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Sam tucks the corners of the comforter between the mattress and the wall. The bed is a little on the short side, but he can sleep in it just fine. As long as the snoring from the other side of the room doesn't get too bad. The thought of earplugs crosses his mind, but he decides it's too risky. He’s already unconscious and vulnerable in the dark; better not take away the few senses he’s still got left. Sam's eyes wander towards his backpack on the ground next to the bed, and then over to the window, where someone, a former student, has put a tiny sticker on the left corner. It looks like something you'd peel away from a Banana. Next to the window is his closet. It's tiny, but all his belongings barely fill half of it. The room is small for two, with the furniture crowded, but it's clean and more modern than the majority of motel rooms he's grown up in. It's more spacious than the backseat of a car anyway. Sam knows this is his room, his allotted space for at least a semester. Longer if he doesn't mess up. He gives everything another once over, tries to make it feel more familiar by soaking in the details, so that eventually, maybe it won't feel like he's a visitor passing through.
On his way to class, he passes a window near the student lounge and is startled by the reflection in the dirty glass. It must be the hair, he decides, that made it feel so unrecognizable. He's been letting it grow, for the past year or so, just long enough for it to make John bristle. Now, for the first time, Sam stops to wonder whether he even likes this hair cut or not, now that it no longer functions as an act of disobedience. If Dean saw him now, he would tease him, his voice somewhere between endearment and irritation.
He doesn't want to think of Dean, but it's impossible not to: everything reminds him of his brother. In the back of his mind he's always there, commenting and narrating. Deriding the room, the food Sam eats, the people he meets. Dean's opinions are loud and clear, comforting and disquieting at once. The more Sam clings to them, the less sure he is if he can do this on his own. Life. It's disorientating being alone. It's like someone's ripped out one of his limbs. The wound aches and pulsates long after the bleeding's supposed to have stopped. How did he convince himself it would be easier, when his whole life it's been the two of them? It's always been this way: he wakes up and orientates himself towards his brother. When he's not there, beside him on the mattress or in the bed across, Sam’s heart beats faster, the worry instantaneous. That's life as Sam knows it. He can't disentangle himself from the automatisms; his brain is not there yet. 18 years is a long time to shed yourself of.
His roommate is a dick, and not only because of the snoring. He's an entitled trust fund baby who took one look at Sam before muttering something about hand-me-downs. "Don't touch my shit, all right?" At least he mostly leaves Sam be. No love lost. This is not what he'd had in mind when he dreamt of college. He's barely exchanged more than a few courtesy words with anyone since he got here. The place is crawling with freshmen supposedly just as lost as him. But even just watching them cross the halls, seeing the self-assured way they move their bodies through space, Sam can tell he's not like them. They know where they're going, and what they're doing. This is exactly where they were always meant to be. Coming here is just a natural progression of life to them, not something you've fought tooth and nail for - and that baffles you, now that it’s here. That doesn't feel as pure and all-encompassing as it should.
He's felt out of place all his life. But even when he knew there was something wrong with him, that something set him apart from his Dean and John, it had felt stable. Even when Sam had felt restricted by the tight bounds of their family unit, he’d relied on it’s strength too. Sam might not like his father very much, but he sure loves him. He used to be sure the feeling was mutual too. He aches thinking of John. But thinking of Dean is worse. Imagining the both of them and their lives enfolding without Sam in it. Without all the fighting. In harmony.
Sam's life as a hunter was a glib. Really, hunting was not unlike a hobby your parents picked out for you that you grew out of the second you got to make your own decisions. Other people stopped playing the piano, he’d stopped cutting off heads. Sam never meant to leave his family, he just wanted to leave the life. But Dad had made sure to remind him that there wasn't a damn difference.
Not many people have his number, but he carries his Motorola everywhere, the setting on loud. He knew John wouldn't apologize, but Dean? Sam had hoped that - well. He'd hoped their bond was stronger than this. That if push came to shove he ranked over their father. No one ever calls.
