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apocalypsosTitle: Some Sounds You'll Sleep Through
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,100 words
Pairing: None (Gen)
Prompt: #19, Separation Anxiety (for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
psych_30)
Spoilers for: "Something Wicked"
Warnings: Bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: Sam's first week at college isn't only hard on him.
*****
Some Sounds You'll Sleep Through
*****
Sam's first night in the dorms is spent getting to know that he hates his roommate.
Blaine -- and who the hell names their kid Blaine, and was there a lost bet involved? -- has a trust fund almost as big as his ego and a father who insisted he stay in the dorms his freshman year "like a normal person." Clothes plastered with designer labels spill from his closet and his wallet's full of credit cards with limits so high Dean couldn't even fake being their real owner on his best day. He plays bad techno on a constant loop and leers across the room at Sam like he's waiting for the worship to commence. He lines the walls on his side of the room with expensively framed photos of him at nightclubs with young people Sam has the vague impression he's supposed to recognize from a magazine or something.
Sam never sees about getting a new roommate because there's something about an annoying bastard in the next bed over that's oddly comforting.
He has no idea why the hell Blaine never sees about a new roommate. It's possible he's a masochist.
*****
Sam's cell phone rings at two in the morning that first night. The only reason Blaine doesn't bitch about the noise is because he went to an off-campus party, drank like it was his own personal St. Patrick's Day, and puked in the garbage can in the men's room down the hall before passing out in the middle of their dorm room.
Sam didn't bother moving him from the floor. Let the jerk get the imprint of that cheap carpeting in his face for the first day of classes.
He doesn't bother checking who's calling him before answering the phone, either, which he knows is a bad move when Dean's voice slurs from the other end, "I'm thinking of getting a dog and naming it Sam. What do you think? Exactly how much desperation do you think that reeks of, anyway?"
Sam hangs up without answering.
The answer, for the record, is A lot.
*****
In Sam's first class, he is one of the few without a laptop, and he can tell from the way the others without laptops glance around the room that by next week, he's going to be awfully lonesome in that regard. The professor says something about notebooks and labs and rubber gloves, and it takes Sam longer than it should to realize he's in a biology class. He doesn't own a TV but Blaine does, and Blaine's hangover cure apparently included blasting whatever happened to be playing on VH-1 at the time.
Sam left the dorm room that morning to the strains of "She Blinded Me With Science" with a completely foreign longing in his mind for some Skynyrd.
As he's leaving class, his cell phone rings. He knows who it is without looking, and answers with a tired, "Yeah."
"Yeah, so, I got him."
"Got whom?"
"The dog."
Sam may be going insane. He's not sure. "Tell me you didn't just buy a dog and name it Sam."
"I didn't."
So maybe not insane.
"I got him at the pound, and his name's Sammy."
Sam hangs up again with comment.
The comment he was looking for, by the way, is, Oh, for crying out loud.
*****
Dean would not get a dog, Sam reasons, because Dean is not Mr. Responsible. Responsible for Sam, yes. Responsible for other people in danger, sure. Responsible for Dad when he's wasted, okay.
Sam groans and leans back at his desk chair, rubbing at his temples. Way to win your argument there, Winchester.
Blaine isn't in the room just then, because theoretically he's in class but realistically he's probably out throwing glowsticks at random passersby in the quad while downing Jager bombs. Sam has more faith in the latter being true than that Blaine would ever approach a classroom voluntarily. Twenty minutes after he thinks that, Blaine stalks in bitching about about how the guy sitting in front of him in his political science class is roughly the size of the football stadium and smells exactly like the locker rooms.
Sam really hopes Blaine doesn't plan on sleeping any time soon, because if he does go to sleep, Sam plans to smother him with a pillow.
Blaine's still rambling on about his class when Sam absently dials his phone, and when this groggy voice answers, he says, "So what kind of dog is it, exactly?"
Dean goes silent for a moment, grumbles something that doesn't sound like words and finally says, "Mixed breed. Half chihuahua, half St. Bernard."
