Dean Visits Stanford
Title: Dean Visits Stanford: first visit
Author: CelticForest
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean pre-slash
The first time was just a few weeks after classes started. Dad let him come because they were just over in Nevada anyway. Dean thinks maybe Dad wants to know how Sam is doing too. He can't believe he'd be the only one wanting to keep the three of them connected despite the physical distance separating them, even if - especially if - physical closeness, not emotional, was all that they'd shared as a family in the year before Sam left.
He wants to make sure Sam made it here ok, and that he's safe and is settling in to this environment so foreign to Dean. He could call and ask Sam how he's doing, but these are the kinds of things he can only really know by seeing for himself - surely that's why he doesn't push the call button on the cell phone open in his hand. Dean tries to treat this trip like gathering intel in the early phase of a job. That is, if a job came with tightness in his chest and a twist in his gut instead of feeling alert and ready for anything. Maybe he's just getting sick. The part of his brain he never could teach to lie, or at least keep its thoughts to itself, tells him yeah - this obsession with his brother is sick. Shut up, brain.
The morning began with a visit to the admissions office, where he got Sam's schedule and dorm room from a woman working at one of the desks. There was a man working at another, but Dean waited for the woman at the coffee machine to come back. Odds being what they are, some say 10% give-or-take, his charms would get him farther with the woman than with the guy (although in his experience there aren't many people out there who are 0's or 6's on that scale). But this time it wasn't just his smile and general hotness that had her pulling Sam's file up on the computer screen, it was also Dean's drivers license in his own family name; Sam's name. Grinning afterwards, Dean tried to remember if flashing an ID with his real name on it had ever gotten him anywhere before.
Dean got into the dorm without a key card by catching a door just as it was about to close behind two students going in. He found Sam's room with no trouble, and was relived to see the old dorm still had keyed locks on the knobs. It took him little time to get in. The room was a miniature hall of mirrors - two identical beds, desks, shelves and tiny closets were reflected in the light of a single window at the center of the back wall. One bed had fru fru throw-rugs on the side and at the foot. Dean moved to what he assumed was Sam's side, but found two letters addressed to Evan Novack. For an excruciating fraction of a second he thought Sam had distanced himself from his family so much as to be living this part of his life, the part he cherishes, under a different name. But no, Dean knows from the thirty-something Denise in the admissions office that Sam has kept, if nothing else, his name. Besides, this Evan character's letters are from other Novacks at the return address. Dean turned to the other side of the room and crossed to the desk with no letters from home. It held a used text with a name in the front crossed out, and he ran his fingertip over the words "Sam Winchester" written beneath. He looked down at the worn rugs, and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew before he carefully lifted them that they covered salt lines, and looking under the bed Dean could see the line of protection continued along the back and side walls. His lips twitched upward at the corners, thinking of the oblivious Evan. Speaking of which - Dean checked the window, then the door. There was nothing, not even a small symbol of protection drawn unobtrusively.
Sam is just seeking a feeling of safety while he sleeps, then. It's no surprise, given the nightmares he never did grow out of, although the frequency decreased as he reached puberty. Or, it occurs to Dean, maybe he only started keeping his mouth shut about them more. He just remembers fewer and fewer nights when Sam was so shaken that he couldn't get back to sleep unless he was curled up in Dean's bed. If he was actually trembling, make that curled up in Dean - Dean would wrap his arms and legs around him and hold him tight until Sam's breathing slowed into sleep. Either way, they were inevitably tangled together when they woke up in the morning. How could they not be, with a single bed holding two guys, one of whom had freakishly long limbs? Dean had been 20 before Sam stopped coming to him with nightmares, and it was perfectly normal, he knew from experience, to wake up with a hard-on. Not so normal to do so in bed with his brother, a knowledge he didn't dwell on. He especially didn't dwell on it when his little brother woke up in the same condition. If the part of his brain that wouldn't shut its cakehole made note that not all parts of his brother were little, Dean would tell it no shit, the kid has legs twice the size of an orangutan's. Or that his hand could cover a dinner plate and still pick it up by the edges. Or that his giant brain could kick Dean's brain's ass, so shut up brain.
With a start, Dean realized he'd been staring, thinking of all the times they'd shared a bed on hunts with their father. Not that Dean minded the sharing, but did Dad really realize how old they were, as the three of them continued to get a single motel room with two beds during hunts? Dean had always thought of it as just the financial necessity it was, but was it also an indication that Dad was oblivious to the lives of his sons beyond training and hunting? Dean shook his head quickly - next thing he knew he'd sound like Sam. And the rugs were still fru fru.
It was time to go, and finish what he came for.
