December 1997
The cold had driven a crowd inside, but Sam had long since learned to block out unwanted company.
The drone of voices beat against his eardrums: laughing, shouting, drawling, murmuring, crying, shrieking, giggling. Agressively cheerful, but ultimately unheeded.
Hunched over his books, he ignored their jabbing elbows, their season's greetings, their spilled drinks. Ignored the stench of cigarettes, cheap perfume and a dozen different kinds of sweat.
But he could still hear the sharp click of the cue ball hitting home, and the pitch of his brother's voice: a perfect imitation of innocent enthusiasm.
Dean he could always hear.