"That's ... kind of terrifying."
Sam can almost hear Dean shrug and slap on that charming tease of a smile, but what he can see is Blaine turning on his CD player and adjusting the photo of him with the Hilton girls and Sam's never wanted to throw a Russian literature book at someone's head so much in his life.
"Some guys like a big-boned girl, Sammy. What do you want?"
*****
Later that night after Blaine's passed out on his laptop (off of which Sam had to roll his head when his nose kept resting on the backspace and a high-pitched beeping filled the room), Sam picks up his phone and dials Dean again.
"Is he a good dog?" he asks.
Dean grunts at that. "He's a horrible dog," Dean says. "Won't stop humping my leg. That's what I get for naming him after you."
Sam yawns and stretches out on his bed, burrowing into the pillows he's propped up behind him.
"Jerk."
"Nerd."
There's a familiar metallic clicking in the background, Dean cleaning his guns with practiced efficiency. Sam could fall asleep to that sound easier than he could to rain against the window or a gentle summer breeze, and he's half-tempted to leave the phone up to his ear and just listen to Dean work as he slumps down on his bed.
*****
He brings his lunch to this bench outside his dorm the next day. It's a choice between eating outside or going up to his room and listen to Blaine tell his girlfriend about his lowly, scholarship-endowed roommate. That first day, Blaine almost gleefully told her over the phone that all of Sam's possessions fit into an old army duffel, and Sam had no idea who this girl was, but from the high-pitched giggling he'd heard over the phone, he was pretty sure she wasn't going to college to learn brain surgery. Or at least, how to do it politely.
Sam takes a bite out of his apple just in time for the phone to ring, and he's still chewing when he raises the phone to his ear.
"Stupid dog pissed in my car," is what Sam hears, and he's glad no one's looking at him when apple chunks spray out of his mouth.
"Seriously?"
"Did you do this?"
Sam breaks out in a confused smile and stares at the phone as if it's actually Dean standing right next to him, with some weird-looking dog with a tiny pointy head and a disproportionately huge body at his side. In his mind, the dog's trying to look innocent and is currently failing miserably. It's definitely Dean's dog. "What, did I piss in your car all the way from California?"
"No, dumbass, did you ... I don't know, send vibes or something from Stanford? Vengeful, piss-in-his-car vibes?"
Sam would bet that Dean hasn't been on a hunt since he left, that's he's itching with nervous energy. It would explain a lot.
"Yes, Dean, I sent your dog a subliminal message to pee all over the Impala," he says, "and you might want to check your favorite boots while you're at it."
He's being sarcastic, but a second later, Dean groans and starts yelling this incoherent bullshit.
Sam doesn't know how the hell he knew that, but he hangs up instead because he's pretty sure Dean doesn't want to hear him laugh hysterically for the next ten minutes straight.
*****
What he should be doing on Saturday is studying, because he's got a scholarship to back up and if he doesn't get into the habit of constant studying -- yeah, like he hasn't already since first grade -- he's never going to keep it. What he's doing instead is cleaning the dorm room, because Blaine left on Friday night and still hasn't come back yet and he might as well straighten up while he's got the chance.
For all he knows, Blaine's in a dumpster, a ditch, a boat headed towards Tahiti, Limbo, or the arms of a woman in white, and yet Sam can't bring himself to care.
Well, care much.
The phone rings when he's halfway through scrubbing down the windows, and when he answers it, he hears Dean say, "Hey, I taught Sammy a trick today."
"The well of excitement that is your life," Sam mutters, but then he realizes his hand is squeezing out the sticky residue of a tossed plastic cup of soda that had ended up on the window thanks to Blaine from the sponge he's holding into a bucket full of hot soapy water and sighs. "What kind of trick?"
"I taught him how to stay," Dean says with a chuckle. "Little bastard can stay like you wouldn't believe."
Sam rolls his eyes, says, "Your lack of subtlety is amazing, you know that?" and hangs up before tossing the phone onto his bed.