Unlike most other times he'd watched and waited, he has to leave his baby. The Impala isn't exactly subtle, especially where Sam's concerned. The idea is to make sure he's ok, not to have an awkward reunion if Sam sees the car lurking. The thought brings a smile to his lips, but that's ok, there's no one to see it.
He's watching to see where Sam goes, whether he's alone or has people to talk with, and what he can learn from his body language. He wishes he could be close enough to see his face, for no other reason (shut UP brain) than to know more of what he came to learn. How does Sam feel? Is he nervous, happy, frustrated, at ease? Lonely? Of Sam's face he can see only floppy hair and Dean's own memory of eyes that could sparkle or thunder, and show curiosity, empathy... more feelings than could be named. A face Dean is more familiar with than the one in the mirror on days when he shaves.
Oh.
How could he let himself be blind-sided? Good thing he's not on a hunt after all. He's watching Sam talk with two other guys on the steps outside a campus coffee shop, when suddenly the shine of a smile gives the Palo Alto sun a run for its money. Of course Sam's expressions don't belong to Dean's memories, they're his to share with new friends. (He won't be torn from growing relationships to move to a new school at a moment's notice because a hunt brought Dad and Dean to the attention of the local authorities again.) They're his to focus on the professors of classes he's chosen, as he takes in knowledge, asks questions, and offers his opinions. (His teachers are not emotionally-distant drill sergeants who require instant, unquestioning obedience in the relentless training of skills that may save his life on a hunt, but which here seem so out of place.) Not Dean's expressions, not Dean's skills, not Dean's place.
He's seen enough. Sam is fine, and Dean's happy for him. Really. So much so, that a tear begins at the rim of each eye, holding on against the fall. At the same time his mouth quirks in a half smile, a silent laugh at himself. His act works so well on others, but maybe he's just not as easily conned. There can be more than one reason for almost-tears.
He returns to the car he left at the back of the coffee shop, opens the door to get in and stroke her dashboard a little for comfort, and heads back to Nevada.
At first he didn't know what caused his heart to clench, and miss a beat. Then, impossible as it was, his memory was drawn to the metal-on-metal sound of the door of the Impala. Sam immediately stood up to look around, excusing himself to his friends with the barest of courtesy. Either his brain was playing tricks on him, or he just faintly heard Dean's powerful engine. He hurried in that direction, but saw nothing when he reached the street. He chastised himself. The sounds were not unique to the Impala, plus, as far as he knew, Dean was probably halfway across the country. This was just irrational wishful thinking.
It left him aching all the same.
Author: CelticForest
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean pre-slash
The first time was just a few weeks after classes started. Dad let him come because they were just over in Nevada anyway. Dean thinks maybe Dad wants to know how Sam is doing too. He can't believe he'd be the only one wanting to keep the three of them connected despite the physical distance separating them, even if - especially if - physical closeness, not emotional, was all that they'd shared as a family in the year before Sam left.
He wants to make sure Sam made it here ok, and that he's safe and is settling in to this environment so foreign to Dean. He could call and ask Sam how he's doing, but these are the kinds of things he can only really know by seeing for himself - surely that's why he doesn't push the call button on the cell phone open in his hand. Dean tries to treat this trip like gathering intel in the early phase of a job. That is, if a job came with tightness in his chest and a twist in his gut instead of feeling alert and ready for anything. Maybe he's just getting sick. The part of his brain he never could teach to lie, or at least keep its thoughts to itself, tells him yeah - this obsession with his brother is sick. Shut up, brain.
The morning began with a visit to the admissions office, where he got Sam's schedule and dorm room from a woman working at one of the desks. There was a man working at another, but Dean waited for the woman at the coffee machine to come back. Odds being what they are, some say 10% give-or-take, his charms would get him farther with the woman than with the guy (although in his experience there aren't many people out there who are 0's or 6's on that scale). But this time it wasn't just his smile and general hotness that had her pulling Sam's file up on the computer screen, it was also Dean's drivers license in his own family name; Sam's name. Grinning afterwards, Dean tried to remember if flashing an ID with his real name on it had ever gotten him anywhere before.
Dean got into the dorm without a key card by catching a door just as it was about to close behind two students going in. He found Sam's room with no trouble, and was relived to see the old dorm still had keyed locks on the knobs. It took him little time to get in. The room was a miniature hall of mirrors - two identical beds, desks, shelves and tiny closets were reflected in the light of a single window at the center of the back wall. One bed had fru fru throw-rugs on the side and at the foot. Dean moved to what he assumed was Sam's side, but found two letters addressed to Evan Novack. For an excruciating fraction of a second he thought Sam had distanced himself from his family so much as to be living this part of his life, the part he cherishes, under a different name. But no, Dean knows from the thirty-something Denise in the admissions office that Sam has kept, if nothing else, his name. Besides, this Evan character's letters are from other Novacks at the return address. Dean turned to the other side of the room and crossed to the desk with no letters from home. It held a used text with a name in the front crossed out, and he ran his fingertip over the words "Sam Winchester" written beneath. He looked down at the worn rugs, and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew before he carefully lifted them that they covered salt lines, and looking under the bed Dean could see the line of protection continued along the back and side walls. His lips twitched upward at the corners, thinking of the oblivious Evan. Speaking of which - Dean checked the window, then the door. There was nothing, not even a small symbol of protection drawn unobtrusively.
