Archive of Our Own

“You ever done the ‘forgive-me-father’ before?”

“Once, when we were kids. Which is why I have no clue what to say now.”

“Well, I mean. I could give you suggestions, if you want?”

“Okay. Yeah, sure.”

“Alright—I’m just spitballin’ here, but if I were you? Uh… Ruby? Killing Lilith? Letting Lucifer out—losing your soul? Not looking for me when I was in Purgatory—”

“Thanks.”

“—for starters.”

Sam grabs the bag out of the trunk. He hikes it over one shoulder and makes for the door of the church, where Crowley sits inside.

“Hey, how ‘bout what you did to, uh, Penny Markle in the ninth grade?”

He stops, turns around. “Wait, that was you.”

Dean blinks at him, teasing smirk slowly fading.

***

Livingston, Montana

It’s that awkward transition from winter to spring where the weather can’t make up its mind. Can’t decide whether or not it wants to rain all day or melt the skin off their bones. A consistency always to be expected, however, is the hay fever that attacks Sam’s system each year without fail, blocking his sinuses and making his eyes watery. Strengthens that kicked-puppy look and he swears he’s not crying whenever Dean asks, but it only seems to endorse the teasing. Dad dropped them at their motel-of-the-month and took the car down to some repair shop off the boonies. Said he’d be back by dinner. The receptionist gave them a wary look when she’d handed them the keys. And they were rusty—almost didn’t work on the door—but Dean shoved a lockpick in there and wiggled it around and slammed himself into it until it opened.

Sam jumped on the bed closest to the bathroom. Dad always made them share the one by the door but Sam hated walking past him during the night to pee for some reason. Same aroma of mildew, dust over the television. He slung his bag off and let it hit the floor. Dean rummaged through his own for a magazine and joined him on the bed, feet kicked up to lean against the headboard and his arms in the air. Head lay back and took up space in the middle. Dean liked magazines.

It was their third town this month. All of winter break they’d been moving. Sam had just been lucky enough that school was starting up again and he was in his freshman year this year, so Dad couldn’t take him out as quickly as he’d like to. They’d have to stay at least one month here in order for it to stick to his record. And Sam was perfectly content with that. Dad—evidently not. He settled for three weeks in the end. Sam couldn’t do anything but pout and give him the silent treatment.

Sam watched Dean flick past the diets and music recommendations, read quietly about the questions on the back-page quiz that he always seemed to skip to. Smiled to himself while calculating the boxes Dean ticked. Then Dean got up and abandoned the magazine, went to his bag again and started taking gear out—clothes. Sam rolled over onto his stomach and huffed. “Why do we even bother unpacking?”

Dean’s clothes weren’t folded like Sam’s were. “Because who wants to sleep out of a duffel? C’mon, man,” he said. The drawers get pulled open. “New town. New opportunities.”

“You mean new girls?”

“That, too.” Dean grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean threw shirts and jeans into one drawer and then carefully started disassembling guns and laying knives out in a line on top for them to clean tomorrow. The television beside was grainy like it normally was but Sam still watched whatever cooking program was on. Could be a Michelin-star chef by now, all the damn shows he’s watched.

He got lost in the process of sautéing duck and seasoning vegetables before it got dark and Dean drew the blinds. Still no Dad. He gave him a sympathetic smile. They salted the windowsills, the doorway. Dean made Kraft mac ‘n cheese and they played Canasta, and they brushed their teeth together while bumping hips, snickering through froth-filled mouths. Sam placed his red toothbrush right next to Dean’s blue one.

He fell asleep to the warmth radiating off Dean, the loose arm swung over his waist, holding him close.

***

New town, new opportunities, new girls—and new school. “I hate when they stare.” Sam stood before a crowded hallway, Dean by his side. He clung to the straps of his backpack—Dean’s old backpack. Dean had nothing but a pencil in his back pocket.

The kids are a swarm of wasps with their stingers at the ready. Sam knows they don’t take well to newcomers in the hive—new schools never do—so he’s created a less excruciating routine in his head to help get them by; this town is only for a few weeks, only until Dad figures out what’s killing off women by gouging their eyes out, and Dean’s forced into the suffering with him as punishment for messing up the last hunt, so there’s no going through it alone. He feels they’re more bees than anything. Considers them generally more docile than the percentage variation they’re about to walk into. He’ll keep his head down and his buzzing to a minimum, and he should be okay. Should be invisible enough to stick with his brother and hand in the homework early. Just prayed Dean would do the same.

“They stare ‘cause you’re pretty,” Dean said. He looked down at Sam and squeezed his shoulder. “Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re always saying you’re the pretty one,” Sam said instead of returning the compliment.

Dean shrugged. “Have to get it from somewhere.”

“And it couldn’t be Dad?”

“Dad don’t have freckles like mine, or a growth as stunned as yours.”