*****
On Monday, there's a plain white envelope with no return address in his mail, and inside is a photo of the ugliest puppy Sam's ever seen in his life. It's the same color as a tub of mustard and has a coat that makes it look like someone stapled a piece of moldy shag carpeting to its back. Sam can count all of its legs, eyes, ears and its tail on one hand without using any of his fingers twice.
On the back of the photo, Dean's scribbled the name SAMMY in big loopy letters that hitch in places like he couldn't stop laughing when he wrote it.
Sam dials Dean immediately and gets an earful of chuckles. "Does Dad approve of this?"
Dean's chuckles die away pretty quickly.
"Dad hasn't been back home since you left," Dean says, and his voice cuts off like someone sliced it in half.
*****
Sam tries Dad's number twenty times that day like he's actually going to answer but knows he won't, because when John Winchester says, If you leave, don't come back, the added and don't call, and don't write, and just for good measure, don't tell anybody you ever even had a family is just silent. It takes him until after his lit class to give up, so he tries Dean. Dean never said a damn thing about not coming back.
Dean answers after one ring, and when he says Sam's name, it draws out like it's riding on painful rails. Sam almost asks what job he just came back from, how many stitches he's got to get this time, what he killed, but stops himself before he can say it.
"Did you really get a dog?" he asks instead.
Dean makes that hiss Sam recognizes, the rush of air past his teeth when he's got to stitch himself. "Maybe," he says. "You really think you're going to ignore every fucked-up thing that happens in town for the next four years?"
Sam knows the answer he's looking for, but he's not about to give it.
*****
The next day, he sends Dean a box of Milkbones, just for the hell of it.
A week later, he gets a suspicious-smelling box with Dean's name on it.
Sam can't throw it in Blaine's trash can fast enough.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,100 words
Pairing: None (Gen)
Prompt: #19, Separation Anxiety (for
psych_30)Spoilers for: "Something Wicked"
Warnings: Bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: Sam's first week at college isn't only hard on him.
Some Sounds You'll Sleep Through
*****
Sam's first night in the dorms is spent getting to know that he hates his roommate.
Blaine -- and who the hell names their kid Blaine, and was there a lost bet involved? -- has a trust fund almost as big as his ego and a father who insisted he stay in the dorms his freshman year "like a normal person." Clothes plastered with designer labels spill from his closet and his wallet's full of credit cards with limits so high Dean couldn't even fake being their real owner on his best day. He plays bad techno on a constant loop and leers across the room at Sam like he's waiting for the worship to commence. He lines the walls on his side of the room with expensively framed photos of him at nightclubs with young people Sam has the vague impression he's supposed to recognize from a magazine or something.
Sam never sees about getting a new roommate because there's something about an annoying bastard in the next bed over that's oddly comforting.
He has no idea why the hell Blaine never sees about a new roommate. It's possible he's a masochist.
Sam's cell phone rings at two in the morning that first night. The only reason Blaine doesn't bitch about the noise is because he went to an off-campus party, drank like it was his own personal St. Patrick's Day, and puked in the garbage can in the men's room down the hall before passing out in the middle of their dorm room.
Sam didn't bother moving him from the floor. Let the jerk get the imprint of that cheap carpeting in his face for the first day of classes.
He doesn't bother checking who's calling him before answering the phone, either, which he knows is a bad move when Dean's voice slurs from the other end, "I'm thinking of getting a dog and naming it Sam. What do you think? Exactly how much desperation do you think that reeks of, anyway?"
Sam hangs up without answering.
The answer, for the record, is A lot.
In Sam's first class, he is one of the few without a laptop, and he can tell from the way the others without laptops glance around the room that by next week, he's going to be awfully lonesome in that regard. The professor says something about notebooks and labs and rubber gloves, and it takes Sam longer than it should to realize he's in a biology class. He doesn't own a TV but Blaine does, and Blaine's hangover cure apparently included blasting whatever happened to be playing on VH-1 at the time.
