A/N I'm still alive, and woefully out of practice in my writing. I haven't abandoned the story, and now that we might never get our show ending writing fics are the only things we have!
Stage 3: Bargaining
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
The fact of the matter was that statistics show that half of all marriages will end in divorce. Those are pretty steep odds for a decision that you are contemplating making for the rest of your life, and Jody wasn't much of a gambler when it came down to it. Of course marriages can end in other ways too, as she was all too painfully familiar already. Her father had spent a large part of her childhood mourning the wife he had loved as he raised their only child on his own.
Six hundred and seventy five...six hundred and seventy six....
Like many half orphaned children had done before her, Jody had lamented her unknown mother's absence on several milestones in her life. The first day of school, when Dad had tried his best to braid her stubborn hair like she had begged him, because so many little girls on the sappy TV shows she watched devotedly every day always had braids. Fumble fingered and frustrated, he had done it, even though half of it didn't make it into the loose plaits, sticking out at odd angles all day until a kind teacher's aide took pity on her and made her more Cindy Brady and less Pippi Longstocking.
The day of the Girl Scouts Mother/Daughter Tea, when Jody faked a barely convincing stomach ache instead of suffering the public humiliation of being accompanied by her decrepit great aunt Margaret. Her late grandmother's spinster little sister that insisted on living nearby so that Jody's father could occasionally call upon her for assistance when he felt out of his depth with "womanly" problems. Margaret had been occasionally helpful, but she also constantly smelled like cooked onions and clove cigarettes and had no personal filter when it came to dispensing her myriad of sharp opinions of others right in front of them.
Jody often felt that the bluntness she herself developed later in life might have been a result of afternoons spent with Great Aunt Margaret.
...six hundred and seventy seven...six hundred and seventy eight...
The night Dad found her crying in the basement laundry room as she desperately scrubbed at the menstrual blood stains on her faded but much loved Strawberry Shortcake sheets. His face looked decidedly sad, exuding an air of bedraggled helplessness, somehow suddenly older and more tired as he hugged her until the tears stopped. He didn't say anything as he helped her remake her bed with a set of plain pastel green linens, sitting next to her and gently rubbing her back until she felt into a troubled sleep. The only further acknowledgment of her transition into womanhood being a full bag of feminine products on her dresser the next morning along with a large selection of chocolates.
….six hundred and seventy nine...six hundred and eighty...
The disappointment she kept to herself when Danny Maxwell didn't ask her to the Winter Formal. The nervousness when Kevin Houseman did. The pang of hurt when Dad dropped her off alone at the mall with a credit card and a budget for buying her prom dress. The wistful longing for a mother's pride when she received her awards at graduation. The indecision of choosing a college that would take her away from the only home she had ever known.
…..six hundred and eighty one...six hundred and eighty two...
The thrill of her first day as a deputy on the Sioux Falls police force when she kicked down the door of the good old boys club and announced that she was here to stay, like it or not. The repressed desire to gush about the perfect blue of Sean Mills' eyes after she pulled him over for speeding and he continued to flirt after she gave him the ticket.
...six hundred and eighty three...six hundred and eighty four...
By the time Sean proposed, Dad was gone too.
...six hundred and eighty five...six hundred and eighty six...
Of all people, it had been the town drunk Bobby Singer that had given her the idea that shaped the backdrop of the wedding she would have to throw without either parent to support her.
If someone had told Jody that the grizzled salvage man that puttered around Sioux Falls in his battered old tow truck, dressed in clothes that looked like it had been years since they last had a good wash and regularly leaving behind the unmistakable odor of something one price point lower than rot gut, would have any deep understanding of Japanese culture and mysticism, she would have told them they were crazy.
Sean had a small family and Jody, well Jody had no family at all anymore. It was going to be a small affair no matter what. She liked the idea of something outdoors. Her best memories from childhood being at the family cabin in the woods where her father taught her all about nature and the respect everyone should have of it.
Sioux Falls fortunately had some nice city parks. Nothing fancy, but more or less equipped for simple affairs, and it was in one of them that Jody came across the strange older man striding across the long swathes of grass of Tuthill Park, a bag slung over his shoulder. Her instincts and his reputation making her instantly suspicious of the contents of said bag.
"Whatcha got there, Mr. Singer?"
Singer looked startled for a brief second before he schooled his features and cocked an eyebrow at her. He was good, she had to admit. Very good for a man that was barely sober most of the time.
"Just taking a walk, Deputy. Ain't nothin' wrong with that, is there?"
Jody exhaled, crossing her arms to give him her best no funny business glare. Technically she wasn't on duty, but that had never stopped her before. Nobody was getting up to any kind of trouble in her city if she had anything to say about it.
"Nope. Nothing wrong with a walk as long as there's nothing in that bag I need to worry about."
Singer gave her a half smirk, glanced at his bag and shrugged.
"Nah, nothing for you to worry about, Deputy. And unless you have a warrant that says otherwise, I'll be keepin' it right where it is. It's a free country after all, ain't it?"
Jody counted to ten, annoyed that what had started out as a peaceful morning with more pleasurable activities in mind had turned into a terse confrontation with one of her less favorite people. There were lines she wasn't allowed to step over as an officer of the law. Sometimes that little inconvenient fact annoyed the crap out of her.
"Mr. Singer, if I think I need a warrant, better believe that I will get one."
Singer stared her down for the split second it took her to posture, her hand subconsciously going for the gun belt that she wasn't actually wearing at the moment. He seemed to almost smile and she twitched her hand back down to her side, angry with herself for telegraphing a move without thinking and even angrier that he managed to catch it.
"What are you doing in the park, Deputy? Besides not being on official duty?"
Singer unnerved her in a way that few people did. She'd heard the stories about him. Had the misfortune to run into him on a few occasions in a professional capacity, and she didn't like the fact that she couldn't shake the notion that there were things about him that she couldn't put a finger on exactly.
"If you must know, I'm looking at wedding venues," she answered, not sure why she felt the need to be honest with a guy she barely knew and definitely didn't like.
She cocked her head in the direction of the small gazebo where several events were held during the year. It wasn't perfect, but it would do well enough for her own humble nuptials, she supposed.
Something about her must have given away her less than enthusiastic like of the gazebo because Singer really began to stare at her, a stare so deep it seemed as if he was evaluating every little thought and feeling she ever had. It was a little creepy to be honest.
At some point he appeared to come to a decision in his own mind and he hitched the bag further up his shoulder and started walking towards the parking lot.
"You don't want this, Deputy," he called over his shoulder, absently gesturing to the sad looking gazebo. "Follow me."
To this day Jody couldn't tell you why exactly she felt compelled to do as he told her to. Maybe it was because the bag on his shoulder made her curious. Or it could have been the fact that she really wasn't that keen on this particular setting and for some reason the town drunk seemed to know it better than she did herself.
Or maybe it was just the reality that she was drowning in the details of what should be one of the happiest days of her life and she had no one other than Sean to talk to about it.
In any event she followed Singer to the parking lot, just then noticing the old beat up Chevelle parked in the corner far away from the other cars. Singer got into it and started the engine, obviously waiting to see if she would do the same which she did with her own car, following him as he drove out of Tuthill Park and across town to the Japanese Gardens.
