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"Stupid," Sam seethed, "dumb and stupid and nothing more!" What does he know, really? Does he wish for three pairs of jeans suitable for any weather and just as many easily replaceable plaid shirts?
Sam turned thirteen week ago. Dean was pushing seventeen. They shared a cheap motel room for the three of them and bearing with their father's alcoholism. Sometimes he left them money and a brief note saying he went hunting and would be back in a couple of weeks. Sometimes he forgot. Both the money and the note. On average, he returned after a month. Sam wasn't stupid; he could count. There was nothing cool or pretty in his life, except for his brother's beloved Impala. Yet, he secretly found it ominously dark. Its yellowed headlights stared gloomily for far too long, sending shivers down his spine. But Dean and their father didn't care; they still fussed over the upholstery and polished the bonnet whenever they had the chance. Maybe they weren't observant enough, or maybe they just didn't want to notice. Sometimes Sam felt like he was the only one who did, like an outsider. As if their mother had survived, she would have also cherished cheap beers from the gas station and nights spent on a spotted spreadsheets.
And Sam didn't just reckon, he knew—Dean mimicked their father's every move, and it was his unhealthy way of coping with the reality they were forced to live in. Being like their father was easier than going against him. Easier than trying to argue. And much easier than trying to earn his love. Sam bit his lip and peeled off another layer of thin skin. Of course, he would never tell his brother that. He would only get a slap upside the head, and older' hand was heavy. Dean wasn't the kind of person to admit his weaknesses. Partly because he was seventeen. Partly because he was Dean.
Another thing Sam knew for sure was that if they weren't blood-related, they would never get along. It wasn't pleasant to think about, and the heart under his ribcage prickled strangely every time this thought raced through his mind, but Sam felt it—it was close to the truth. They were different. Too different. They were the kind of brothers who wouldn't be mistaken for anything more than acquaintances of their aunt's mutual friends or something of the sort. But Dean was attached. And most likely, it wasn't healthy. For now, Sam couldn't clearly articulate why or how, but he wasn't dumb either. He had eyes, and he could see. He could see when Dean got nervous (averting his gaze and rubbing his nose), when he was worried (his eyes sparkled but he denied it), when he was happy (and here it was simple enough). It wasn't very difficult. But if it was up to Dean, he would be with his "Sammy" all the time. He wouldn't even go to school. And although brother's overprotectiveness played on his nerves, Sam also felt... uneasy. Because without Dean, he felt free. Because, unlike Dean, he could live without his brother. And he even wanted to. He wanted to go to school, make normal friends (like ones you could see in high-school sitcoms), and go to the movies after classes. He didn't want to hide a knife in his pocket and learn latin and exorcisms until he could recite them half-asleep in the middle of the night . Sam was almost one hundred percent sure that Dean had no plans for the future. And if you asked him, he would simply shrug and say, "Hunting, of course, dumbass. Why?"
It seemed like everything was simple for Dean.
"Hey, you hear me? Dude, u good?" , Words pierce through the jelly of his inner dialogue with a sharp fork. Sam shifts his gaze from his worn-out sneakers.
"Huh? Yeah."
"Dude, you have a perfect life!", The boy with thick lenses continues chirping enthusiastically, just half a meter away. -" Do whatever you want and nobody says a word!"
Oh, Kevin. Kind Kevin. Smart Kevin. Kevin with talkative mother, forgetful father, and a bunch of siblings. With a normal life. Why can't Sam have that? He doesn't understand.
"Kev, that's not really true. We're always short on money. I don't even have my own room!", Sam tries to brush off the unpleasant feeling of his mediocre blue-collar life being worshipped, but Kevin isn't even listening. He springs ahead, shaking his bluish-gray backpack, telling what he would do if his parents just left like that. Sam is about to retort, but that familiar admiration flashes in Kevin's eyes again. Let it be. He doesn't need to know. No one needs to know. It's a bitter decision for a thirteen-year-old, but Sam has to accept it. No one else will make decisions for him. Some people have to endure the lashes of fate on their backs so that others don't have to. That's what goodness is, isn't it? But sometimes he feels like that child from Omelas. Buried forever in his own excrements, trapped by his own thoughts in the name of the "great good" that doesn't exist.
Alone. Completely alone.