Every day he gets up before his roommate and makes his bed in silence, careful not to wake the big pile curled under the blanket across the room. He eats alone in the cafeteria, wolfing down food before hurrying towards the library where he spends most of the day. He enjoys the classes; they are the closest thing to what he'd hoped college would be like. He likes the crazy workload, likes the challenges and meeting them, the structure of a timetable, the predictability and the safety of it all. At first it baffles him to see that he's smarter than most of his classmates; it feels boisterous to think so. He’s still shy about raising his hand, but the more he listens to brazen people who love to hear themselves talk, the easier it gets to talk up.
After class, while Sam packs away his things, someone taps him on the shoulder and thanks him..
"For what?" Sam asks, wary, as he turns around.
"For saying what I wanted to say. This guy can be such a show off, even when he's clearly making stuff up." He smiles. "You don't know how good it felt to have someone contradict him."
Sam musters the bright open face across him, decides that the compliment is genuine if strange. "Um, thanks." He zips his backpack and they start walking towards the door. A nervousness takes hold of him.
"Where did you learn all that?" A measured side look, maybe suspicion. "You seemed to know all the facts and dates by heart."
"I read a lot."
"You read a lot of theology? For fun?"
"I was a weird kid," Sam says with a shrug.
Another measured look, then a smile. "Me too." He holds the door open for Sam.
They figure out they share another class, and from there things fall into place. Soon they see each other every day. Brady installs himself in Sam's life with such ease that Sam almost forgets what it was like before. He still thinks of Dean every morning, the need to check on him still strong, but the bone-crunching loneliness is lifted. When before he got through the days on determination and willpower, now there's things to look out for beside the classes. Sometimes when Sam tells a joke or anecdote, he’s irritated when Brady doesn’t laugh when he expects him to. He catches himself, a little embarrassed when he realizes he’s still thinking of Dean’s reaction as a default.
He's had friends before, but all the friendships of his past had a time limit on them. This one has the chance to last, if he doesn't mess it up. He used to always have to lie to people about who he was, but not anymore. He doesn't lie. Who he is, is who is here, who he is becoming. He just has to stay silent on the past.
Brady's roommate is hardly ever around, so most days they hunker down in Brady’s room to study and talk. Dean wouldn't like him, Sam thinks, as he watches Brady sit cross legged on his bed, laptop balancing on his knees and blowing a strand of hair out of his forehead, dancing with each puff in the air like a feather in the wind. Dean has a chip on his shoulder about anyone he perceives as middle class, but Sam's not sure where the antagonism even comes from. It's not really rooted in experience, it's something more principle-based. An us versus them mentality. Whatever it is, Sam knows Dean would not like Brady. It's not that he wouldn't understand this friendship. He would understand fine. Brady throws his laptop to the side and declares he needs coffee. He's not gone for long. He hands Sam a paper cup without comment, before plopping down on his bed again.
"Thanks," Sam says, puts the cup down on the floor beside him and digs into the pocket of his jeans, looking for a bill. Brady waves him off. Tells him to forget it. Like he hasn't been buying him cups of double espressos all week. It adds up. Where Dean would see snobbery, Sam feels grateful. Taken care of. It's just coffee, he tells himself.
Brady is good at letting him be, but sometimes there's questions that Sam would rather not answer. Because he doesn't want to lie. Like that time when they argue whether Buffalo 66 or Taxi Driver was the better movie, and it turns into a more general film discussion. Sam mentions how many classics he's only seen parts of because the crappy motel TVs would stop working in the middle of the movie due to something dumb like a thunderstorm. Or because their father came home in a bad mood. Or because his brother didn't mean starting movies in the middle when he was zapping through. Brady says: "So you and your brother are close?" And everything in Sam freezes. "Um, yeah, we were." He scratches over his neck, and looks away. When he's lucky, which is most of the time, Brady will drop it. But Sam knows from experience that when you deliberately keep something from someone, that when you keep dodging, it just makes them more curious. You're only buying time.