Somehow the two of them wound up spending almost two hours together in the peaceful tranquility of the quaint little area that seemed to have everything that Jody didn't even know she was looking for in a ceremony and reception location. From the picturesque stone archway that would be an excellent alter, to the pretty band shell where music could be set up. The small gentle waterfalls and dainty bridges along the walkways.
She and Singer had made the world's most unlikely pairing as they sat together on a park bench while he told her stories about his time in Japan after the death of his wife and the deep and meaningful wedding traditions of their culture. She was mesmerized.
Which is why she was currently giving herself carpal tunnel as she folded the one thousand paper cranes that were supposed to give her marriage luck.
...six hundred and eighty seven...six hundred and eighty eight...
The Japanese Gardens would have been the absolutely perfect venue for the spring wedding she had originally planned. Visions of gently swaying garlands of delicate blossoms running through her mind.
But a lot of things had changed since the September 11th attacks last month.
Jody had lost the most important people in her life before she ever agreed to marry Sean. One thing she did know was how uncertain the future could be. And while it would have been nice to have her pretty spring wedding, she found herself unwilling to wait that long to marry the man she loved, just in case her life took another surprising turn and she no longer had him either.
Maybe if she put enough of her heart and soul into planning their wedding and followed the traditions that she had always felt were silly superstition, Sean might be the loved one she got to keep.
/
Growing up in some rough places actually had an advantage when Sam needed to snatch a few moments of study time in the middle of controlled chaos.
His thirty minute dinner break afforded him the opportunity to hunker down in a relatively quiet corner of the busy kitchen and get in some of the required reading for his many classes. Perched on a step stool among the bags of dry goods and loaded shelves of number ten cans, he was far enough out of the way to be left alone for a while, but still close enough to be called back to duty in case they got slammed. A book in one hand and a pen taking notes on the legal pad precariously balanced on his knee in the other.
Despite the myriad of inviting aromas in the air Sam never actually ate during his meal break, even though all employees were offered a complimentary plate of something during their shift. A perk that not all restaurants gave their staff, but then the owners of Antonio's knew the value of taking care of their own better than some.
Sam genuinely liked his employers and their food. He just couldn't stomach it after hours of scraping plates into the giant trash bin under the dish washing station before shoving rack after rack through the machine.
The smell alone of all the different foods mashed together and coupled with the pungent odors of detergent and sanitizer made him gag occasionally and destroyed any appetite he might have had for the Italian fare that kept the dining room full to bursting every night with appreciative customers.
That aside, it was a pretty good gig.
In a college town where most places were willing to work around students' schedules to ensure they had a steady supply of able bodies, the pay could be iffy, which wasn't exactly helpful when the local cost of living was pretty high.
Antonio's had needed a strong back to do the job they hired Sam for and they paid him above average to do it. As a added bonus it was also less than two miles from campus. An easy walk even if Sam didn't have the loan of Brady's unused bicycle, which he always did.
For several hours every Friday night, Saturday and Sunday, Sam unloaded delivery trucks and stocked shelves. He hauled enormous bins of trash out to the dumpsters in the parking lot. Bags of soiled linens to be picked up by the laundry company in exchange for the bales of clean replacements. He toted heavy metal racks of glasses to their storage areas and overflowing rubber bins of dirty plates and cutlery back to his station for washing.
In most professional kitchens there were a lot of pretty big egos that routinely clashed, sometimes violently, and a definite trickle down tradition of friendly and not so friendly verbal abuse to the inexperienced staff like Sam. The service industry could be a high pressured environment with a lot of transient staff carrying truck loads of personal emotional baggage, and the tension alone could be enough to scare off the less needy student workers who were a bit more fragile than a Winchester.
Early on Sam had established himself as a humble grunt just looking to make a few bucks. A necessity that became glaringly apparent when he found out the unfortunate news that the dorm room he had fought and sacrificed for and counted on wouldn't be his during the three week Christmas break.
It had honestly never occurred to Sam that he wouldn't have a place to live for the entire school year. Wrongfully assuming that he could just hunker down over that holiday just like the other shorter ones and ride it out. It wasn't until he was reading through his student information pack a few days after his arrival at Stanford that he'd come across the paragraph that essentially would make him homeless again in just a few short months.
After the initial panic that had swelled up inside of him began to recede and he could think clearly again, he realized that he was more than equipped to deal with this little snag. After all, who better than a Winchester to know how to book long term stays at shady motels?
Unfortunately, while Sam had taken into consideration that Palo Alto was pricier than most places he grew up, what he didn't take into consideration was that he was by no means alone in this particular boat. Many of his fellow college students were from other countries, and a lot of them didn't go back to their faraway homes for the break. Meaning that the limited extended stay hotel rooms were filling up early at sky high rates.
Eventually, through some smooth talking that involved an offer to provide free labor during his stay and judicial use of the puppy dog eyes, Sam secured a room at the same dive he had used on his two previous occasions in town at the cost of almost the entirety of his recently swelled bank account.
The owner of the motel was a slumlord with personal hygiene issues, but he wasn't idiot enough to turn down a pair of strong hands at no cost.
After paying the entire amount upfront, as was required to secure the booking, Sam once again found his financial cushion pulled out from underneath him, despite his father's guilt money.
He needed a job, plain and simple, because there were still going to be basic needs that his aid package didn't cover.
Like some new pants that actually fit now that he had grown out of all the ones Dean had bought for him.
The work study jobs had filled up almost immediately on campus so that left the option of going out into town and finding one. Luckily for him, Sam had already made a tentative friend at the university library who pointed him in the direction of a nice family restaurant looking for hard workers.
He was hired with minimal fuss and started immediately after being thrown a rubber apron as soon as the interview ended. Using his finely honed skills of observation ingrained into him by his father and brother he quickly worked out the kitchen hierarchy and made himself useful to everyone equally. More importantly, he made it abundantly clear that he would hold his own if he was forced to and definitely wasn't someone that would be pushed around for sport.
Most of the more seasoned staff developed a grudging respect for the gangly kid that kept his mouth shut, head down and did as he was told. While the more combative players just left him alone as an unknown quantity in case he was secretly someone that would ruthlessly strike back at them without sufficient warning if messed with too often.
Winchester was a big kid. It wasn't worth the risk.
Sam was deep in study in his little nook when he was nudged by a large body slotting itself into the small space between him and the cool cement wall he was propped against. He didn't even need to hear the match strike or smell the acrid smoke of the unfiltered cigarette wafting above him to know who it was.
"What are we studying tonight, professor?"
Sam rolled his eyes and scooted over a little more to get his head out of immediate area of the smoke cloud wafting out towards the small window above him. It was bad enough that he would go back to the dorms smelling like he took a spa bath in garlic and oregano without adding Camels into the mix.
"I have a paper due on polycentric cultural norms next week," he answered, lifting his large book just high enough to show the title to Milo, the restaurant's sous chef.
Milo snickered and took a long drag on his cigarette before courteously blowing the smoke out the window as much as he could. Technically the kitchen staff weren't supposed to indulge during their shifts, but absolutely no one, the owners included, obeyed that particular rule. Sam was pretty sure that he was the only employee that didn't partake of nicotine in some fashion or another. Smoking seemed to be an occupational hazard of the restaurant trade.
