A/N: Thank you for all of the alerts and reviews, especially on A03!
THEN
It is two days later than he originally planned, thanks to the Citrus Grove shifters, when Dean first sees the signs for Cal Tech; beside him, on the bench seat, Sam shifts restlessly. It's just like his brother, Dean thinks, to get attached so quickly; Dean might have been the one to integrate into well-formed cliques during their numerous stints at various schools across the country, but Sammy was always the one who looked longingly backward when they left, with hastily scribbled addresses clutched in his pudgy little hands and solemn promises to "keep in touch".
When they arrive at the campus, the sky is a sweeping swirl of pinks and oranges and the sun is low on the horizon. The car idles for a moment, Dean allows a smug smile when a few of the wandering student body cast an appreciate eye over the car's sleek form.
With a quick twist, he cuts the motor and three doors of the car open at once. The trio walk around back of the vehicle and Dean unlocks the trunk and pulls out Stiles' bag, or at least the old, spare duffle that Sam and Dean kept on hand and currently held the spare change of clothes for Stiles' purchased at thrift store near Kansas City.
The dorm is a narrow, four-story brick building that runs in the shape of an upside down "U" with a tidy courtyard in the middle. A few students lounge upon the freshly cut grass and away from the concrete walkway. Two students raise a hand in recognition to Stiles, but the younger man hardly acknowledges them, his shoulders and jaw are tense, his eyes dart side to side as if he was seeking or seeking to avoid someone.
It's rare that the Winchester's are so closely attuned to someone they hardly know, but the brother's pick up on the non-verbal cue; Dean can practically feel Sammy raise his alert level while Dean thinks of his Barretta, which he left in the glove box of the Impala.
With a forefinger, Stiles presses a short sequence of numbers to open the front door and the younger man leads the way through the double French doors. Once inside, the doors close with a soft, electronic snick behind them. Ahead, in the middle of the entryway, a wide staircase with a royal blue runner, leads upward but Stiles steps to the right side and walks down the corridor.
When he stops midway down the hallway, Dean assumes they have reached his apartment, but instead of unlocking the door, Stiles just stares at the door, a frown on his face. The brothers share a look, a non-verbal "rock, paper, scissors" is played out (Sam rolls his eyes when Dean throws scissors and throws his brother a crooked smile when he throws rock) and Dean clears his throat.
"Uhhh…Stiles? Are you okay, man?"
"Keys. I don't have them. I must have lost them when –" the rest goes unspoken but Dean gets the younger man's meaning. When he got taken. Immediately, his thoughts turn away from the college student's abduction and toward his brother's disappearance. His hands clench into tight fists (What took you so long?), a tight knot forms deep in his throat and he thinks he should say something (anything) but he draws a blank.
"Stiles?" It's Sam who lays a large hand on the younger man's shoulder and with his other hand pulls the small leather case from his back pocket. "If you want, I could …" he gives the case a slight shake "pick the lock for you."
Stiles nods and steps back while the hunter selects two small tools and inserts them into the lock. It takes time a little time, but Sam patiently manipulates the tools until the tumblers fall into place.
The apartment is small; the door opens immediately into a common area. With a sigh, Stiles walks into the room, the Winchesters not far behind.
Dean has never had any problem snooping, so while Sam hangs back near the entryway, Dean drops the duffel and wanders through the small common area. He tilts his head to read the spines of books (one thick chemistry text is sandwiched between two paperback fantasy books rest atop a side table near the couch; a book shelf near a triple-paned window is overflowing with an assortment of books that are as varied in content as they are in size), openly stares at a few of the photos that decorate the wall.
The photos chronicle the "normal" life that Sam always craved, starting first with a framed family photo of a younger, gap-toothed Stiles between a couple that could only be his parents and followed by more photos depicting a progressively older Stiles with a series of friends, most of whom were captured wearing sunglasses.
Unable to hold back his curiosity, Sam joins him and they look at the collection of photos that show Stiles as a Boy Scout with a dark haired boy his age and later a series of photos show the same dark haired boy playing a sport ("Lacrosse" Sam supplies at Dean's silent query) and one with Stiles, arms raised in victory and propped up on the teams shoulders. There were more, but Stiles comes back into the room.
They shake hands, Dean passes over a paper with a list of their cell phone numbers and they promise to keep in touch.
As they walk out of the building, Sam wonder's aloud if they will ever see Stiles again.
"No telling, Sammy." Dean answers but privately he thinks they won't. There is no room in their life for people like Stiles, people with strong ties to family and friends.
NOW
Dean tries to look nonchalant as he brushes the gelatinous fluid from his clothes, but the mucus is a thick, dark yellow and has an odor that he is sure will never wash off. His only consolation is that Sam has twice the amount of goo splattered about his body, most of which drips in thin, slimy lines from his long hair.
He snickers and full out gives a shout of laughter when Sam shoots a bitchface his way
Long, sticky strands dangle from the corner of the ceiling where the bulbous egg sack had hung until Dean shot it full of the Winchester version of the holy trinity – iron bullets filled with a mix of salt dissolved in holy water and used when the usual mix proved ineffective – and then…things went blooey then gooey.
The memory keeps the smirk on Dean's face – for once his slightly (slightly) shorter stature works in his favor since Gigantor's height put him closer to the exploding sack.
"Laugh it up, fuzzball." Sam mutters as he swipes globs of goo from his head and flicks his fingers toward the ground.
"Awww Sammy, don't pout." Dean chuckles as he pops the trunk to the Impala and grabs the worn towel that is folded atop the false bottom and tosses it toward Sam.
Sam gets his revenge though. Later, after indulging in a much needed Grand Slam at the Denny's in the next town over, Dean flirts with the waitress and (shockingly) gets a lukewarm response. It isn't until they bunk down for the night that Dean goes into the motel bathroom to brush his teeth. When he looks in the mirror, his eyes go wide as he stares at the small glob of green goo on the corner of his left nostril.
"Son of a bitch!" he exclaims.
From the next room, his brother starts to laugh.
It's only two weeks since they had last stayed at Deuce, but a phone call from Jo puts a halt to their plan to head east to assist an elderly hunter in an Appalachian retirement home who swears that his fellow retirees are being replaced with ghouls.
"It's Stiles," she says to Sam.
Five minutes later, Dean is on the phone with Chet Bradley, arranging for him to head to Appalachia for them while Sam loads the weapons, ammo, clothes and the rest of their gear into the Impala.