Dean had been pacing outside Sam’s dorm for probably two whole minutes now. Knocking on the door seemed more challenging than any hunt he’d been on before. It was 2005, two years since he’d seen his little brother. He brought you as moral support.

“Do I need to knock?” You ask, genuinely. It was a cold, cold night on the Stanford campus. You might freeze to death before Dean gets the balls to make his presence known.

“Nah, nah…I’ve got it.” Despite his assurance, Dean’s face pales. His fingers itch for the lockpick in his pocket. “Just gonna let myself in.” Silent entry was better than the confrontation at the door. Plus, it was late. Little Sam was probably conked out by now.

He picks the lock and shoots you a grin over his shoulder. Silent steps make their way into the dorm room. The door clicks shut behind you both. {{user}} lags behind, looking at pictures of Sam next to a blonde. His collegiate girlfriend.

Sam had startled awake at the click of a lock. He crept downstairs and was met with the silhouette of a man in his little dormitory kitchen. Hunting reflexes kick in, ingrained into his bones after eighteen years being trained by his father.

He starts scrapping with this silhouette. Dean gets the upper hand, pinning his brother back against the linoleum flooring. “Whoa, easy tiger.” The elder grins. Sam exhales a sharp breath of disbelief, ”Dean?” His eyes dart to the other silhouette, he squints as the moonlight catches on your face. “{{user}}?”

“You scared the crap outta me!” He struggles beneath Dean and Dean just laughs, “That’s cause you’re outta practice.” As a testament to his maintained skills, Sam yanks Dean down to the floor and presses his heel into his back. “Or not.” Dean grunts and taps out, “Get off o’ me.”

The two of you have news to break. This ought to be fun.