Dean is different. They don't get along well, really. Dean takes care of him only because he has always believed it's his duty. Like in those Japanese books. Duty. Duty to everyone: society, parents, relatives. Sam doesn't like Japanese literature, even though he wrote his last essay with a top score. But dealing with a brother is not a test you can prepare for and then forget about. And the younger Winchester doesn't understand how to communicate with a wounded beast like his brother. Especially when this beast vehemently denies he is injured, while lying half a meter away, covered in blood.
These thoughts whirl around Sam's mind non-stop, like a cola commercial on an old TV. Cooling and refreshing. Eyes opening, so to speak.
Drip. Drip.
Sam focuses his gaze on the darkened socks of his sneakers. Small dark dots on them - it's started raining. Oops.
Kevin stops his enthusiastic monologue and looks up, freezing in place:
"Should go to Mikey D's?"
Sam lazily tilts his head, standing close to his newfound and probably short-termed friend.
"Sure", Sam replies briefly, mentally counting the cents he has left as change.
As expected, their friendship with Kevin didn't last long.Another move, the next monster, the hunt...
On his last day at school, Kev grabbed Sam's jacket: "Write me. Or call me", - the enlarged eyes behind the glasses looked at him desperately and resolutely, - "D' u remember my address? So we can keep in touch."
But Sam knew it was all because everyone else but Sam in his former grade considered Kevin a weirdo. He's not a weirdo. If only they knew the real Sam, they would fall off their high chairs.
But Sam nods. Inside, it aches obnoxiously. And Sam knows the reason too.
He never managed to write. Not after a week, not after a month, not after a year.
Predictably, nothing unusual, but the youngest Winchester feels suffocated by it. It's as if he's been left in a hot room without water for hours. And a splitting headache.
That's why Sam, after reading tons of romantic novels and discussing them in class, wants to fall in love. To distract himself. To not feel the guilt, the pity for himself and Dean, and the pain. He longs for meaningful conversations and book discussions, but his brother is not much of a reader. But no matter how hard he tries to make himself feel... he can't. He reads even more books, spends extra time in the school library, and mentally convinces himself that he likes Karen, Emily, Diana—no, cross-out Diana, nope, she's literally the female version of Dean, that won't do.
Why does he constantly eavesdrop on the passionate conversations of his female classmates and the awkward ones of the boys about their latest crushes? Why is it so easy for them, but not for him, Sam Winchester? It's unfair. As usual. But Sam watches Dean, his flirts and the girls he fools around with at the gas station, and wonders if Dean feels the same as he does now. Is he trying to push himself onto the path of being a "real man" like his beloved James Dean, or does he genuinely enjoy the short, non-committal kisses and sex? Sam leans toward the first option, but he keeps silent.
Bisexuality is marked in red in the book and considered a deviation, while homosexuals are publicly ridiculed on television every Tuesday at 7:00 p.m. Dean probably watches that show out of boredom. Sam can't talk to him about his assumptions, especially when there's no evidence.
They're growing up, and they argue more and more. Sam argues with Dean. Then with their father. Then he packs up his meager belongings and successfully escapes into the sunset. Very tragic. And very un-Winchester-like.
He will study. He will drink good beer and attend college parties. He will make friends. The kind with whom he can discuss societal problems and laugh. Maybe find a girlfriend—if he's lucky, to prove to himself that he can truly love someone. He will sort out his own life without anyone's guidance.
And he succeeds. He's at Stanford. Could anyone have imagined that a vagabond like him would end up in the Stanford Law School? Even Sam couldn't.
And he did make friends. He actually managed, after all these years, to force himself to feel infatuation for a nice girl—he'll never admit that it was forced —and he's studying.
But he thinks of Dean. And he wonders about him. And he goes to sleep, immersed in an endless cavalcade of Bob Seger songs. And he thinks about their nomadic life, about Impala, about burgers at gas stations, and the constant danger of hunting. He misses it.
After spending another week in the psychology section of the local expanded library, Sam learns that one can become so accustomed to an unhealthy lifestyle and abuse that it's called addiction. Dependency. Like a drug addict. He, Sam, the only Winchester with a higher education (in progress), has an addiction?
And towards what? You can deal with weed or even methamphetamine. But what do you do with an addiction to a way of life?
It seems that now, after 22 years of his life, Sam understands Dean.