"Fancy," Milo teased as he shot Sam a smirk. "I'm sure that's some important stuff."
Sometimes Milo reminded Sam so much of Dean that it was physically painful. They looked nothing alike, with Milo's dark Patrician features the polar opposite to the fairness of Dean's pale skin. Unlike Dean's military short cut, Milo's jet black hair was longer than even Sam had ever worn his and was kept tied up in the back by the changing variety of kitchen do rags that everyone had to wear behind the line for sanitary purposes. The do rag also exposed the long jagged scar that ran from the bottom of Milo's left temple all the way to his jawline, ruining what was otherwise a good looking face.
Despite the dark features and the scarring, Milo was Dean's twin in every other aspect. The same way with women that Dean had. Same cocky attitude. Same outward roughness that belied his soft, gooey interior. Same feigned disdain for Sam's intellectual pursuits. Although these days Sam wondered if the disdain from his brother would still be feigned or his legitimate position considering everything that had passed between them.
What might have once been an indulgent pursuit in Dean's eyes, now was the thing that had torn their little family apart.
As quickly as he humanly could Sam shut down that line of thinking before it brought him to the dark place in his mind that was sometimes hard to climb out of on the really bad days he occasionally had. He still missed his brother like an amputated limb and thinking about the last words that had passed between them always made his stomach ache.
Swallowing hard he felt something being nudged against his shoulder and gratefully accepted the bottle of Acqua Panna that Milo was handing him, uncapping it and taking a long swig to combat the dryness that had suddenly engulfed his mouth. Pulling his watch from his front jeans pocket he checked the time and saw that his break was just about over.
"Want me to save you something for later?"
Sam glanced up to see Milo looking down at him concerned. He wasn't a whole lot older than Sam, but he was well traveled and already a desired sous chef in the restaurant world. Somehow he was related to either Antonio or his wife Marie, but no one was really sure of the exact relationship. Under normal circumstances the family connection would have afforded him polite respect from the staff in general, but it was his obvious competence behind the line despite his relatively young age that really made the people working under him follow orders during his shifts.
Sam liked him a lot.
When Sam looked like he was about to decline, Milo, his mouth slanted into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes, pushed with all the strong nasal accent and unfiltered patois of the typical New Yorker that he was.
"C'mon, kid. Not for nothin' but you're starting to look like one of those creepy assed med school skeleton things and it's too close to Halloween to have that bony ass of yours wandering the streets at night. You might get some crazy jamoke thinking you're a Romero reject they should be taking a machete to."
Besides the unintentional reference to his family's day job, Sam would have bristled more at the blunt observation if he didn't know that it was coming from a place of concern. It was true that he had been looking thinner than usual lately.
Since his exile from the Winchester family over the summer he had painfully gained almost another two inches of height. His already long limbs stretching even farther at a rate he wouldn't have believed was even possible if he hadn't experienced it himself. He knew that he hadn't really been keeping up with the caloric needs of a growing body. The unexpected and unwanted growth spurt making him look and feel even more awkward than he already did most of the time anyway.
Sam also wasn't on any kind of intentional hunger strike or anything drastic like that. Truthfully he just lost track of time with the grueling hours of endless study that he put himself through every day. Determined that his time at Stanford would ultimately be worth the emotional price he was paying for being there if he just buckled down and worked hard enough.
With nothing else to keep his spirits up when missing his family, he doggedly held on to the idea that once he had made a success of himself, his father and brother would be convinced that Sam had been right all along about choosing school over hunting. Especially if he could use his vocation and finances to help them do the job they did every day.
It was the straw he desperately grasped onto as he went about his daily life.
The idea that he could be forgiven all his sins if he could make everything right with his family in the end.
Despite his determination to abandon his father's ways of doing thing, Sam was still keeping up with his training every morning. His annoyance with his father not petty enough to supersede his own belief that it was in his best interest to keep his body strong and well conditioned. Some of his pay from his dishwasher's job bought packs of protein shakes that lined the door of the dorm fridge that Brady had parked in Sam's half of their double room and fueled enough energy for the punishing workouts that he continued to subject himself to.
After an early shower and some prep for his scheduled classes he would make it to the dining hall in time for breakfast when one or all of his new dorm buddies dragged him there, but after that his attention to his diet took a firm back seat to his studies and the mountain of reading and researching that occupied the rest of his day.
However, while the other boys loaded their plates with the large variety of eggs and pork products of a typical breakfast buffet, Sam was only grabbing a quick meal of granola and yogurt washed down with a staggering amount of caffeine just to keep himself moving. Occasionally one of the other guys would make a remark about Sam's eating habits but he just shrugged them off and went back to the reading he did at the table every morning and the conversation would be dropped.
On his way out the door he shoved plastic wrapped bagels, pieces of fruit and granola bars grabbed from the buffet in the dining hall into his backpack that he would nibble at during the day when he felt his blood sugar dip. Simple things that traveled well throughout the marathon of jam packed classes, necessitated by his insistence to load up on as many credit hours as he was allowed, and that could also be easily snuck into the library which had rapidly become his second home and consumed with minimal fuss.
Even on the days when he wasn't working at the restaurant he never surfaced from his now favored seat at the most remote table in the library in time to catch the halls open for dinner. Often completely engulfed in his books until well after they closed for the evening.
Maybe it was just how busy Sam was buried in his studies that caused him to skip meals occasionally.
Or maybe it was his lingering anger over how he acquired the fancy, all encompassing meal plan that he had all day access to but felt enormous guilt and resentment when he did use it. Or the not quite subconscious enough avoidance of diner style fare that his brother favored, with the dessert area laden down with pastries that Dean would jump into head first until he was lustfully swimming in sugar.
Maybe it was the painful thought of how his new soaring height would have him towering over his big brother, and how he would probably never get the chance to tease Dean about it.
Because the brother he had idol worshiped since childhood probably despised him now, and Sam couldn't bear the idea of that being his new reality.
He pushed the thought away and stood up from his stool, gathering his things together and ready to head back to work where he could lose himself in the monotony of simple tasks and not dwell in the painful places. He shook his head slightly at Milo's offer of a meal and hunched over his books, leaving Milo standing at the window with his half finished Camel and his face pinched in a frown.
The rest of his shift passed routinely and no one made any more attempts at conversation with him aside from the one or two word job related communications that were necessary. That is until Sam stopped by the kitchen office to pick up his pay for the week and found Milo sitting at the desk drinking a glass of wine with Maria.
Unlike most jobs that paid their weekly employees on Friday, Antonio and Maria made payday for their staff Sunday evenings. It made no difference to Sam since his routine was fairly unchanged regardless of what day it was, and it wasn't until he had been at the job for a while that he finally understood it as a way to keep the less responsible employees from blowing their whole check over the weekend instead of using it to pay bills.
Antonio and Maria really did care about their staff.
Milo greeted him with a smile and nodded towards the desk where he had a full-to-bursting take out bag sitting next to him that he pushed at Sam after Maria handed him his check.
