Sam's out of deodorant, so he decides to borrow Dean's. When he finds the little black bottle with its blunt silver cap, however, he can't help snickering. "Dude, you use Axe?"
"Yeah," Dean says from where he's ostensibly using the laptop to research kitsune and is probably just using Google Image Search to look at pictures of Gillian Anderson's breasts instead. "Why?"
"I dunno, I just didn't think you were the kind of guy who needed to boost his man-mojo with 'Axe Deodorant Stick--keeps you smelling like--" here Sam actually breaks into a laugh, "man candy.' 'Essence'--'it's good, it's bad, it's exactly what she's looking for?'"
"Hey, it was on sale, okay?" Dean's eyes are still trained on the screen, which means he's lying, which makes Sam crack up even harder.
"Do you think this stuff actually works?" Sam snorts.
"I don't see you rollin' in girls, man," Dean mutters. "Shut up."
The first time Sam sees Jessica, her hair is tangled and unkempt, and she's in fuzzy pink pajama pants and flip-flops. He's not sure he's ever noticed her before. Then again, it's Intro to Humanities, which has over a hundred students, so it's not surprising that Sam knows only the people in his section. Outside, she drops her glasses and then nearly steps on them; Sam fetches them for her and carefully puts them back on her face, since her hands are full with her books.
"Thanks," she says resignedly. "I hate these things, but I didn't have time to put in my contacts this morning."
"Slept in?" Sam asks.
"Hungover," she admits.
The first time Dean sees Jessica, she's wearing these teeny shorts that barely cover her ass and some kind of equally tiny shirt that has a slit down the middle, the better to show her cleavage. She doesn't seem like his brother's type at all; he's always liked the nerdy, dark-haired girls with the Coke-bottle glasses who like to read books. Maybe college finally flipped some kind of switch in his brain.
Dean knows he woke them up, that they were probably sleeping tangled up in bed together and dreaming their normal, picket-fence and 2.5 kid dreams. But hey, Dad's gone, Dean's still here, and Sam's done dreaming now. Time to get back on the road.
After 300 miles of listening to the same classic rock, Sam finally manages to convince Dean to stop by a Radio Shack and spend ten of his hard-earned dollars ("You won it betting on the races." "Hey, still my money!") on a cassette adapter for Sam's Discman.
"It's good music," Sam insists, rifling through his CD wallet.
"Yeah, that's what you said in tenth grade," Dean mutters, "when you made me listen to Matchbox 20." He spits out the band name like the way he'd say "baby killer."
Sam still likes Matchbox 20, but he's not about to say that, so he clicks a reasonably recent album into the Discman because it's about time Dean heard some 21st century music. As soon as the minor key piano starts, though, Dean makes a face.
"What is this," he complains, "that Beethoven shit?"
"Man, this blows."
"The song hasn't even started yet!"
As soon as Chris Martin starts wailing How long before I get in? / Before it starts, before I begin? Dean gives Sam a tortured look and says, "Turn that off."
"They've won Grammys!" Sam protests. "They've sold 10 billion albums!"
Dean smacks Sam in the side of the head without even taking his eyes off the road. Sam sputters, then sulkily selects a Blue Oyster Cult cassette.
Dean maintains that college did something terrible to Sam's tastebuds because Sam doesn't know good food from dogshit anymore.
"Dude," he says when Sam tosses the plastic 7-11 bags at him, "what's this?"
"Fruit," Sam explains patiently. "Apples. Bananas. Maybe you've seen pictures of them."
"Where's the chips?" Dean demands, rifling through the bag as if Pringles and Slim Jims will suddenly appear underneath the Red Delicious. "Dude, where's the Corn Nuts?"
"Fruit is good for you," Sam presses on valiantly. "It has vitamins. Fiber."
"You," Dean says, pointing a serious finger at his brother, "are never doing the shopping again."
"It's okay," Dean assures Sam, "'cause it's us."
"That doesn't make it okay." Sam's words are muffled in the pillow, but he knows Dean can still hear him, because he's Dean.
"Hey." Dean props himself up on one elbow so that he can look down at Sam. "It's like I've always said, man. We're different. We don't play by their rules."
"This isn't their rules," Sam insists.
"Hell if it isn't," Dean says, and grabs Sam by the hair and kisses him.