Now

"Man, I am just not going to make it through this economics class." Sam huffed a dramatic sigh and flopped backwards onto his bed. On the loft bunk above him, his roommate Kevin made sympathetic noises and flailed a hand over the edge in an exhausted parody of a comforting pat. Dean leaned against the wall of the bedroom and rolled his eyes fondly at his little brother's theatrics.

"Only been a couple of weeks, and your definition of 'fail' is a little cracked," he said with a smirk. "It's probably just that this is the first time in your academic life that you've actually had to use that big brain of yours, rather than just catching straight As by showing up and opening your mouth. Had to happen eventually, didn't it?"

Sam mumbled something that sounded like "shut up" as he rolled onto his stomach and made a grab for the economics text he'd tossed to the floor. It did look intimidating, and Dean was silently grateful that his own program didn't require it. Neither did Sam's, of course; the big nerd just thought it would be useful and interesting, so he was taking it as an elective. Naturally, that meant he was treating the class just as seriously as he was every one of his required courses. Sam was only a freshman, but he was a dedicated student with big plans for a future law degree and a lifetime of books and research.

"Well, you wouldn't want it to be too easy," Dean teased, reaching for the book and sliding it within reach of his brother's hand. "You want to feel like you're getting your money's worth. Well, the university's money, anyway, since they're floating you the tuition. Point still stands."

"But the professor wants us all dead, Dean. It's the only explanation. There's a project due practically every other week, and they're not small things. I'm not sure there are enough hours in the week to get everything done that we have to do."

"You'll manage." Dean knew his brother was exaggerating, but he was indulging him. Hearing Sam groan over school difficulties was actually a refreshing change from their historic interactions, when Dean would sigh in frustration with his studies and Sam would encourage him while breezing through his own classes. Dean hadn't been in school at the same time as Sam for several years, but he felt a slightly selfish satisfaction at the role switch. The intervening years had profoundly shaped Dean, erasing the brittle edges of his former "why bother" attitude toward education, leaving behind the powerful drive to prove he was more than the slow-witted jackass he secretly feared being.

Those years had shaped him in other, less pleasant, ways, as well. He was working on that.

"Survival of the fittest," drawled a voice from other adjoining room of Sam's suite. Dean had assumed the room was empty, that its two residents were in class, but Ash had apparently been sleeping the day away in a huddle of blankets in the corner. He now emerged, looking decidedly hungover, yet inserting himself into the conversation as though he'd been present from the start. Stretching his arms, Ash pushed himself to his feet and strolled to the suite's bathroom to splash water on his face. "Ugh, what time is it?"

"Almost eight, dude. You missed dinner," said Sam with a yawn. "Not to mention your classes. You are taking classes, right? I haven't seen you awake during the day all week."

"The joy of self-directed, online courses, my friend." Ash flashed a quick smile and turned to his desk, clicking a few buttons on his computer keyboard. "Lets me work when the mood is right. Daylight drains my brain."

The banter between the first-year roommates continued, as they groaned over their professors and homework. Dean let the cadence of the talk wash over him without paying much attention to the actual words, until Kevin, slightly disgruntled by the lack of either commiseration or sympathy, huffed and frowned at him. "Why are you even here, old man? You don't even live on campus. Don't you have a place of your own to go?" Sam glared at Kevin, but Dean recognized the jealousy in the jab – Kevin was a private person, disliking the communal living arrangements of the residence hall – and he knew it wasn't meant personally. Besides, he had been feeding himself too many similar sentiments, with much more sneering bluntness, to be offended by Kevin's remark.

"Yeah, but it's too fun to listen to you guys complain, and it keeps things in perspective for me," he joked. "Couple more years, I'll be in front of a classroom of doofs like you, listening to them spew this whiny crap. And I bet they'll listen to this 'old man' more than they'll listen to you, baby face." Kevin made a rude noise in response.

Truthfully, even though Dean felt easy hanging around Sam and his friends, as he had for many of the years when he had been too wrapped up in work and self-imposed obligations to maintain much of his own social circle, now it was underpinned with the simmering self-consciousness he felt almost all the time. At twenty-five years of age, he was far from the oldest undergraduate student in his program, but he had seen too much, done too much, and been left feeling far older than he was. He had never really expected to go to college at all. An impulsive decision born of the need to run away from the overwhelming sense of familial duty that he'd carried from his earliest memory had led to an army enlistment on his eighteenth birthday, shocking everyone. In some ways, the subsequent tours through Afghanistan had at first almost felt like a relief; they were brutally hard, but the weight of decision-making had been lifted. He listened and obeyed, and he hadn't been required to think.

There had also been Benny, his commanding officer. Benny, who'd seen through the cocky grins and friendly sarcasm to the pool of self-loathing in which Dean fought to keep afloat, and who had not simply pulled him free but had patiently taught him how to swim for shore when he found himself sinking again. In the lowest, most nightmarish periods of Dean's deployment, Benny had been the one who stayed with him, who had sat with him in the dark and listened as he broke apart, then reassembled him with gentle words, delivered sparingly in his soft Cajun accent. "We've all been there, brother," he'd said when Dean tried to insist he didn't need the support. "I'll help you, and you can just pass it on to somebody else."