"I saved some of the spinach and artichoke lasagna for you. Don't tell me no," he scolded when Sam started to refuse. "I know it's your favorite. There's some other things in there too. You need some meat on those bones, kid."
Sam started to protest again and was met with a death glare that rivaled anything Dean had ever thrown at him. He could see that Milo meant well and decided to just take the bag, say thanks, and give it to one of the other boys in the dorm. Most of them didn't turn down free food.
He smiled as he grabbed the handles, tucking his check into his back pocket for safe keeping. Forcing a genuine tone in his voice he thanked them both. It was heavy, packed to the brim of the thick paper shopping bag, the handles practically groaning from the weight. Sam hoped that he would be able to balance it on the bike without either it or himself spilling off into the street.
"Me and some of the others are going out to a house party downtown if you want to join us," Milo asked, his dark thick eyebrows raised in a sincere question. "I know you have your fancy Ivy League pals, but you're welcome to slum it with us if you want."
Sam knew it wasn't meant as insulting as it sounded. Everyone at work knew that he came from a working class background just like they did and his status as a Stanford student didn't set him apart from the rest of them.
"Thanks man," he replied, shifting his backpack to sit more firmly on his shoulders,"but I'm beat. Just gonna go home, shower and apparently eat some good food."
Milo eyed him critically and then nodded, pulling his Camels out of the pocket of his loose chef pants and walking with Sam towards the door.
"Yeah, okay. Maybe next time, huh?"
They walked out to the parking lot and Milo lit a cigarette standing next to Sam as he unlocked the chain from his front tire and mounted the bike. He slightly lifted the bag again in thanks and nodded a farewell.
"You be careful out there, kid," Milo called to him, but Sam was already on his way and didn't see Milo's face darken into a frown.
Like every normal Sunday evening, when the restaurant would close early, Sam was able to be out the door and on his way back to campus by nine o'clock. Traffic was still heavy because Palo Alto was a young city with a lively vibe so he was careful as he maneuvered his way through the streets one handed while the bag dangled precariously from the other.
Somehow, despite the awkward weight that had him off balance for much of the trip, he managed to make it back to his dorm intact, chaining Brady's bike to the rack for Adams House and gratefully catching the front door from a departing group of students before it closed so he didn't have to juggle his things to pry his keys out of his pocket.
The door to his room was unlocked which meant that Brady was home earlier than usual, and the reason for that being glaringly apparent when Sam was greeted with the unmistakable sounds of happy noises coming from behind the door that separated the two rooms in the double.
Sam wasn't a prude by any means. Living with Dean had seen to that. Victoria, Brady's girlfriend of almost two years, also wasn't what he expected when they first met. An exotic looking beautiful face was just the mask of a really sweet girl underneath all the Gucci and Prada. She often spent the weekends in their small double dorm room and Sam didn't really mind after a fashion.
Their shared space was pretty quiet during the week because Brady worked almost as hard on his studies as Sam did. Pre-med was just as tough of a major as pre-law after all. First impressions to the contrary, Brady wasn't the careless playboy he originally made himself out to be the day he stormed into the dorm acting like he owned the place. Sam had been relieved to find out that his roommate was a serious student when it came right down to it. It certainly made things a lot easier.
Brady's hard outer shell of carefree trust fund baby was just the acquired armor of a gentle heart that wanted nothing more than to become a doctor and travel the world healing sick kids.
Unfortunately, it was actually the smell of the recent use of Zach's expensive bong wafting from across the hall that tipped Sam over the edge into nauseousness this particular evening. Besides being the vessel of Sam's one and only unsatisfying experience with marijuana a few weeks ago, the odor it was giving off was too reminiscent of all the oregano that Sam had been breathing in all night, and even with the door closed it permeated the air of almost the entire first floor of Adams.
Gagging, he shoved the food bag onto his desk and stripped down to his boxers before dumping his reeking clothes into a plastic bag he kept for dirty laundry. He really needed a long hot shower.
And then some really really fresh air that didn't carry the taint of his deceptively quiet buddy's latest drug score.
He threw on the plain robe he had forced himself to buy as a necessity for living with people he wasn't related to before grabbing his shower gear and some clean clothes and then exiting his room to make his way towards the bathroom. The hallways of the dorm were fairly empty since most of the FroSoCo students did actually study most of the time so he didn't have to wait for a free shower stall which improved his mood considerably.
His small weekly paycheck also provided the means to purchase the good bath products he had acquired a guilty pleasure for while living in Sioux Falls. One of the few indulgences he allowed himself.
Ducking under the shower head, his height depriving him of a really relaxing experience since he had to wash off in a uncomfortably twisted hunched position now, he scrubbed off the sweat and garlic and grime and felt his muscles begin to relax. He was exhausted, and if he didn't have so much work to do tonight, and if Brady wasn't entertaining at full volume, he might have been in danger of just falling right to sleep the moment he stumbled back to his room.
Toweled off and dressed in a tee and a pair of sweats he shuffled blearily back down the hall, stopping briefly to check in with Luis and Zach who now had their door and windows open in a futile effort to vent the incriminating smoke and were currently playing a particularly aggressive round of the newest Grand Theft Auto that had just been released. He declined their enthusiastic offer to join them, wanting to put his shower things away and grab his phone and then some of that fresh air.
It was almost ten and he had a call to make.
Sam dropped his stuff off on his desk, ignoring the fact that Brady was aware he was back and had amped up the noise level just to be a dick and mess with him. After one particularly loud grunt that sounded decidedly manufactured Sam smiled and shook his head as he slipped his sneakers on and grabbed his phone and keys. He was genuinely fond of Brady, but he could still be a real jerk.
The small courtyard of Adams House was almost empty too which wasn't unusual at this time on a Sunday night. It meant that Sam had the privacy he preferred when making his nightly phone call. He didn't really like anyone overhearing the things he said while talking. They were personal and sometimes embarrassing and Sam was a shy and introverted person all things considered.
At exactly ten o'clock, like he did every night when he wasn't working a late shift, Sam brought up his contact list and scrolled through it until his brother's name was highlighted.
Then, like he did every night, he began to tell Dean about his day.
It didn't matter that Sam never actually dialed his brother's number. The one-way conversations which had begun as a reaction to the helplessness that he felt being separated from his family during a time of national crisis had gradually become a comforting regular catharsis for the fear and anxiety that Sam felt every day he was away from his family
Sharing his life with his brother was a necessity ingrained into his very DNA. Something he had realized the last time he chickened out from calling Dean after coming closer to dialing his number than he ever had since he left Sioux Falls.
Everything he had wanted to say in all its unfiltered glory just came spilling out of his mouth like a waterfall that he was incapable of stopping, until he finally realized that he didn't actually want to stop. It was an emotional unburdening that took a figurative metric ton of weight off his chest so that he found himself finally able to breathe deeply again for the first time in a long time.
He knew Dean better than he knew himself sometimes. It wasn't at all hard to hear his brother's voice on the other side of the conversation. His subconscious easily manufactured the genuine interest in whatever Sam was doing. The gentle teasing of big brother to little brother of the availability of pretty single girls and Sam's lack of sex life since his arrival. The worry and concern for Sam's health and safety.
Sam could predict the questions and answers that Dean would give to everything Sam would tell him about his new life at college.