Sam squinted at him. Dean’s usually just as nervous about new people as he is, if not more. A new sea of teenagers to win over and a fresh pool of girls to impress. Dad’s hunter friends took to him as a confident student in training, and he played the part and a thousand miles more, but Dad knew the way Dean shook with a gun in his hand. And Sam knew the way nightmares caught up.

His voice is too steady. Too resolute. Sam frowned. “You’re leaving.” It’s not a question.

His hand went to the back of his neck as a wry smile broke out. “Ah…”

So Dean’s a wasp. “Whatever. Just be back in time for lunch.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. Sam thought just to start walking and ignore the confusion, make him feel bad for ditching him on their first day when he’s already half the size of everyone here and still doesn’t know how to stop pulling his punches. But Dean beat him to it and scowled, turning on his heel and heading for the entrance they’d just come through. Sam’s jaw fell halfway before it snapped shut in his usual stubbornness. Dean won’t be walking him to class like he promised, then.

So he walked himself to class. Propped himself upright behind a desk somewhere in the middle of the classroom, not too far back, not too far up front. But it did feel extra exposing when the teacher introduced him and suddenly he had eyes from every direction on him. As the lesson started, he came to ignore it. Got it in his head that this was going to be a smooth three-week experience, and that this class was only the beginning of such tranquillity.

Class was hell.

More hell than being homeless and broke. More hell than sharing a bed with your brother your entire life. More hell than silver bullets and salt lines—hell—more hell than Hell itself, whatever it may be like. Felt like being suffocated, like sweaty teens and overmanufactured gum was stuffed into a can and sprayed through the vents. And it felt like a fresh breath of air when the bell finally rang and the door swung open into the hall.

Sam had to stop himself from clinging to the walls. How bad it was. If being alienated by your peers was a sport, he’d had it in the bag for years now. Those wasps were brutal. Leave it to him to make the mistake of raising your hand on the first day as the new kid. Would’ve thought he’d be accustomed to the rules by now but clearly not

He’s shoved into the crowd again by kids exiting after him, and even though there’s more airflow the hallways aren’t anything better than too much hairspray and not enough deodorant. He’s no poster-boy for hygiene, but motel soap does the trick. His eyes darted from the floor—shoes, feet, legs—to the walls, and then finally to the faces of everybody swallowing him whole. And then somehow in his disoriented daze he spotted Dean leaning against the lockers, staring right through like he’d been waiting for Sam to look up.

Sam smiled.

He pushed past people as kindly as he possibly could, stumbling to balanced footing in front of his brother. Dean looked down at him, said one word—something short and simple that made a shy, evidently guilty blush pass over his face—and nodded like they’d solved something. Hallway too loud and Sam couldn’t hear it, but he nodded back anyway and said, “Don’t mention it.”

Dean tilted his head, then rolled his eyes. He gave one gentle pat on Sam’s back and motioned for him to follow.

“Is that him?”

Sam peered over his shoulder.

“No, the one with him. The tall one.”

She was blonde. Had her hair curled at the ends and a black headband pushing back the front. She wore dark denim for jeans, black boots with a slight fuzz to them. A thin, flowy gray blouse that almost reached her knees, and a necklace that looked like it could be adorned with—were those pebbles? Her lip gloss looked almost purple. Her teeth weren’t overly crooked but they weren’t perfect, either. Her bag was a light brown, tassels hanging off the side. Oh yeah, Sam thought. Total hippie.

“Oh, for sure.”

“Okay but who’s the kid?”

“How should I know? Probably his brother or something. Saw ‘em together before class.”

“Damn. That’s sad.”

“Why’s it sad?”

“Well, look at him. I swear—the hottest guys always have a heart of gold, it sucks.”

“Are those holes in his shirt?”

They’re leaning against their own row of lockers, pressed close together and smirking in his and Dean’s direction. It’s obvious they’re looking at Dean, though. People always look at Dean first—and then they look at Sam and say, oh, you must be Sammy! like Dean’s actually said anything memorable about him. As if he hadn’t just off-handedly mentioned that he had a little brother. Generous to even be given a name, because sometimes it’s even, the brother, right?

Sam felt his face heat up as he looked down at his shirt. Okay, yeah. Holes—sure. But that just means it’s a well-worn shirt, no?

“Aw. Little loser. Kinda cute, in, like, a stray dog sorta way.”

“Poor guy. Bet he has to hold his hand everywhere.”

“Pfft—you’re so right!”

Sam’s heart dropped into his stomach. He quickly looked up at Dean to catch a glimpse of his face, if he’d heard it, too. Dean’s jaw was hard, tightened to the extreme, and grooving back and forth against his teeth. Eyes dead-on with that familiar killer glint. What usually only appears when they’re on a hunt—or if Sam or Dad are in any kind of immediate danger.

Dean’s eyes started to drift downwards, started to meet Sam’s—and Sam snapped his head straight and willed himself not to look so wide-eyed. Chances were, if Dean heard (and he definitely had), his second course of action would be to find out if Sam had or not. Because if he had, if someone was so stupid as to insult Sam in front of Dean—Sam’s chest grew warm just thinking about it—then there would be blood. Simple as that.

