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New Mexico, 1995
They had been trying to get into the (soon-to-be) victim’s house with the usual routine. Sweet-talk their way in with pity, crack a window so John can make it back in later that night. It’s harder for them to be mad about the breaking-and-entering when they’re being attacked by a ghost and you’re here with the iron and salt to save them.
“My little brother’s hurt, ma’am, please. Can we use your first aid kit and your phone?” Dean lets a note of pleading creep into his voice. Behind him, he knows Sammy’s delivering his puppy dog eyes, full with pain. He’s either a real good actor or he knows pain too well already. Dean doesn’t want to know the answer to that one right now, because he needs that kid to act and seriously, what more can he be expected to do about it right now?
But right now they’re standing outside a door that’s been slammed in their face, the New Mexico sun beating down on them. Dean’s jaw drops a little. What if Sam had actually been hurt? What if he had been hurt bad? Would she just not give a fuck? Not help them at all, because they’re not one of them?
Sammy is still standing there, holding his broken arm that isn’t actually broken.
“I don’t understand.” Sammy is angry now, frustrated that this isn’t working.
Dean sighs. “Yeah, I know. We’ll figure it out.”
They trudge back to the motel, a long sweaty walk, defeat in the air. Just, okay. Dean looks at Sam, really looks. His clothes haven’t seen the laundromat in a minute, and Dean’s mending jobs are pretty evident. His clothes also don’t fit, and it’s easier to excuse on a little kid but Dean can feel the way his own clothes pull and hang in places and he knows he’s no better.
The kid also looks like someone who’s seen some death. You can see in his eyes, you can see that he’s too muscular for a kid but not in a healthy way. Dean can only imagine that he looks even skeevier.
He looks Sammy in the eyes, grins like it’s a joke. “Okay, so maybe we’re looking a little Hills Have Eyes right now. We’re gonna fix that.”
At the Walmart, Dean stares with his eyes intent. He looks around everyone walking around. They can’t look like them, even if this is all they’ve got to work with. They have to look like they belong in that neighborhood, or no one’s ever gonna trust them again.
Dean knows how to do this. This is research. This is how they don’t die. This is how Dad won’t yell at them again when they can’t sweet-talk their way into the next haunted house.
It’s just a set of rules. If he can figure them out and memorize them, make sure they’re always following them, then they’ll make it through. Sammy doesn’t have to know. Clothes that fit, clothes that don’t betray where they came from. No graphics on shirts, no loud colors. No cargo pants. They’ll stand up straight, make eye contact and smile. They’ll figure it out.
10 years later, Palo Alto
Sammy looks different now. It’s… well, he’s taller, for one. That’s a big one. But it’s something about the way he carries himself. The way he looks like he belongs at Stanford. The way he looks like he goes to the gym instead of digging graves. (The way that he can wear graphics on his shirts because he doesn’t have anything left to prove.)