His wilder mind even accounted for the hurt his brother surely still felt at the abandonment, and sometimes the conversations addressed that in a way that Sam was pretty sure his flesh and blood brother would never allow himself to ever vocalize in person.
It was a coping mechanism, plain and simple, and Sam freely acknowledged that to himself.
It wasn't a new one either.
Years ago, when he was still young and scared most of the time, in the days after he let go of the fantasy of his imaginary friend, it was one of the ways he would keep his spirits up when his father and Dean were out hunting without him.
Or after one of the times when Dad decided that Dean needed to be sent away for a while to punish him for daring to step out of line
He also acknowledged that it was the only thing that allowed him to sleep at night and keep forging ahead now that he was truly on his own.
When one of his new friends asked Sam about his nightly ritual, he answered with total honesty that he was talking to his brother. Completely of a mind that no one needed to know that Dean wasn't physically present on the other line. He was talking to his brother. It was just in his own way of doing so, so it wasn't really a lie.
If it made Sam feel like less of freak because he gave the appearance of still having some kind of familial connection, then that was just an added bonus. No one with a life of their own was ever going to be curious enough to dwell on whether or not Sam Winchester was talking to his brother every night or just to himself.
Tonight Sam rambled on about his weekend activities until he started to feel a real chill in the air. For a California city Palo Alto was already starting to feel the coolness of autumn and the temperature was routinely dropping into the fifties in the evenings. Eventually spent, and after the tenth time he shivered involuntarily, he reluctantly bid farewell to his phantom brother until tomorrow.
Back in his room he pulled on a hoodie to warm up his cold body, finally giving a good probing look at himself in the mirror as he did. The image staring back at him was starting to look a little unfamiliar lately.
It wasn't just the significantly shorter haircut that made him look like he was thirteen again and that he had somehow justified to himself as a better alternative than wearing the hair net at work that would have been required with his longer locks.
No longer with any baby fat in his cheeks, his face was looking decidedly longer and drawn out. His cheeks gaunt in their thinness. There were the makings of dark circles forging a regular appearance under his sunken eyes from the long days of study and lack of sleep and regular nutrition. His shoulders were still broad, but the hoodie that used to fit him snugly was starting to hang from his frame.
Milo hadn't been wrong earlier.
Sam looked thin and frail.
He knew that Dean would want him to take better care of himself. Hell, if his brother could see him now he would probably kick Sam's ass from one side of the dorm to the other for being a moron before sitting him down and airplane spoon feeding him like a toddler until his face filled back out again.
The hot shower and the cool crisp air and the emotional offloading of his one sided discussion had him feeling more calm and centered now, and when he spotted the take out bag from the restaurant perched innocently on his desk he even felt his stomach give an interested rumble.
Sam decided that he would do as he knew his brother would want him to. He owed it to Dean to take care of himself as well as his brother would have if they were still together. The way he himself hoped that Dean was taking care of himself wherever he was at the moment without Sam at his side.
Milo hadn't messed around he realized as he emptied the large bag.
Besides a huge container of the promised lasagna, enough to feed two or three people easily, or just one Dean, Sam also unloaded a large chef salad with his favorite dressing packed on the side. Along with an aromatic loaf of the house bread, freshly baked every day and thankfully not garlic. Small cups of olive oil and balsamic to dip it in as well as a container of antipasti.
Two whole pounds of Italian cookies dripping in chocolate, and even a small bottle of Chianti which Sam had no business being given since he was still only eighteen.
There was no way Sam was eating all of this himself even over the course of a couple of days. Opening the largest container he portioned out half the lasagna onto one of the paper plates they kept stacked next to the microwave (also in Sam's room space), shoved it in and set it for three minutes. He put the rest in the mini fridge for tomorrow, along with the antipasti.
The cookies he walked across the hall and gifted to his still fairly high dorm mates who then proceeded to pounce on them like they didn't know where their next meal was coming from. Sam laughed as they began to devour them before he even left the room. Crumbs and spit flying in all directions as they continued to good naturedly trash talk each other over the game while eating.
The bottle of Chianti, slid between a small crack in the doorway that succeeding in hiding their various states of undress, made it's way to Brady and Victoria who were more than happy to take it off his hands. Sam was still not much of a drinker despite having been around alcohol his entire life. His father and brother always used booze as an emotional crutch and Sam knew he had the genetics to do the same if he allowed himself, which he couldn't afford now.
Excessive drinking had never brought anything but misery.
When the timer on the microwave dinged Sam pulled out the warm plate, grabbing one of the packs of disposable cutlery leftover from previous food deliveries that he and Brady kept in a bin on the microwave, along with a bottle of water from the fridge, and then made his way over to his desk. He should be studying he knew, but maybe just for tonight he could take a break?
It's what Dean would make him do.
His brother would argue that it wasn't like he would fall behind from one evening of indulgence since he was already far ahead in his class assignments.
Booting up his laptop he scrolled though his files until he found the one for the bootlegged copies of movies that Zach had given him. There were several, because Zach was a computer genius who apparently could find anything and would probably someday be a tech giant in his own right, but Sam hadn't even seen one yet, always too busy working to waste away two hours on pure fun.
Turning on Jurassic Park III and angling the laptop closer to the bed, Sam made himself comfortable on his cozy twin mattress, stuffing pillows behind his back to cushion his tired body from the hard wall, and then took a huge bite of lasagna as the opening credits rolled.
Dinosaurs, Sammy? Really?
Sam could hear the words in his head as clear as day and smiled. Closing his eyes he leaned back and swallowed a forkful of lasagna that wasn't as good as the one that his brother made at home. It might have just been fond nostalgia that had him thinking that, but it didn't matter. To him it was the God's honest truth.
"You love these movies, jerk. Don't pretend it's not true," he whispered.
Yeah, alright. But only the first one. That blond chick is hot. And those velociraptors are bad ass!
"Your favorite scene was the opening with the brachiosaurus," Sam challenged, his eyebrow cocked over his still closed eyes.
The brachio what now?
Sam let out a quiet laugh, because his brother would always down play his intelligence if he thought it would make Sam laugh.
"The giraffe dinosaur, Dean."
Yeah, yeah, college boy. You know that the T-Rex ate the lawyer in that movie, right?. Is that what you wanna be when you grow up? A T-Rex chew toy?
Sam swallowed hard. A lump in his throat that was more solid than a mouthful of pasta.
"I wouldn't be eaten," he whispered when he could find his voice again.
Oh yeah, genius? What makes you so sure?
"Because you would protect me."
There was only the slightest fraction of hesitation in Sam's mind. Just enough to reinforce the physical and emotional distance between him and his corporeal brother.
Yeah I would.
Sam sniffed and rubbed a hand down his face. Shaking off his moment of melancholy and scooping up another forkful as he tried to turn his attention back to the movie.
Finish your dinner and get some sleep, bitch. You need to keep up your strength until I can watch out for your lame ass again.
Sam nodded jerkily and let out another sniff. He shoved another forkful in and vowed to clean his plate.
"I will, jerk. Promise."
/
Athens, Ohio.
Figures that Dad would drag him to a hunt in a town dominated by a freakin' university when Dean was trying his level best to avoid anything that might even remotely remind him of his pain in the ass little brother and his apparent family destroying need to be some Joe College ass hat.
