He hadn’t seen Dean in almost two years.
And the worst part of it was, that he never really knew if he was alright. Sam would tell himself not to think about it. Would do everything in his power to keep occupied—studying, reading, go to class, more studying, more reading, take notes, more studying, more reading—but there were those times... those times late at night when young fingers would fly across the keyboard, looking up cases, hauntings, recent death patterns.
Times when his stomach would churn, filled with a dread he couldn’t explain.
That sixth sense that said something was wrong. Get to Dean, find Dean, no one’s watching his back, how could you leave your brother alone out there—
Tonight was one of those nights.
Where was Dean? Was he okay? Should he call? No, no, the last thing the guy needed was for Dad to find out he’d been talking to Sam. John would go off on Dean, and they both knew it.
Drumming his fingers on his dorm room desk, the nineteen-year-old chewed on the inside of his cheek. ‘You asked him to come with you, he told you no… he told you no…’ he would remind himself.
And just maybe, he could’ve smothered that ache in his chest after a while. Maybe his roommate Brady would decide to not stay over at that house party on campus, and he’d come back and keep Sam’s mind off things.
But when the little intercom buzzer rang next to his door?
The voice that answered Sam’s, “Hello?” on the other end of the private intercom, knocked the wind right out him.