Sam left the dorm room that morning to the strains of "She Blinded Me With Science" with a completely foreign longing in his mind for some Skynyrd.
As he's leaving class, his cell phone rings. He knows who it is without looking, and answers with a tired, "Yeah."
"Yeah, so, I got him."
"Got whom?"
"The dog."
Sam may be going insane. He's not sure. "Tell me you didn't just buy a dog and name it Sam."
"I didn't."
So maybe not insane.
"I got him at the pound, and his name's Sammy."
Sam hangs up again with comment.
The comment he was looking for, by the way, is, Oh, for crying out loud.
Dean would not get a dog, Sam reasons, because Dean is not Mr. Responsible. Responsible for Sam, yes. Responsible for other people in danger, sure. Responsible for Dad when he's wasted, okay.
Sam groans and leans back at his desk chair, rubbing at his temples. Way to win your argument there, Winchester.
Blaine isn't in the room just then, because theoretically he's in class but realistically he's probably out throwing glowsticks at random passersby in the quad while downing Jager bombs. Sam has more faith in the latter being true than that Blaine would ever approach a classroom voluntarily. Twenty minutes after he thinks that, Blaine stalks in bitching about about how the guy sitting in front of him in his political science class is roughly the size of the football stadium and smells exactly like the locker rooms.
Sam really hopes Blaine doesn't plan on sleeping any time soon, because if he does go to sleep, Sam plans to smother him with a pillow.
Blaine's still rambling on about his class when Sam absently dials his phone, and when this groggy voice answers, he says, "So what kind of dog is it, exactly?"
Dean goes silent for a moment, grumbles something that doesn't sound like words and finally says, "Mixed breed. Half chihuahua, half St. Bernard."
"That's ... kind of terrifying."
Sam can almost hear Dean shrug and slap on that charming tease of a smile, but what he can see is Blaine turning on his CD player and adjusting the photo of him with the Hilton girls and Sam's never wanted to throw a Russian literature book at someone's head so much in his life.
"Some guys like a big-boned girl, Sammy. What do you want?"
Later that night after Blaine's passed out on his laptop (off of which Sam had to roll his head when his nose kept resting on the backspace and a high-pitched beeping filled the room), Sam picks up his phone and dials Dean again.
"Is he a good dog?" he asks.
Dean grunts at that. "He's a horrible dog," Dean says. "Won't stop humping my leg. That's what I get for naming him after you."
Sam yawns and stretches out on his bed, burrowing into the pillows he's propped up behind him.
"Jerk."
"Nerd."
There's a familiar metallic clicking in the background, Dean cleaning his guns with practiced efficiency. Sam could fall asleep to that sound easier than he could to rain against the window or a gentle summer breeze, and he's half-tempted to leave the phone up to his ear and just listen to Dean work as he slumps down on his bed.
He brings his lunch to this bench outside his dorm the next day. It's a choice between eating outside or going up to his room and listen to Blaine tell his girlfriend about his lowly, scholarship-endowed roommate. That first day, Blaine almost gleefully told her over the phone that all of Sam's possessions fit into an old army duffel, and Sam had no idea who this girl was, but from the high-pitched giggling he'd heard over the phone, he was pretty sure she wasn't going to college to learn brain surgery. Or at least, how to do it politely.
Sam takes a bite out of his apple just in time for the phone to ring, and he's still chewing when he raises the phone to his ear.
"Stupid dog pissed in my car," is what Sam hears, and he's glad no one's looking at him when apple chunks spray out of his mouth.
"Seriously?"
"Did you do this?"
Sam breaks out in a confused smile and stares at the phone as if it's actually Dean standing right next to him, with some weird-looking dog with a tiny pointy head and a disproportionately huge body at his side. In his mind, the dog's trying to look innocent and is currently failing miserably. It's definitely Dean's dog. "What, did I piss in your car all the way from California?"
"No, dumbass, did you ... I don't know, send vibes or something from Stanford? Vengeful, piss-in-his-car vibes?"