Unfortunately for him the universe at large seemed bound and determined to flip Dean a huge, metaphorical bird on a regular basis. So here he was riding smack dab into the center of a case where he was most likely goin to spend the next few days of his life surrounded by a bazillion backpack wearing geeks with faded jeans and shaggy haircuts and having his own traitorous brain repeatedly mind fucking him with a Sammy apparition on every street corner.
Today's unlucky contestant was some poor bastard from a little backwater town in Kentucky that had met an untimely end in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a frat house staircase. The police had found no evidence of foul play involved and the coroner's report was classifying it as nothing more scandalous than a terribly sad accident.
Dean wasn't quite sure what he was even doing here. This certainly wasn't a story that screamed HUNT ME to him, and if it wasn't for his father's insistence that it was their kind of gig, it wouldn't have merited a second pass in his book.
But unless the old man was starting to lose his edge, which Dean seriously doubted, there was going to be something in their wheelhouse of weird in town that needed killing, and it had been far too long since Dean had the chance to gank a fugly.
Because Dad was about as computer savvy as a member of a tribe buried deep in the Amazon rain forest this job had come to them by referral. Someone, somewhere, on some random chatroom had started the rumor that all was not kosher at Ohio University. The story rapidly grew and fleshed out into more apparently spookier detail until it eventually made its way to whatever hunter circle of trust that fed potential cases to Bobby Singer.
It's not that Dean wasn't happy to be getting back into the game. He just wasn't looking forward to getting up close and personal with this particular group of potential targets.
A few overly privileged, circle jerking morons wearing douchey matching shirts with pretentious Greek letters on them, drunk off their collective asses while they pretended to be intellectuals, loudly claiming that their frat house was haunted because some "freaky ghost" kept trying to throw them down the stairs every night.
All now well and thoroughly wigged out because one of them actually had taken a tumble with his neck broken for his trouble.
Dean was more than satisfied to chalk it up to a bad combination of cheap light beer, even cheaper weed, and some good old ritualistic hazing from even bigger douchebags high on a king of the castle power trip and leave it at that.
Dean didn't get the attraction of pledging a fraternity. Because life can be shitty even when you don't go looking for it. So he really had a hard time wrapping his melon around the annual willingness of some kids who volunteered to get treated like crap for weeks on the off chance of easier access to booze and ass.
Just because some unwritten rule somewhere proclaimed that popularity was guaranteed if you sucked up to keg tapping egomaniacs who thought they were higher education's answer to Tom Cruise, weirdo cult and all. Especially if they bought into the hype that there were entire sororities who only spread their shapely legs for the Ted McGinley-esque Alpha Beta wannabes with the magic letters on their overpriced jackets and a tendency to piss away their college years lazy, drunk and stupid.
Dean had seen Revenge of the Nerds. He knew how the game was played.
Dean rooted for the nerds.
Except for that guy playing Booger. That smarmy douche could go suck a whole bag of dicks.
At the end of the day Dad said to come, so Dean obeyed like he always did.
At first glance Athens didn't really look like much he decided as he rolled in past the city limits. On the fairly small side, it wasn't the exactly the kind of snobby upscale, ironically eclectic place that most college towns tried to be considering it played host to a decent sized university.
The decidedly blue collar vibe he was catching from it soothed some the apprehension he had been feeling once he realized that he'd be spending the foreseeable future in a place that he was fairly sure was about as far removed from the hallowed halls of the posh Stanford as you could get.
It was just after noon and Dad wasn't expecting him for a while yet because the drive to Athens from Dean's side trip to Shanksville should have taken even a lead foot like his at least three and a half hours instead of the even three that had the Impala roaring off the exit of US-50. With some time to spare before meeting up with the old man where he was crashing at a place called the Highlander Motel, which Dean really hoped didn't have a plaid decor theme that would make him dizzy after a few beers, he decided to take a quick cruise past the frat house just to see what was what.
The mild fall weather meant a lot of outdoor activity was taking place around the university. Everywhere he looked there were groups of rowdy students engaging in what was a decidedly party-like atmosphere that seemed a little excessive in the middle of the day even for college campus. In another time, before last summer, Dean might have eagerly jumped into the fray himself. More than happy to avail himself of the buffet of scantily clad young women everywhere he looked.
But now?
After sobering weeks working on The Pile, and a distaste in his mouth for anything even remotely connected to a lifestyle that Sam had chosen over his own family that Dean was sure would never wash out, he was determined that his time in Athens would be spent strictly working the case and then getting the hell out of Dodge as fast as humanly possible.
Several of the houses in the neighborhood surrounding the campus had obscenely large and colorful Greek letters mounted on them in some fashion or another. A typical fraternity row that Dean uncharitably decided was a bonus since it meant that all of the bigger jackasses at the college were conveniently centered in one area and not contaminating the rest of the city with their pledge pin-wearing, beer pong-playing, plastic sheep-fucking stink.
Okay, so maybe he was a little bitter.
He checked the paper again where he had jotted down the frat house address that Dad had given him over the phone and pulled the Impala to a slow halt in front of it. There wasn't anything more or less remarkable about it than any of the others nearby. No obvious signs of anything out of the ordinary, with the possible exception of the slightly less enthusiastic behavior of the guys that littered the front lawn compared with their rowdier neighbors.
Dean was all too familiar with the look he saw on their faces. The way their eyes weren't quite fully concentrated on building what looked like several customized boards for a bean bag toss competition. He could see the nervous energy in the way they were randomly shuffling around, casting more than the occasional looks up to the second floor of the house.
While maybe not completely freaked, they were definitely on edge.
What was surprising to him was that it wasn't the guys wearing shirts without the letters of the frat emblazoned on the front, and yet were doing the lion's share of the heavy lifting, that looked they might jump out of their skin at any moment.
Dean did know enough of how fraternities worked to suss out that the letter-less worker bees were just the poor saps hoping to allowed into the club, and it would have been understandable if they were jittery about the abuse they were undoubtedly in for if they invited in.
What didn't make sense was the fact that it was clearly the older boys wearing their douchey tribal colors, and certainly would be the ones dishing out the ritualistic torture all in the name of brotherhood, that were acting like a loud fart in the wind would have them pissing themselves.
You can't fake that kind of fear.
Well, you could, if you had a good enough reason to, but Dean was pretty sure that these ass clowns weren't bright enough to cover their fraternity brother killing tracks by convincingly acting like their own livers might be in danger.
Dad was right. As usual.
Now convinced that there was probably a case, Dean swung the car back on the street and drove the short distance to the motel. As he pulled into the parking he immediately saw the black Sierra parked at the farthest end of the row of rooms and slid the Impala in next to it.
It had been a couple of weeks since he last saw his father and they really hadn't been together all that much before anyway, with Dean choosing to stay behind and work with the other volunteers in New York when John headed out to the next job.
When Dean had finally given in to the mounting physical and mental exhaustion of working a heartbreaking job every day, not to mention the very real possibility of permanently messing up his still recovering injuries with the strain that his long hours of heavy manual labor placed upon them, he decided to hand in his borrowed hard hat, pack his bag and move on.
