Series: One-Shot, Gen
Pairing/Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: 657
Summary: Sometime later, he thought he heard Sam’s voice in the darkness, but it wasn’t enough to pull him from his stupor and then a wind came and carried it off.
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when I'm lost as I have roamed
The campus stretched out in front of him, the divided roads a maze he knew he would never master. Somewhere on this stretch of brick buildings and hot college girls his brother wandered like a big geek Sasquatch.
How could he call in the middle of the night, hang up and not expect him to check up on him?
One more sweep and then he’d head back to his motel and try again in the morning.
“Sammy, man. It’s good to hear-“
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He sank onto the lumpy bed, his hand dangling between his spread legs. “How’d you know?”
“Did you honestly think you could drive around campus in that car and not be noticed? I heard the rumble of the Impala from two blocks away. Why are you here, Dean?”
“Dude, you called me? Remember? Or was that a mistake?”
The noise on the other end of the cell phone was one he recognized and his chest tightened. So many nights, so many times Sam made the same noise in frustration and anger and he could see the frown lines deepen in his brother’s forehead.
“Yeah, it was a mistake, Dean.”
“Well then, all you had to do was answer the freaking phone when I called you back." Dean sighed and stared up at a patch of mold growing in the corner. "Aw come on, Sammy. I’m here now. It’s been two years since I’ve seen my little bro. I’m staying at the Glass Slipper and there’s a bar down the street. Let me buy you a beer and we can catch up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sam,” Dean stopped and rubbed his hand over his forehead. “Dude, I’m not going to beg. I just want to see you’re okay. Okay? One beer.”
“Fine, whatever. I’ll be there at nine.”
The bartender pulled out his tip jug out from behind the bar and started to count his tips. “We’re getting ready to make last call. You want another whisky before we kick you out?”
The full moon shone through the bar windows, the shadows from the pale light long on the empty floor. Dean tipped his glass into his mouth and nodded. He turned to the door as it opened, still hopeful. Instead, two drunken frat guys stumbled in, looked around at the barren wasteland of the room, laughed and walked back out.
The amber liquid sloshed in his glass as the bartender upended the bottle. “Mr. Jim Beam was full when you sat down. Consider this one on me. I’m sorry your friend didn’t show up.”
The glass was heavy in his hand. “Yeah, me too.”
It wasn’t until they vacuumed the rugs, swept the floors and gave him the stink-eye heave-ho did he admit it was time to leave. Dean emerged from the bar, stunned and yeah, he was drunk enough to admit it, hurt. He drank all the he could swallow waiting for Sam to show up and now, all he had to show for it was the moon following him home. Two days he drove for that kid, just because he dialed the wrong number and Sam didn’t even have the balls to show up.
There was only one job he took seriously, and he’d follow that kid straight to Hell if he had to, but he sure made it hard for Dean to like him sometimes. Feeling stupid, he stumbled through the parking lot, pulling his keys from his pocket. Not ready to face the dump he booked for the night, the Impala gleamed like a beacon in the darkness.
Pulling open the back door, he groaned as he crawled into the back seat, feeling like a lost sheep, hoping Jim Beam didn’t decide to pay him a back door visit tonight. Bunching his leather jacket into a lumpy pillow, he mumbled to no one in particular, "take it easy on me tonight, okay?"
Sometime later, he thought he heard Sam’s voice in the darkness, but it wasn’t enough to pull him from his stupor and then a wind came and carried it off.