Benny was the main reason, perhaps the only reason, Dean had chosen to use the Army's funding to do something more than return to his home town and take up permanent residence on the bar stool his father had finally vacated for an urn. When Benny had said Dean had a talent for guiding the younger soldiers, teaching and mentoring them, Dean could almost believe it. Now when he wrote to Benny and told him about how he was preparing to "pass the help on" to high school history students, he could almost hear the other man's pleased chuckle in the emails he received back.

But then there were days like today, when all of those affirmations and supportive words wouldn't be enough. Dean's Modern History professor had spent today's lecture talking about current military conflicts, and, as the teacher had done since he had learned Dean was a veteran, he had eagerly peppered him with appeals for insights and anecdotes from Dean's personal experiences. The professor was a good guy, and Dean knew he meant well, but dragging up those memories usually meant painful triggers and another night of avoiding sleep to escape nightmares. Right now, sprawling in a corner of his brother's room and listening to trivial bickering provided an escape from his own thoughts, the safest coping method Dean had at the moment.

Of course, the reprieve couldn't last all night. Ash might have been a nocturnal creature, but Sam wasn't, and he had an early sociology class in the morning. The last thing Dean wanted was for his own personal issues to impact his brother's studies, and he knew that Sam would probably insist on staying up with him, fighting back his yawns, if he knew about the anxieties Dean was hiding. Rather than risk becoming an object of his brother's concern, Dean slapped on a grin, made a joke about bedtime stories and stuffed animals, and said his good nights before heading out. Kevin was already asleep when the door closed behind him.

It was late by then, but not that late. Dean sighed, knowing that he couldn't face going back to his empty, quiet apartment and the cacophony of his own thoughts yet. The library was closed, and bars were dangerous territory when he was feeling like this; he'd been tempted down that road before, and a few too-close glimpses of the direction it might lead had provided Dean with all the motivation he needed to steer clear as much as he could. He rolled his shoulders and felt his steps drag as he walked down the hallway toward the residence hall's exit.

As he approached the door, he heard music playing in a closed communal room to his right. Not a radio – it was the piano he'd noticed in the front lounge. Someone was playing quietly, and Dean stopped to listen.

He considered the idea that it was a music major doing a little late practicing, but it was apparent to his ear that this was something less structured. The player was improvising, drifting through melancholy phrases aimlessly but with obvious ability. It was unpolished, raw, but compelling all the same; Dean found himself absorbed in following the lines, waiting to see where they would lead. The music seemed to be searching, seeking resolution but not finding it. Sometimes fragments of familiar tunes, buried alongside other motifs, would sneak through, but there was nothing that Dean's mind could grab and anticipate. He stood still in the hallway, unable to move on without the resolution denied to him by the haunting melodies.

He really was not meant to be here. Not only was it against the hall's policy for an outside guest to hang around after hours without the company of a resident student, but now Dean felt as though he was spying on something more personal. He had no problem lurking outside the practice rooms or recital halls of the music department, listening to students rehearse; he'd done that before, when he'd needed to escape his own mind (with the bonus that he would occasionally stumble upon free food following whatever concerts or recitals were happening in the building). This was different. Whoever was playing was not practicing for a public performance; it felt personal. Listening was an intrusion. Dean felt a pang of guilt, but he couldn't force himself to take the remaining steps out of the building.

I'll leave at the next pause, he told himself, stepping back into the shadows beside the doorframe. There was a small couch there by the wall, and Dean cautiously settled himself into it, avoiding any noises that would draw detection from either the player or any roaming night security. He closed his eyes, floating in the sounds, telling himself that he would feel embarrassed later, but that right now he would let himself be grateful for the diversion. There were no landmines, metaphorical or otherwise, in this moment. He could rest his mind.

And then the pianist seamlessly segued into a familiar introduction, and Dean felt his heart stutter. Without words, the piano sang, and Dean heard his mother's voice.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad…Take a sad song and make it better.

Visions of soft, loose blonde hair filled his head; he felt the gentle trace of her hands on his cheek, felt himself being rocked back and forth in her arms. It was a memory he'd all but forgotten, covered over with years of stoic duty and powering through pain. Mom. He hadn't let himself really miss her in forever, feeling that he couldn't afford the moments of vulnerability doing so would bring.

But he was caught off guard now, already in the grip of the weakness that had been brought on by other painful triggers, and there was no fighting the surge of emotions that flooded his body. He didn't gasp out loud, but it was a near thing, and he felt pressure behind his eyes as the song carried him into his lost childhood. Dean surrendered.

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain; don't carry the world upon your shoulders.

When the song ended, Dean felt drained. The dying echoes carried away the tension that had been building in his neck and shoulders since that afternoon, and if his cheeks were damp, they had not been tears of anger or regret. With a start, he realized that the piano player had not begun another song; the room was now silent. Dean had a horrified vision of the door opening, being caught lurking in the darkness, and he propelled himself off the couch and toward the door as quickly and silently as he could manage.

That night he had no dreams at all that he could remember.