So one day, post-class, on a day so absurdly warm they've left the library and their dorm rooms behind them, Sam brings it up himself. They're sitting on grass with their required reading in their laps, breathing in dense air, when Sam's phone rings. The speed in which he pulls it out of his pocket and flips it open, startles Brady. He looks up, as Sam stares down at the phone, an unknown caller. He picks up after another ring.
"Who was it?" Brady asks, two fingers sandwiched between the pages of his book.
"Luis," Sam says. "The group project thing." He'd forgotten he'd given him his number.
"Who did you expect it to be?"
Sam blinks against the sun, as he tries to focus on Brady, his face clouded by late season pollen floating through the air. It would be easy to lie. "I was kind of hoping it would be my brother," he says. Sam doesn't mention the supernatural, but he stays pretty close to the truth for the rest of it. His turbulent relationship with his Dad, the motel rooms, the traveling, the feeling of never being home. He says he misses his brother. He packs it in a few neat sentences that somehow tell the whole truth and yet only ever skirt it. Brady listens to everything without comment. Sam doesn't feel lighter afterwards but he also doesn't feel worse. "That's rough," Brady says, once Sam's pause goes on long enough. And then, "Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me." Guilt gnaws at Sam, just for a second, and he thinks: Maybe one day he will tell him of his past, fully and uncensored.
Something changes after. Where he liked spending time with Brady before, he comes to rely on it. The certainty of their routines, knowing he's around. When Brady mentions going home over the break, and sees Sam faces, he casually mentions his family wouldn't mind if he brought someone. Sam tries not to read too much the speed of their friendship progression. He knows he's over-attached in some way. But then again, it's hard to gauge what a normal level of friendship is when you've never had normal.
One day Sam sits on a bench outside the faculty building waiting for Brady's class to be over, when a girl stops before him. She pushes her brown hair over her shoulder, a strand gets caught in the strap of her dress. She asks for directions. He hears Dean make a lewd comment and Sam barely listens to it, doesn't even talk back inside his own mind. He's noticed the voice comes up less often now. He can still feel him, watching, but now Dean stays mum in irritation and detachment more often than not. As the thoughts of Dean bring less and less calm to Sam, and more anger, the easier it is to let go.
Being friends with Brady does more than smooth out the edges of his college experience, it transforms it from the inside out. Sam still has a shitty roommate, but so what - he barely spends any time there except for sleeping anyway. He lives in the classroom, the library and Brady's room. And once he gets his job at a coffee shop, there's that too. (A scholarship only gets you so far.) With Brady come other friends. Sam doesn't know why, but they all like him. He knows they do. They're a mixed bunch from all over, different backgrounds and stories. Sure no one's had a childhood quite like his, but it doesn't feel like it matters. They bond over horrible food and lack of sleep. But while he likes to be around them, he doesn't trust them like he trusts Brady. Someone makes a joke about it once, the way they are always huddled together, attached at the hip, inseparable. Sam recognizes it for the attempted teasing it is, but it doesn't rattle him. And when Brady laughs it off, Sam knows he feels the same. After all it's always been people who have been home for him more than places ever could.
He stops salting the window sill when his room mate catches him doing it. He can't find ways to explain that don't sound crazy and he doesn't want to be reported for potential property damage or vandalism. Between studying, he scours the internet for cases all over the country. He imagines where they are right now. He looks up for descriptions of dead bodies that sound like they could be his family.
Most mornings he still wakes up thinking about Dean. One night he dreams of John telling him if he walks out the door, it's final. Dean is etched into his mind, his frozen face, half-turned away, ashamed. Of him or Dad, or both of them. "You know he didn't mean it, right?" It's what Dean wants to believe. Sam knows better. He's committed the ultimate sin. He knew what he was doing when he applied to colleges. He knew what he was doing, keeping it from them. He thought he knew what that meant.
Once when they walk back to their dorm late at night, he thinks he sees a black muscle car driving past. "Are you all right?" Brady's grip on his arm is strong. "Yeah. Sure," Sam says, but his heart won't stop hammering inside his chest for the entirety of the night, and he keeps getting up to stare out of the window into the dark. Wavering between hope and anger, preparing what he would say.