Sam would bet that Dean hasn't been on a hunt since he left, that's he's itching with nervous energy. It would explain a lot.
"Yes, Dean, I sent your dog a subliminal message to pee all over the Impala," he says, "and you might want to check your favorite boots while you're at it."
He's being sarcastic, but a second later, Dean groans and starts yelling this incoherent bullshit.
Sam doesn't know how the hell he knew that, but he hangs up instead because he's pretty sure Dean doesn't want to hear him laugh hysterically for the next ten minutes straight.
What he should be doing on Saturday is studying, because he's got a scholarship to back up and if he doesn't get into the habit of constant studying -- yeah, like he hasn't already since first grade -- he's never going to keep it. What he's doing instead is cleaning the dorm room, because Blaine left on Friday night and still hasn't come back yet and he might as well straighten up while he's got the chance.
For all he knows, Blaine's in a dumpster, a ditch, a boat headed towards Tahiti, Limbo, or the arms of a woman in white, and yet Sam can't bring himself to care.
Well, care much.
The phone rings when he's halfway through scrubbing down the windows, and when he answers it, he hears Dean say, "Hey, I taught Sammy a trick today."
"The well of excitement that is your life," Sam mutters, but then he realizes his hand is squeezing out the sticky residue of a tossed plastic cup of soda that had ended up on the window thanks to Blaine from the sponge he's holding into a bucket full of hot soapy water and sighs. "What kind of trick?"
"I taught him how to stay," Dean says with a chuckle. "Little bastard can stay like you wouldn't believe."
Sam rolls his eyes, says, "Your lack of subtlety is amazing, you know that?" and hangs up before tossing the phone onto his bed.
On Monday, there's a plain white envelope with no return address in his mail, and inside is a photo of the ugliest puppy Sam's ever seen in his life. It's the same color as a tub of mustard and has a coat that makes it look like someone stapled a piece of moldy shag carpeting to its back. Sam can count all of its legs, eyes, ears and its tail on one hand without using any of his fingers twice.
On the back of the photo, Dean's scribbled the name SAMMY in big loopy letters that hitch in places like he couldn't stop laughing when he wrote it.
Sam dials Dean immediately and gets an earful of chuckles. "Does Dad approve of this?"
Dean's chuckles die away pretty quickly.
"Dad hasn't been back home since you left," Dean says, and his voice cuts off like someone sliced it in half.
Sam tries Dad's number twenty times that day like he's actually going to answer but knows he won't, because when John Winchester says, If you leave, don't come back, the added and don't call, and don't write, and just for good measure, don't tell anybody you ever even had a family is just silent. It takes him until after his lit class to give up, so he tries Dean. Dean never said a damn thing about not coming back.
Dean answers after one ring, and when he says Sam's name, it draws out like it's riding on painful rails. Sam almost asks what job he just came back from, how many stitches he's got to get this time, what he killed, but stops himself before he can say it.
"Did you really get a dog?" he asks instead.
Dean makes that hiss Sam recognizes, the rush of air past his teeth when he's got to stitch himself. "Maybe," he says. "You really think you're going to ignore every fucked-up thing that happens in town for the next four years?"
Sam knows the answer he's looking for, but he's not about to give it.
The next day, he sends Dean a box of Milkbones, just for the hell of it.
A week later, he gets a suspicious-smelling box with Dean's name on it.
Sam can't throw it in Blaine's trash can fast enough.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 05:55 pm (UTC)I can so easily see Sam being able to sleep to that sound.
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Date: 2006-04-13 05:40 am (UTC)I figure Sam is the only person on the planet for whom that noise would be comforting, because if Dean were cleaning guns ten feet away from me, he wouldn't be doing it for long, I can tell you that much. ;)
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Date: 2006-04-12 05:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 06:08 pm (UTC)And I could totally *never* fall asleep to Dean cleaning his guns because it's far too hot to even blink.
Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:42 am (UTC)You and me both, sister. ;)
And thanks!