Sam is in a perpetual state of self-reflection since he was nine, with his ups and downs on the graph of life. And Dean, with his "Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days" lucked out on the peak of prolonged reflection. And Jessica... sweet Jessica, a smart and good girl from an ordinary family who had the desire to travel the world, was burning up the ceiling. Vanished, just like his mom.
And Sam won't admit to anyone that it was a kind of relief. He no longer had to pretend.
Dean isn't very smart, but damn lucky. Honestly, if Sam didn't want to, he wouldn't have succumbed to his brother's persuasion. He would have stayed, gone through therapy, and returned to his studies. But Sam missed his old life. And fully aware that this sadness and nostalgia were unhealthy and completely romanticized, he gave in to them. And to his brother.
He knew that once he closed the door of their Impala, there would be no turning back.
Perhaps Sam wants too much in this life. It's impossible to be constantly on the road and study at a university. It's now way for one to have a stable job and hunt monsters on weekends. Hunting it's not a hobby you can quit anytime. You become dependent. Dependent on the feeling of importance in the chain of life. You gain arrogance and show-off to some extent—because you suffer. And Sam won't lie. Sometimes, just sometimes—he enjoys being God's lamb and carrying the cross for Christ. You see, he's not perfect.
They're on the road again. Their feet are aching again. He's a "bitch" and "Sammy" again. Sam heard something about an old book written in the '50s about two guys with similar names who strive to live like that their whole lives—on the road. Sam can understand them. In their world, there was no mention of Wendigos, vampires, or demons. And in Sam's world, everything is different.
So he's destined to be torn between two conflicting states, trying to be a social democrat among anarchists and conservatives, and oscillating from one extreme to another. Because there is no middle ground, no matter how much Sam wrestles with the equation of life. And he used to be much better at algebra.
So Sam leans back with heavy sigh and simply tries to survive. That's what he knows how to do. He allows his body to act according to a learned long ago script and patch up his own wounds. To wake up at dawn with Supertramp and Asia songs and his brother's raspy voice (nostalgically till pain in the ears ).
No. He's not looking for his father. After such a childhood Sam sincerely doesn't give a fuck about one John Winchester, thank you very much.
He's not even helping Dean. He's helping himself. Adding spice anc curry, indulging his desire to suffer because it's a more than familiar state for him. Selfish? Perhaps. Sam doesn't hold onto morals. They just killed what used to be a person and then burned it. For someone who was preparing to become a lawyer, the younger Winchester is too tolerant of cruelties.
And life with his brother has far exceeded his wildest expectations. Demons, angels, Cas. Especially Cas. Not just some angel who constantly helps and can be summoned when things get tough. He has a special connection with Dean. And Sam wonders to himself, was it Cas's way of saying that they are soulmates?
Castiel is an angel. Angels don't care about gender or labels. It's earthly, and it doesn't concern them. But Dean—oh, he definitely does. Partly because of the '90s and the lack of accessible information. Partly, once again, because he's Dean.
And they truly do have unique relationships. Sam sees that Dean understands it himself, but as usual, remains silent. Perhaps he hasn't figured it out completely yet. Sam can understand that. Self-reflection is difficult, especially regarding his own orientation, which had been established throughout his thirty years of life. But no one is in a hurry, despite knowing that they could die tomorrow or even in an hour, after having a beer and discussing future plans and relationships. How many times have they been resurrected? Sam lost count a long time ago. They still have time to confess to each other. Maybe not openly, but in their own way—exchanging bewildered and exhausted glances and brief embraces.
They truly have unique relationships. They can't be called normal. Dean's unhealthy attachment to Sam, Sam's survivor guilt, Castiel's unearthly uncertainty. They never really grew up. They're stuck somewhere between adult children and foolish students. They never learned to talk about their feelings to each other. Only punching in the face and leaning on each other. Nothing new. They have a strange family.
Recently, Sam came across a new word in an article—"queer-platonic." When you're more than friends, less than lovers, and somewhat different from being in love. It's strange, but that's exactly what it is. You can't explain it to Dean or Cas. Only Charlie would understand. Charlie digs it.
And Sam also wants to get another tattoo. Probably on his back or ribs. He hasn't decided yet. He needs to ask the tattoo artist where it would look better. But "family don't end with blood" has become more than just a strange motto they repeated, gathering broken people with stories along the way. If Sam could, he would have completed his studies at Stanford and become an excellent lawyer. But Sam can't. And he has plenty of reasons for that. And he truly enjoys spending the time allotted to him on this planet with them.