Sam is just seeking a feeling of safety while he sleeps, then. It's no surprise, given the nightmares he never did grow out of, although the frequency decreased as he reached puberty. Or, it occurs to Dean, maybe he only started keeping his mouth shut about them more. He just remembers fewer and fewer nights when Sam was so shaken that he couldn't get back to sleep unless he was curled up in Dean's bed. If he was actually trembling, make that curled up in Dean - Dean would wrap his arms and legs around him and hold him tight until Sam's breathing slowed into sleep. Either way, they were inevitably tangled together when they woke up in the morning. How could they not be, with a single bed holding two guys, one of whom had freakishly long limbs? Dean had been 20 before Sam stopped coming to him with nightmares, and it was perfectly normal, he knew from experience, to wake up with a hard-on. Not so normal to do so in bed with his brother, a knowledge he didn't dwell on. He especially didn't dwell on it when his little brother woke up in the same condition. If the part of his brain that wouldn't shut its cakehole made note that not all parts of his brother were little, Dean would tell it no shit, the kid has legs twice the size of an orangutan's. Or that his hand could cover a dinner plate and still pick it up by the edges. Or that his giant brain could kick Dean's brain's ass, so shut up brain.
With a start, Dean realized he'd been staring, thinking of all the times they'd shared a bed on hunts with their father. Not that Dean minded the sharing, but did Dad really realize how old they were, as the three of them continued to get a single motel room with two beds during hunts? Dean had always thought of it as just the financial necessity it was, but was it also an indication that Dad was oblivious to the lives of his sons beyond training and hunting? Dean shook his head quickly - next thing he knew he'd sound like Sam. And the rugs were still fru fru.
It was time to go, and finish what he came for.
Unlike most other times he'd watched and waited, he has to leave his baby. The Impala isn't exactly subtle, especially where Sam's concerned. The idea is to make sure he's ok, not to have an awkward reunion if Sam sees the car lurking. The thought brings a smile to his lips, but that's ok, there's no one to see it.
He's watching to see where Sam goes, whether he's alone or has people to talk with, and what he can learn from his body language. He wishes he could be close enough to see his face, for no other reason (shut UP brain) than to know more of what he came to learn. How does Sam feel? Is he nervous, happy, frustrated, at ease? Lonely? Of Sam's face he can see only floppy hair and Dean's own memory of eyes that could sparkle or thunder, and show curiosity, empathy... more feelings than could be named. A face Dean is more familiar with than the one in the mirror on days when he shaves.
Oh.
How could he let himself be blind-sided? Good thing he's not on a hunt after all. He's watching Sam talk with two other guys on the steps outside a campus coffee shop, when suddenly the shine of a smile gives the Palo Alto sun a run for its money. Of course Sam's expressions don't belong to Dean's memories, they're his to share with new friends. (He won't be torn from growing relationships to move to a new school at a moment's notice because a hunt brought Dad and Dean to the attention of the local authorities again.) They're his to focus on the professors of classes he's chosen, as he takes in knowledge, asks questions, and offers his opinions. (His teachers are not emotionally-distant drill sergeants who require instant, unquestioning obedience in the relentless training of skills that may save his life on a hunt, but which here seem so out of place.) Not Dean's expressions, not Dean's skills, not Dean's place.
He's seen enough. Sam is fine, and Dean's happy for him. Really. So much so, that a tear begins at the rim of each eye, holding on against the fall. At the same time his mouth quirks in a half smile, a silent laugh at himself. His act works so well on others, but maybe he's just not as easily conned. There can be more than one reason for almost-tears.
He returns to the car he left at the back of the coffee shop, opens the door to get in and stroke her dashboard a little for comfort, and heads back to Nevada.
At first he didn't know what caused his heart to clench, and miss a beat. Then, impossible as it was, his memory was drawn to the metal-on-metal sound of the door of the Impala. Sam immediately stood up to look around, excusing himself to his friends with the barest of courtesy. Either his brain was playing tricks on him, or he just faintly heard Dean's powerful engine. He hurried in that direction, but saw nothing when he reached the street. He chastised himself. The sounds were not unique to the Impala, plus, as far as he knew, Dean was probably halfway across the country. This was just irrational wishful thinking.
It left him aching all the same.