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Date: 2006-04-12 06:34 pm (UTC)Laughing - hell, cackling - one minute; checking that my heart's still capable of beating the next.
Lovely job!
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Date: 2006-04-13 05:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 06:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:48 am (UTC)And thanks! :)
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
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From:Blaine
Date: 2006-04-12 06:42 pm (UTC)But, the whole thing with 'Blaine'... that was one of the rich kid's names. Duckie (one of the outcasts) says something along the line of: Blaine? His name is Blaine? That's an appliance, not a name!
So, the whole "who the hell names their kid Blaine, and was there a lost bet involved" had me rolling!
Re: Blaine
Date: 2006-04-13 05:49 am (UTC)And thanks! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 06:43 pm (UTC)You and
Keeps trying to hump my leg. *nods*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:54 am (UTC)And thanks!
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Date: 2006-04-12 07:40 pm (UTC)Ouch. I love this so much. I've been waiting for someone to write Sam at Stanford fic and this is perfect. I completely never bought that Sam And Dean didn't speak for 4 years. One of them would have given in.
Sam never sees about getting a new roommate because there's something about an annoying bastard in the next bed over that's oddly comforting.
Heh. You bring the hurt and the funny. This is seriously awesome.
Also, um hi. *waves*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 07:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-04-12 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 08:44 pm (UTC)Like everybody's been saying, this one blends the humor and the angst so well together, you don't know whether to grab a Kleenex or move your drink out of the way so you don't spit it out mid-read.
And Blaine! Oh, geesh, yeah, I think you pulled him from my hallway my first year in the dorms. Really. Room 263.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 05:58 am (UTC)And thanks!
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Date: 2006-04-12 08:45 pm (UTC)How is it that you always write perfection?
*sighs*
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Date: 2006-04-13 05:59 am (UTC)*pets the puppy*
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Date: 2006-04-12 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 09:06 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-04-12 09:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-12 10:31 pm (UTC):)
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Date: 2006-04-13 06:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 12:44 am (UTC)Dean getting a dog and naming it Sammy is priceless.
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Date: 2006-04-13 06:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 12:52 am (UTC)Love this - sad and funny and rings so true.
"I taught him how to stay," Dean says with a chuckle. "Little bastard can stay like you wouldn't believe."
"Sam tries Dad's number twenty times that day like he's actually going to answer but knows he won't, because when John Winchester says, If you leave, don't come back, the added and don't call, and don't write, and just for good measure, don't tell anybody you ever even had a family is just silent."
Kick a girl when she's down, why don't you . . .
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Date: 2006-04-13 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 02:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:08 am (UTC)I swear I laughed for five minutes straight when he said that. Apparently Dean has perfected the art of the anvilicious guilt trip, and it cracks me up.
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Date: 2006-04-13 06:18 am (UTC)And thanks! :)
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Date: 2006-04-13 06:59 am (UTC)Sam dials Dean immediately and gets an earful of chuckles. "Does Dad approve of this?"
Dean's chuckles die away pretty quickly.
"Dad hasn't been back home since you left," Dean says, and his voice cuts off like someone sliced it in half.
Again with the wow!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 08:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 03:45 pm (UTC)There's a familiar metallic clicking in the background, Dean cleaning his guns with practiced efficiency. Sam could fall asleep to that sound easier than he could to rain against the window or a gentle summer breeze
a) YES. b) Once I had a terrible bout of insomnia and for a month, the only way I could sleep was to go and hang out in my brother's room while he played video games and listened to Cypress Hill's Temples of Boom. so double yes.
The name Blaine always reminds me of Pretty in Pink. "Blaine? His name is Blaine? That's an APPLIANCE, that's not a name!"
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 03:53 pm (UTC)Oh, tell me about it. Every time there's a holiday at my parents' house and I'm up there, going into my brother's room and reclining on his futon while he plays Worlds of Warcraft and listens to Boys Next Door puts me out like a light.
And thanks! :)