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It's late into the night, when the only thing illuminating the city are the dimmed streetlights, and dozens of stars sprinkling the sky. If you strained your ears, you can hear the faint zooming of cars passing through, well past the speed limit. Then, serene silence permeate the air until the next car comes along.
It's exactly the kind of night Castiel would spend studying. As of right now, he's typing away on his computer, has been at it for a couple of hours at this point. He might've started the session with a timer set for intervals of break, but that's long forgotten around hour three. There's an annoying crick in his back, a twinge in his neck, and his joints stiff from inactivity.
Only one more paragraph left. Then he'll be done with it.
The lamplight warms his fingers, but prickles his tired eyes. There's an empty mug of coffee next to his laptop, and his nose twitches with the smell of it.
He's on his last sentence when a loud bang sounds down the hallway.
Castiel actually flinches. It's so quiet that something so loud could be jarring. Not that he believes in the supernatural, or anything.
He pauses, waiting for the next indication of noise he should be worried about. It's a dormitory, people move about; it can get noisy. Vaguely, there are sounds of rustling, and a thump, someone hissing out, "Shit."
Castiel stands up. "Sam?"
More shuffling, a susurrus, then—
Castiel's door opens. A tall lanky figure stumbles in, almost crashing into his bookshelf.
"Oh, God."
It's Sam, alright. He's slumping against the wall, one sock missing. His shirt is askew, a few buttons undone and exposing his cleavage. His hair tousled in all directions. He couldn't have been here for more than a few seconds but the nauseating scent of alcohol already sweeps over the room.
"Cas," Sam slurs, "oh, hey."
It doesn't take a genius to figure out he's completely crashed.
"Sam, what—" Castiel starts, and pauses, looking over at his laptop. "It's two in the morning. I thought you would've stayed overnight with a friend?"
Sam furrows his brows like he's trying to parse his words. When realization hits him, he shakes his head erratically, giggles when no jokes are told. "N—o, no. DD. Remember?" He smacks his chapped lips. "Kevin."
"Kevin drove you?"
"Ye—p," Sam says. He takes a few tottering steps, leaning away from the wall, which already isn't good. He can barely stand on his own two legs, let alone walk without injuring himself somehow. "And, uhm. Dean, Crowley—oh, oh! Charlie was there."
Before Sam falls and knocks his head on the edge of Castiel's bed, Castiel rushes over, pushing his roller chair away, and catches him. Immediately, Sam goes slack, putting his entire body weight onto Castiel. His drooling mouth pressed up against Castiel's sweater, muffled.
"I think Gabe was there too," Sam speaks as if with a thick tongue. "He sat in someone's lap. Uhm. Dean's. Maybe."
He breaks into a sudden fit of giggles again, his saliva soaking through the fabric. And Castiel's back is killing him with the addition of 200 pounds of a giant hunched over him. He carefully maneuvers Sam over to bed, with as much grace as one can manage with a fully grown six foot something man in their arms.
"Gabe, you say," Castiel mutters, adjusting Sam's long limbs. "Is that why you're so plastered?"
Sam hums questioningly, eyes barely opened. "Uh. I drunk a bit. Tasted weird. Drunk more."
Castiel's not surprised. Gabriel is known for spiking his friends' drinks. Nothing serious or lethal, just stronger alcohol shots, as said-prankster would reaffirm. People tend to watch out their cups when they hang around Gabriel. Unless they wish to black out at some point, end up naked in a bathtub, and the contents of their stomach all over their body.
Castiel would know from experience. He doesn't go out drinking anymore.
Castiel leans over and drags open Sam's eyelids. His pupils look relatively normal. God hope Gabriel wasn't dumb enough to put some drug inside Sam's drink. He had just recently celebrated his third year sobriety, wholly drug-free.
"You're okay," Castiel sighs, sits back on his knees. "I'll get you water and some aspirin for your hangover, okay?"
Sam slurs some incoherent response, flips over to his side, utterly out.
Standing up, Castiel raises his arms above his head and stretches on his tip toes, joints pop and knuckles crack as tension unropes itself from his body. He lets out a deep breath. It's been a long night, he needs to wrap this up soon and rest—he's got a lecture to attend come morning.
Before going to the kitchen and scouring for the pill tablets, he briefs over his report and promptly shuts his computer. He can deal. Firstly, Sam.
A lingering feeling of doubt seeds itself in him; they haven't had the need for aspirin very often. The last time Castiel drank was four years ago, at his high school's prom after-party. Sam drinks but rarely above his tolerance, the most he'd be is a little over tipsy.
Somehow, there's still a tablet in the depths of the cupboards, blocked by plastic plates and bowls. Castiel checks: two pills left. That should be fine. He fills a glass with water and strolls into his room.
Sam seemingly hasn't moved at all from his spot, back facing Castiel. He watches the slow rise and fall of Sam's upper torso, the way his hair is a mess pooling over his shoulders, his shirt rumpled and riden up—exposing a sliver of his hip.
Quietly, Castiel walks over and places the glass and pills on the bedside table. He gently shakes Sam.
"Sam," he mutters. Sam softly groans. "Sam, you need to drink some water."
Sam looks over his shoulder, eyes bloodshot and lashes wet.
"Cas?" Sam rasps out.
"Hey." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Water."
Sam blinks, slowly. He glances over at the table. Back up to Castiel's eyes.
"'Kay."
He flips over, sweat glistening the base of his neck as he reaches for the cup.
"Careful." Castiel hovers a hand over his nape, securing the cup in Sam's grip. Together, they slowly bring the cup up to Sam's lips. Taking big gulps that makes Castiel worry about the possibility of a pile of puke soaking his sheets—but to hell with it. Like he can't help himself, Castiel presses just the tips of his fingers through the curls, against Sam's nape. Sam instantly tenses, then relaxes, letting go of the rim with a sigh.
"Bed?" Castiel puts the cup back.
Sam nods.
Sam flips back and curls into a fetal position. Castiel lifts the blanket over him and stands, planning to crash on the couch instead.
"Cas?" Sam whispers. His tuff of hair ever-so slightly messier.
"I'm here."
"Stay," he says, very quietly, almost indiscernible from the still air, "Please."
Castiel blinks.
He's always had a hard time denying Sam of anything, mostly because a lot of what Sam wants, Castiel also wants. This, he doesn't know. He suspects something more than just spiked drinks happened at the club, but the night is too vulnerable and the alcohol scent too thick to ask. He wants to comfort Sam, though, so maybe this is what he could do instead—let Sam feel his warmth and know he's safe.
Castiel doesn't reply, simply joins the covers next to Sam, shoulder brushing his back. Sam doesn't say anything either, but he doesn't need to. The steady movement of his breathing eases Castiel enough.
He's drifting off when Sam speaks, just barely louder than a whisper, "Thank you."
He closes his eyes and lets the world take.