One last favor to the cabal of Brooklyn hunters who had been generously hosting him since his arrival in NYC had him helping out on a quick case of a succubus with a likable but fairly inept green hunter named Richie who was going to be lucky if he didn't somehow manage to get himself dead within the next year if he didn't smarten up.
To spare them both some avoidable injury, Dean had put Richie on watchdog duty while he made himself the bait. It only took drinking his way through half the bars in Canarsie before he found his mark, efficiently finishing the succubus off with a minimum of fuss and leaving Richie with the very sound advice that he find other employment if he liked breathing air.
A call from Dad had them meeting up in Kittanning, PA for a date with a poltergeist that was terrorizing a nice family named Panowski. Dean was pretty sure that his father was just looking for an excuse to see him again since Dad already had most of the legwork done by the time Dean arrived. All he had really done was watch his father's back with a salt shell loaded gun while John sanitized the house.
There were a couple of dicey moments of shattering glass and some very profound close encounters with pointy objects that seemed intent on turning Dean into a hunter kabob, but nothing he hadn't handled before.
Dad was a pro. Swift and silently deadly to the supernatural. They were spilling suds together at a dive bar near the interstate before the evening news even came on the old TV hanging from a rusty mount in the corner of the room.
Considering how violent poltergeists usually got, it barely even qualified as a hunt in Dean's book.
To be honest he might have had a few more beers and few more shots that he probably should have that night, and he was definitely sure that his excessive consumption had nothing to do with the way Dad talked to Jerry Panowski about his younger son being away at college with a tone in his voice that sounded awfully close to pride.
It was absurd to think that Dad was proud of Sammy for ditching them for Wussy State when the man had all but physically shoved his baby brother out into the cold with lead pipe cruelty just for even thinking about it.
The massive hangover he had the next day wasn't going to make for a decent enough excuse to beg off following his father out of town. Nor was the burning hot internal rage he was barely suppressing and certainly wasn't going to vocalize over the fracturing of his family that had most likely been avoidable if his father's attitude yesterday was any indication.
Although it was still going to be a long time before he could even start to think about forgiving Sam's cruel words, no matter how much he missed him. Dean was done being his selfish little brother's doormat.
Shanksville wasn't all that far from Kittanning, and Dean had already been thinking about swinging by the crash site in case there was anything he could do to help there that wouldn't involve ripping up his still mending collarbone again.
Dad must have seen something in his face that convinced him not to pick a fight with the only son he had that was still talking to him. After packing up John had given Dean's bum shoulder a soft squeeze along with strict orders to take it easy for a while longer. Because Dean could see the genuine concern in his father's eyes he buttoned up all the recriminations he wanted to let fly loose and promised John that he would see him soon.
His interest in heading to Shanksville was more to scratch the itch of the guilt he felt for not originally stopping there to help before he headed to Manhattan than being of any real assistance. Because the destruction didn't even begin to touch the devastation of NYC, the hunters were long finished with their work by the time he arrived, with only some of the more deeply entrenched players still on site as the recovery and identification work progressed.
All told there wasn't much he could do there, and after his first day of pretexting as a recovery worker from The Pile he was left in no doubt that his services were appreciated but not wanted. The realization that it was probably the closest he ever came to telling the truth about himself on a hunt had him drinking hard in a local bar until he found a willing companion to help dull the pain of the past few weeks for the evening.
Sometimes it was unsettling to never share his true self with anyone and it made him nervous about the prospect that he may someday forget his own identity.
He checked in with his father every couple of days. Even if he was still feeling a little bitter it didn't cancel out his need to know that Dad was okay on his own. With nothing imminent on the horizon, he took some much needed down time, resting his aching body until it didn't hurt to get out of bed in the morning. He hadn't really realized the extent of how much he had pushed himself, although he was convinced that his time on The Pile had ultimately been better physical therapy than he might otherwise have done for his injuries.
Bobby called a couple of times to assure him that he was checking on the little house in Sioux Falls. Although Dean missed his own bed and his own kitchen, the memories there were still too raw to head back to just yet.
Becoming more restless as the days passed, he had been genuinely relieved when Dad called and asked for his help in Athens.
With his duffel bag slung over his good shoulder he raised his fist and rapped out the knock on the motel door to let his father know who was on the other side. The telltale clicks of sliding bolts and realigning tumblers gave way to the door opening and Dad greeting him with a tired smile. There was a bandage across his left eye that he waved away when Dean cocked an eyebrow at him.
John's various injuries didn't always come from a hunt gone bad. Too much Jose had led to more than one bar fight.
Dean shook his head fondly and slapped his father on the back as he made his way into the room, pleased when it was decently clean for a change and not covered in the tartan of the Clan McCloud. The beds looked fairly firm, draped in standard generic motel bedding that didn't seem stained. A fairly new model television was bolted to the wall across from the beds and even appeared to have a remote that wasn't duck taped together. The desk in the corner and the walls surrounding it were covered in the painstakingly neat display of his father's usual research. There was coffee ready in the small pot on the dresser and if Dean had to hazard a guess, a six pack waiting for him in the mini fridge.
Sometimes it's just the little things to make you feel at home.
He dropped his duffel on the unoccupied bed and hit the bathroom to take a piss and wash his face after his trip. Dad handed him a cup of coffee as he came out and motioned him into a chair by the desk.
"You good to go, kiddo? How's the leg and shoulder?"
Dean reflexively rotated his shoulder and nodded as he took a sip of the black coffee. "Yeah, m'good. So what do we got?"
John looked like he wanted to say more on a personal note for a second before he appeared to decide against it, which was good because Dean wasn't really in the mood for caring and sharing at the moment.
"Found an article in the university paper about a kid that was pushed down the stairs and killed during pledge week about a decade ago in that house."
Dean shrugged and took another sip. "Sounds fairly cut and dry, Dad. Pissed off spirit. Tradition of jerkwad frat boys that apparently goes back a while. I mean, I feel bad for the poor bastard that bit it ten years ago but he's got to burn."
John dropped the copy of the article on the desk. "It may not be that simple," he said, rubbing his cheek in thought. He sifted through a couple more papers and pulled one out to hand to Dean.
"The officer I talked to let slip a conversation he had with one of the other boys that live in that house. The kid that died last week was their pledge master. Let's just say there was no love lost between him and the ones that pledged under him. The kind of guy that really got his rocks off on making them suffer."
Dean just shook his head because he could have guessed it himself. Freakin' frat boys.
"He also told the cop about a little ritual they have during their initiation," his father continued. "To 'test their bravery'," Dad said in a mocking tone, using actual finger quotes that raised Dean's eyebrows, "the pledges are told a ghost story about the original owners of the house. Story goes that the oldest son was a mean little bastard who tortured his younger brother until he ultimately killed him by pushing him down those stairs."
"And let me guess," Dean answered, his mouth cocked up into a tired smirk. "Now the little boy's looking for revenge against dickhead older brothers?"
"Yep."
Dean stood up to refill his coffee cup and took a glance at the papers strewn around the desk. "So is this a haunting? Or a convenient excuse to cover a murder of a tyrannical douche? Cause I gotta tell you, Dad. I swung by the place on my way here and those guys look like they're afraid of their own shadows right now."
