Practices, the critique for the newspaper pieces had taken two whole periods, due to the fact that his professor seemed literally incapable of shutting up, but they were highly informative and by the end of it, Castiel had a list twenty names long of famous artists he needed to look up.

Dean didn't call him or text him again, and Castiel didn't know how to feel about that. Good, he supposed, because Dean obviously had sexual feelings for him, which Castiel had no right to return. Bad, because he was lonely again. Lonelier than before.

Towards the end of the week, he made a formal inquiry to his landlord about what it would cost to have a pet, on the basis that his apartment had a mouse problem. That was a lie, but Castiel had sworn when he'd signed the lease that he had no intention of having pets, since they tended to scratch up the floor. The landlord looked utterly alarmed by the idea of mice, which made Castiel feel bad for his little white lie, but (to his surprise), he conceded that the properties had always had rodent issues, especially during the summer, and that if he was getting a cat to catch the mice, he couldn't charge Castiel a pet deposit in good conscience.

So, he lied. Apparently he'd been doing all sorts of sinning lately. Lying, drinking, smoking. Seducing men. But as long as he asked for forgiveness, these little sins would be forgiven. It was with that in mind that he went to an animal shelter and found himself a kitten, a soft little ball of fluff that had taken a liking to him from the moment he stepped through the door. She was so small, in fact, that he felt clumsy and brutish in her wake, able to hold her in one hand and feeling her little lungs rattle as she sucked in a breath. She was tiny, but perfect and important, and suddenly he remembered a piece of a dream he'd had the night before. In it, Dean was dead. Not just dead, but long dead, but Castiel scooped him in his massive hands and cleaned him up. Squeezed the rot out of his corpse, breathed life into his muscles and knotted the massive wounds in his chest back together. Felt his lungs rattle in his hands as he breathed again.

Then, it was gone. He named the cat Mia, after his mother.


The weekend passed in a blur. Mia kept him busy, which in turn kept him not-lonely, but he'd come to terms with the fact that he had a (very, very small) crush on Dean Winchester and was trying to forget about it. He spent quite a bit of time working on his sketchbook, or practicing with Stonehenge paper, trying to get comfortable with using ink from an inkwell, and the many ways to lay down inkwashes. He went thrifting and found himself a television, and although it was an old television with color that always seemed a little too orange, hooked up to his XBOX he now had Netflix in his living room. He didn't quite have the income to swing for cable TV, but he made use of the internet by watching Twin Peaks all weekend while he sketched or wrote themes for his English class. And despite the tug he felt in his gut whenever Dean sent him a text (which was, fortunately, not often), it was a good weekend. Church that Sunday was good.

School that Monday was bad.

When he woke up and checked his school email, he found his Drawing professor had sent him an email saying class was cancelled. Two hours later, he woke up again, and his school email was almost full with the number of alerts and KU Police emails he'd received. Drawing had been cancelled, and then ten minutes later, an email saying all classes in the Art Building would be suspended for today, and until the… What? Until the police wrapped up their investigation, all classes in his Drawing classroom would be moved to the printmaking lab. He shuffled through emails, looking for answers. Twenty minutes after the KU Police service had sent out an email declaring the Drawing room was a (and this he could hardly believe), crime scene, the president of the university sent out an email saying that all classes would be suspended for the day.

Castiel frowned. His phone, which had woken him up with an alarm, had two missed calls and about ten missed texts, all from Dean.

7:30am: Don't get out of bed today, something happened at the art bldg and there are cops everywhere

8:15am: sOMeone said it's a bomb threat

8:18am: Strike that theyre full of shit

9:15am: are you asleep

9:30am: when you wake up please call me

9:35am: seriously cas this is important

9:45am: Cas for real I know you don't want to be butt buddies but call me there's something serious going on

10:03am: didn't you say you took drawing?

10:55am: they're saying somebody's dead

11:02am: call me

Dead? Castiel's heart sunk. Cancelled classes, then cancelled school, cops everywhere, crime scenes? This was insane. Lawrence was safe; it wasn't even a real city. The only time anyone died here was of natural causes or drunk driving. Maybe a janitor had a heart attack in the art building. But then why would it be a crime scene? Why would they need to move to a different room? Images from cop shows were forming in his head, of blood spatter and knives sticky from coagulation, and that sick feeling in his stomach increased tenfold. He picked up his phone and called Dean.

"Hello?" It only took one ring.

"Hey—"

"Jesus Christ thank god you're okay."

"Of course-"

"No man, you have no idea how crazy it's been today. God, they wouldn't tell us fucking anything – just that there's a student dead in the drawing room, and there's cops everywhere, and there's no fucking way there'd be this huge of a police presence if it was a natural death, and for some reason I was so sure it was you because you said that art students had to do a lot of homework at school and I just totally freaked out, and you kept not answering your phone and because you're a freak of nature, you didn't have a Facebook, so I couldn't check you were, and Jesus Christ man you can't do me like that."

"I'm okay Dean. I swear." He paused, trying to process all the information he'd just heard. "I woke up and saw an email from my professor saying class was cancelled, so I went back to sleep. I didn't find anything out until just now."

"Okay." Dean exhaled – he sounded winded, maybe from running or just from yelling at him, Castiel didn't know. It was a welcome sound. "Okay. Okay cool. I'm glad you're okay, man."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you… okay, Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I'm okay."

They lapsed into silence, but Castiel wasn't ready to hang up. He sighed, still sitting in his bed, rumpled from sleeping well, a framed photo of he and his mother looking happy, all big smiles and hugging each other around the waist, staring up at him. "Do you want to go somewhere, Dean? Maybe get lunch? School is closed, and you sound… rattled."

"I'm not rattled!"

"Well, alright. We don't have to-"

Dean seemed to recognize his mistake immediately. "I mean, I'm totally rattled. We should get lunch. Then we can braid each other's hair and watch Sleepless in Seattle while waiting for our nails to dry."

Castiel laughed a little. "That sounds good, Dean. I don't really know the area, so just text me an address and a time and I'll meet you there."

"Yeah. Sure Cas, that sounds good."


Hey ya'll! Thanks for the feedback/follows/faves etc. See you next Saturday if I can - I'm sending my laptop in for repairs.