He takes school more seriously than most of his friends, but he wants the college experience too. He wants all that encompasses normal. So he goes to the parties, and he listens to the music and he says the right things and he drinks their drinks and sometimes he smokes their weed - but he's always careful not to let himself go, especially around people who aren't Brady. It's always under the surface, the danger of feeling too comfortable, letting things slip.
They sit in a circle on the floor. Radiohead is playing in the background. It's comfortable, someone's knee digs into his thigh. Laura's long hair tickles his bare arm as she leans towards him to pass the blunt. Sam closes his eyes for a moment, feels the heaviness of his limbs, the height of his body, and how far away the ground is. The discussion is background noise.
"You think that's the worst?" someone laughs. "Try being sent off to boarding school the moment you could talk."
"Boarding school? Boo hoo. I wish they'd send me off, after my father fucked our nanny."
"At least you had both of your parents."
"What about you, Sam?"
When Sam opens his eyes, five people stare back at him.
"What about me?" He pulls in his legs, holds onto them. He tells them his childhood was okay, and wants them to drop the whole topic.
"Didn't you say your mother died when you were really young?" Brady asks.
The air in the room changes. Laura tugs her hair behind her ear in a nervous motion and looks at him with big eyes.
"I never knew her in the first place," Sam says with a shrug that is meant to prove there are no difficult emotions to unfold here. "It was normal to me."
"But you practically grew up in motel rooms?" Brady is red-eyed, his speech dazed and slow. He's not hanging him out to dry, he's just curious.
"My father was a salesman." The words feel heavy on his tongue tonight, this is a lie and not an omission. Someone rubs over his arm, someone else oh's. "It wasn't bad," Sam says. "I was with my big brother. I wasn't abandoned or anything."
They wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. Finally, someone picks up the thread, starts talking about a class they all share. Sam leans back, out of the conversation. Laura is still rubbing his arm. "That's so impressive, that you're here after all you've been through," she says—coos, high out of her mind. "You're really special." It's okay. She's just being nice. Sam likes her. She's not the problem. The problem is him; the problem has always been him.
He scrambles up. His legs feel gangly and in the way, but he manages to walk out of the room, out of the building. He walks until he reaches a stretch of green, the wet grass soaking his sneakers. He takes out his cell phone, flips it open, the small light blinding in the dark. He has the number memorized. Pushing the button would be easy. But the words wouldn't be. If he admits defeat, if he says the words: that he's sorry - and it's true, sometimes he is. Sometimes, like now, he feels nothing but regret. He could say that he misses them. He's not sure about John, but he knows he misses Dean. He's given up hope that it will stop bleeding. What he's counting on now is for him to learn to live with the pain. People live through all kinds of shit and get used to it. Would Dean ask him to come back or would he tell him to go fuck himself? Sam couldn't take either. His thumb hovers over the green button anyway. He could do it all dramatic, wait for him to pick up only to hear his voice. "Sam?" Dean would ask. "Sammy?" But then he'd think Sam was in trouble, and he and John might drive up here to save him. (They would, wouldn't they?)
The whiff of noise comes from somewhere before it gets cut off again. A door falls closed. Brady's footsteps over gravel, then grass. He rubs over his eyes as he comes to stand next to Sam, taxing him with that measuring look Sam's gotten used to. "Hey. You okay?"
Sam lowers the phone, flips it close and tugs it into his jeans. "Yeah. I just needed some air."
Brady nods. "Sorry about that."
"About what?"
"I'm sorry about what I said. I wasn't thinking. I know you're guarded for a reason."
"You think I'm guarded?" Sam asks. He was aiming for normal, a little mysterious at worst. He opened up to Brady, more than to anyone else.
"You freeze whenever anyone so much mentions family," Brady says with a wry smile. "Look, you don't have to tell me anything else you don't want to. I get you had a rough life and like… I'm here for you if you wanna talk, but you don't need to share what you don't want to."
