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Sam kept the envelope from Stanford in the center of a history textbook he'd stolen a few towns back, It was another thick packet of papers to turn around and hide, but it included some useful information. A neon flier listed things he should bring to the dorm and things to leave at home, going so far as to break his suggested wardrobe down into the numbers of each article of clothing he might want. Kids who didn't live out of a duffel bag in the first place might have trouble choosing, but Sam looked at is as one more move. He was taking all his things.
Dean was on shift as the gas station down the road this afternoon while Dad was supposedly chatting up the sheriff. Sam meant to check the list one more time while he was alone in the motel room, but he came across that bright blue paper and realized he couldn't take everything he owned after all. The guns Dean had been cleaning were still laid out in shining rows on the other bed, and the phrase zero tolerance weapons policy stood out in a way it hadn't before: lots of Sam's things couldn't come with him. He'd never planned on bringing the bigger weapons, his cross-bow or his sawed-off or the freaking scythe Dad gave him on his last birthday, but he'd gone back and forth about a handgun, and he'd definitely planned on taking a knife.
Sam glanced towards the door and then turned to his duffel bag, standing open before him on the bed he shared with his brother. He put the paperwork away and took things out of his bag one at a time.
His oldest knife, the first weapon that was his and no one else's, with its wooden handle worn smooth and shiny in the shape of his fingers.
His Beretta, kept by itself in one side pocket, and its ammo in the pocket on the other side, along with dried herbs in bags Dad had made him sew for himself and an unopened canister of salt.
His throwing knife -- he could throw anything it came down to it, but Dean had taken him to a sporting-goods store to pick this particular one, then drove him to the woods and stood behind him as he threw it over and over at a tree.
Sam unpacked until the spread of weapons on his bed rivaled the display on the other mattress. He ran his finger over the metal and wood before him. He knew he could get a gun somehow if he ever needed one again, but knives were easy to hide. He chose two to tuck into pairs of socks and then sorted through what was left over. He wanted to throw it all away, to sell everything and put the money with the stash he'd been squirreling over the last two years. But he looked at the other bed again, the number of things it'd take to give Dean and Dad a fighting chance, and knew he couldn't get rid of any of it. He didn't want the weapons but they were in good condition, and Dean might need them.
With its heaviest contents arrayed on the coverlet, his bag slumped in against itself. Sam would have more room once he stopped carrying around the life he didn't want, but he didn't have anything to fill that space yet. He ran his hands through his hair and looked around the room, as if there was anything here for him to take. He'd bring the handful of paperbacks he kept in the car, and it was getting close enough to the end of summer that he was planning on lifting a set of sheets when they checked out. Everything else was either Dad's, and he didn't want to have it, or Dean's, and he didn't want to take it.
Dad's jeans from yesterday hung in the bathroom doorway so the wrinkles could steam out of them, one of Dean's black tee shirts trailed out of his bag, a single sock lay on the floor that could have been anyone's, one of Dean's uniform shirts crumpled on the pillow --
No way would Dean need his uniform once they hit the road again. It was a blue polo shirt and bigger than he liked to wear, a store-mandated large when he usually wore a medium. The company logo was embroidered on the right side and Dean's name -- Dean, his actual name -- was stitched over the left, right over his heart. Sam picked up the shirt. He glanced at the door before lifting it to his face and sniffing.
It smelled like gas, like the over-processed filling station scent of heat-lamp food and industrial-strength cleansers, like Dean's hair gel, like the muted musk of his brother's old sweat. Sam lowered the shirt and studied it. The store gave Dean three when he was hired and he still at least had the one he'd worn to work that afternoon. He'd never use it again once they left, not ever. Even if Dean didn't think polo shirts were the height of douchiness, it had his name on it. It was asking for trouble.
Sam sucked at the inside of his lip and then turned the shirt inside out, hiding its identifiable marks. He shoved it deep into his own bag, next to the lump in the lining where he'd sewn his cash, and put last year's history book on top of it before smushing everything else into its usual mess. He loaded his weapons away as well, feeling more content about carrying them now that he knew it was only temporary. He'd put them with Dean's stuff before he left, and it'd be almost like he traded them away.