"I don't know," Dad admitted. "That's what we have to find out."
"So what's the plan""
John grabbed a colorful flyer from the stack and held it out for his son to take. "There's a girl on the staff of the school paper that's been looking into the fraternity. The boy that died was also a journalism student and I guess she's taken an interest. She might have some insider info we could use."
Dean scanned the flyer which was promoting an open house for students interested in joining the paper's staff. It took a second for his brain to catch up with his father's line of thinking and then his face fell as he shook his head.
"Looks like you're going to college after all, kiddo."
Sonuvabitch
/
Strolling down the sidewalk towards the building that housed the newspaper, Dean wasn't even trying to hide his resentment over his latest cover. It was bad enough to be completely surrounded by college nerds. Having to pretend to be one of them took his overall disposition into the next level of pissed right the fuck off.
He had no business being here. As good as he was, and he was very good, there was no way he was fitting in on this scene without some real effort which he was in no mood to give. Whoever this Cassie Robinson chick was, she was just going to have to spill her guts without the full court press massage job that Dean wasn't about to offer just to save some frat punks who probably had it coming.
The event room where the open house was being held wasn't exactly full when he strolled in. Apparently Dean wasn't the only one who thought that journalism was lame. But there was free food that he helped himself to as he scanned the room in search of whichever one of these cub reporters looked to be in charge. He ate his way through a dozen cocktail hot dogs before finally getting assistance from a little guy with a raging case of acne and an air of pretension that pointed in the direction of a drop dead gorgeous girl who had no business being surrounded by the geek squad.
Dean's day was suddenly looking up.
Smooth perfect skin the color of caramel and a tumbling mane of chocolate curls that Dean wanted to run his fingers through. Large piercing eyes and plush red highly kissable lips that he just wanted to devour. Man, he was so far gone he didn't even know how he got there.
She must have felt his eyes burning because she glanced up right at him and gave him a questioning look. Brain coming back online he cleared his throat, threw her his best smile and strode over to where she was arranging stacks of newspapers on the table in front of her.
"Are you Cassie?" he asked, turning up the wattage on his charm to full power.
She gave him an appreciative smile and extended her hand. "Yes I am. And you are?"
He took her hand, holding it just a bit longer than necessary. "I'm Dean, and I am very interested in joining the paper if you're gonna be the one bossing me around."
Cassie let out a little laugh and rolled her eyes as she extracted her hand from his. She was clearly used to being hit on and no wonder considered how fine she was. Dean watched her lean over to grab another box of papers from the seat of the chair next to her, admiring the brief glimpse of her exposed taut belly when her snug fitting shirt rode up a little.
"Are you a journalism major, Dean?" she asked as she pushed the box towards him and nodded towards the other table across the room.
Dean obediently followed her wordless command, not at all displeased with the view of her perfectly pert ass in front of him. "Yes. Yes I am. I love journalism."
"Is that right?" Cassie turned around and indicated that he should put the box on the table. She took a minute to answer a question from one of the kids browsing through a paper before giving her attention back to Dean. "Then why haven't I seen you around here before?"
"I just transferred," he countered quickly. "It's my first day on campus."
She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms looking much less friendly than she had a moment ago. "You just transferred? A month into the semester?"
Dean swore internally and was about to try to come up with a bullshit excuse when she went in for the kill shot.
"So tell me, Dean, who are your professional influences? I like to know what makes my staff tick if you're going to write for my paper."
When cornered, Dean always resorted to flirtation. There weren't many times when his charm and good looks couldn't get him out of a jam. The fact that Cassie was seriously attractive just made it that much sweeter.
"I'd be happy to show you what makes me tick, if you really want to know," he responded, winking at her as he sat on the corner of the table and moved closer into her personal space. She gave him a predatory smile and leaned over, surrounding him in a cloud of her floral scented perfume as she whispered seductively in his ear. "I really don't."
She pulled back suddenly, leaving Dean sputtering in her wake as she moved off to return to the other table. Realizing that he was massively screwed if he couldn't fix this mess, he shifted gears and walked over to her, holding his hands up in surrender when she glared at him.
"I'm busy here," she said, crossing her arms again and looking like she would happily kick his ass if he didn't back off. "And I don't like people who lie to me."
"You're right," he replied, keeping his distance before she took a swing at him. "I'm not a student. I'm sorry. I'm here looking into the death of my cousin and someone said that you might be able to help."
"Your cousin?"
Cassie's face pinched into a frown and Dean was happy to see that she slightly relaxed her guard, so maybe he wasn't going to get punched today after all. He lowered his hands and gave her his best sad smile.
"Cody Wallace. He was on the paper staff with you, right?"
"Yeah, yeah he was," she answered. "Why didn't you just say that in the first place?"
Dean shrugged and somehow managed to look chagrined. "Look. I'm just a small town mechanic who has no idea what he's doing. The cops say it was an accident, but we heard some stuff so now I'm not so sure. They've already threatened to arrest me if I keep bothering them about it, but I promised my aunt that I would get answers."
She softened considerably and Dean pushed, knowing he had hit the mark. "I can't go back to Kentucky empty handed. Could you help me? Please?"
Dean was more than happy to spend the next several days in Cassie's company. While she hadn't been particularly fond of Cody, since he apparently was a douche in every aspect of his life, she did have a curious mind that didn't like unanswered questions. With her commitment to investigate even where there might not be anything to a story, Dean could see that she really would make a good journalist someday.
He let her continue under the impression that it might have been a covered up kill by a disgruntled member of the frat, and while she used her position as editor of the paper to grill the members about their potential involvement, Dean could tell that they weren't lying. Fortunately he was able to glean enough information about the stories that were passed down about the long dead brothers to determine which one was responsible. Once Dad had the bones burned, there wasn't another attempt to shove another one down the stairs.
Normally this would be when Dean would make a play for a one night stand before he made his exit from the area. Not that Cassie was that type of girl but he would have tried anyway since she was smoking hot. He could tell that she was interested in him in a way that went far beyond their shared interest in the circumstances behind a kid's untimely death and at another time and place he would have capitalized that to enjoy some time between the sheets.
For some reason he didn't seem able to say goodbye to her just yet, and when he uncharacteristically found himself asking if he could see her again for purely personal reasons he was strangely excited when she agreed.
Maybe it was just the way this case hit too close to home. Bad blood between brothers than ended with the death of one of them.
He thought long and hard about how much resentment he still carried against his own little brother. Would it someday be too late to fix things between them if he couldn't let go of the past? Dean has always tried to take care of Sam the best way he could, but there were definitely times when he wasn't as supportive of the kid as he maybe should have been.
How much of Sam's actions were a result of hurt he harbored against things that Dean had done to him?
Dean was going to do his best to try and get over the betrayal he felt. Because while at the end of the day his little brother was the most important person in his life, Sam had also insisted on more than one occasion that Dean needed to do things for himself instead of just his family. To be honest with himself about the things that he really wanted in life that had nothing to do with what Dad or Sam wanted from him.
Who knows. Sam might even be proud to see Dean put himself first for a change and it was long past time that Dean starting to think about what would make happy.
Maybe Cassie would be one of those things.
/