Sam looks down at the ground, looks at his sneakers in his half-shadows and up to his hands. They seem freakishly large. "It just feels like I'm playing pretend sometimes," he's surprised to hear himself say. "Like someone's gonna come and expose me any second and drag me away from here."
"Expose you? As what?"
"I don't know," Sam says. And he doesn't know. It's not just the fear of being exposed as a liar. Of what they'd think if they knew of monsters, and of the things Sam's killed. It's that there's something truly wrong with him, something dark and ugly and all-encompassing, and every time people don't see it, he's surprised. He's surprised that he passes as one of them.
"You know, my father practically disowned me because I wanted to go to college." He'd skirted around the issues before.
Brady puts his hands into his pockets. "Shit, Sam," he says, looking a little embarrassed.
"He didn't think it was the right path for me."
"What do you mean?"
"He wanted me to stay."
After a beat, Brady asks, "Did you want to stay?"
"No."
Brady nods, as if he knew the answer already. "Look I don't know your father, but I do know you. And I think if you weren't at the right place, you'd feel it, wouldn't you?" He catches Sam's eyes. "Going against plans someone else made for you can be tough, that doesn't mean it's not right."
Sam shakes his head. It's exactly what he wants to hear, but it's not coming from the right people.
"You don't believe me?" Brady asks, almost a little insulted.
"No, I do."
"But what?"
It's selfish. Leaving them. Prioritizing his own happiness. What if they die? What if they die and he could have saved them? "Nothing," Sam says. He looks away, stares at the black grass. "Sorry for freaking out like that in there."
"It's fine." Brady pauses. "What about your brother?"
Sam looks up, his brows furrowed.
"It's obvious you guys were close so what happened?"
"I guess he agrees with our Dad," Sam says, uncomfortable with how bitter his words sound.
"Are you sure your family isn't in a cult?" Brady asks. It's meant as a joke, but it hits too close. No, sometimes Sam's not sure.
They share a strained smile. Brady cuts through the tension and puts a hand onto Sam's shoulder. "Let's get back in there."
Sam feels for the phone in his pocket. "Yeah, just give me a second. You can go ahead."
Brady's hand stays where it is. "I'm sorry," he says, an expression on his face so earnest that it takes Sam aback. "I'm sorry for whatever happened to you, but man, you gotta believe me, it's not going to be like this forever."
"You don't know that."
"You need to trust that things are going to be fine. You're the smartest and kindest guy I know. Everyone likes you. Why can't you trust that it's going to be fine?"
Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. His father's crazed words of demon and retaliation running through his head. "What if they're right?" he asks. "What if this isn't the life I was meant to have?”
Brady sighs, as if talking to a dense child. "You know there's nothing like destiny, right? You get to make your own choices."
Sam huffs out a laugh, a little embarrassed by the earnestness.
"I'm being serious."
Sam feels for the phone in his pocket. What if this isn't just doubt, what if his worry is warranted, if his hunch is something more concrete. What if Dean needs him.
Brady clasps Sam's shoulders and looks up at him like a boxing trainer at their protégé before the big fight. Sam grows still.
"Tell me you believe me, Sam."
"All right," he says, trying to concentrate on his friend. In the dim light his blue eyes seem darker; it's difficult to see where the pupil ends and the iris begins.
"You gotta say it."
He pictures Dean standing behind him, can feel his irritation at the heartfelt moment.
"I believe you."
"You're gonna let that crap behind you and give this a real shot?" Brady asks. "You gonna trust that things are going to work out for you?"
Despite the knots in his stomach, Sam nods.
A smile breaks out over Brady's face. "Good," he says, and pats Sam's shoulder. Then he lets go and takes a step back. "I don't want to tell you how to live your life," he says, less jubilant now. "But I think sometimes we just need to be able to let go of things trying to hold us back." He moves in again, squeezes Sam's shoulder one more time, before he walks back towards the building, not turning around. Sam waits a beat, then he follows.
Dean doesn't go away. He's there in the creases, stays at the back of Sam's mind, watching on. But he stops talking.