But if Sam wasn’t aware…

Dean’s eyes scanned over him from above. Sam could see it in his peripheral. He breathed in and out slowly, trying to look calm, collected, blissfully unaware as Dean would want him to be. Because Dean’s instinct to defend Sam ran deep, but his desire to protect him—radically even deeper. If he just pretended not to have heard, Dean would just let it go. If Sam was okay, then Dean was okay.

In, out. Just keep walking, Dean. In, out. Please.

To his luck, Dean looked away.

They kept on walking.

***

Melting the skin off their bones, what the weather decided that day, and still no Dad.

There was a milk bar a few blocks down from the motel and since it was the weekend, Dean suggested they go grab a couple slushies, some chips with the remainder of the money Dad left with them because he promised to be back before the weekend ended. The place had a roof covered in bird shit, along with the rotting wood of skinny support beams holding up the veranda. LIVINGSTON CORNER STORE, and hell. This really was a small town.

Sam watched a lost page of a newspaper whoosh past as he sipped on his raspberry slushie. Dean always got pineapple. Grossed him out. It was the same with popsicles and candy. Raspberry and pineapple—Sam and Dean, respectively.

He scuffed the heels of his sneakers against the asphalt along the curb. Picked at dry dirt on his laces with one hand, swirling the straw in his cup with the other. Sam turned back to glance through the store’s windows.

Half expected Dean to be arguing with the cashier, but no. Cheeky grin and the slight bobbing of his Adam’s apple that told Sam  he was letting out a low chuckle. Something the cashier said, maybe. Could see a bag of chips on the counter and he hoped that they were salt and vinegar. Dean always got that barbecue shit for them even though he likes S&V too. Did it just to annoy Sam.

Sam just hoped he would say yes to The Matrix for movie night.

The distant sound of laughter peeled him away. Across the other side of the very small road, the same blonde girl from the hallway and her friend—Holes, Sam had started calling her in his mind. They huddled around something Holes was holding, but then they looked up and their eyes landed on Sam.

Blondie (sure, why not?) broke out into a devilish smile. Her hand came up and pointed menacingly, started giggling and nudging Holes beside her, urging her to look, look!

Sam brought his knees to his chest, pushed himself to his feet. His hold on his cup faltered, and a splash of raspberry slushie hit the pavement. He quickly peered through the window again and saw both Dean and the cashier peering back. Shit. He looked away. If Dean had let it slide once, there was no way he’d do it again. Blondie mockingly mimicked his scared expression. Sam wanted to shrink into an atom.

Dean came out, salt and vinegar chips under his armpit.

The girls frantically straightened up and started walking the other way—although not without stealing a glance or two behind them at Dean’s less-than-covered frame. Weather so hot he’d only come out with a tank top and jeans that hung off his hips. Didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“All good?” Dean asked with his eyes lingering on them as they left.

Real subtle. Sam just nodded.

Not convinced, “They botherin’ ya?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Sam?”

Sam gulped. “Yes, Dean,” he mocked. “You know I can handle myself? Dad trains me the same as you.”

Dean snorted. “So not true. He’s been training me for longer and also you’re a pipsqueak, so he goes easy on you.”

“God doesn’t like liars.”

“Shut up. God also doesn’t like blasphemy but I see the way you do your hair after a shower.”

“Dude? Peeping, much?”

“Nah, you don’t care. Do the same to me.”

“No, I don’t.”

Dean didn’t look like he believed him, but; “Alright. Movie. You pick.”

Sam beamed. “Matrix?”

“Wrong answer. The Truman Show.”

Sam sighed. At least he got salt and vinegar.

***

The Truman Show it was, then. On the grainy TV as they lay stomachs flat on the creaky beds, chips opened and crumbs everywhere, empty slushie cups on the nightstand. Sam kicked Dean with his feet, snickering. “Stop that,” with a smirk just as playful and feet just as teasing. Sam nudged his toes into Dean’s side because it was the only thing Dean being taller was good for.

“Ticklish?” He wiggled them—Dean jolted. “Knew it.”

Dean pushed him away harshly. “Fuck off, Sam!”

Sam only laughed and threw chips at him. Dean caught them and crunched them in his mouth, snorting when Sam feigned gagging.

Truman stood alone on the beach as Sylvia was dragged away.

Sam hummed and settled back onto his stomach. “Wish our lives were just a TV show.”

“No you don’t, you’d go insane.” He was pretty sure Dean would go insane, too, so.

“Yeah—but at least then none of it would be real.”

Dean gave him a look.

Sam ignored it. Yeah—none of it real. Sounded so nice. No monsters, no moving around. No packing ammo with their underwear. No bullet rounds tucked into their shirt pockets. He could get used to that. Even if it meant some bullshit lie of a life where he worked 9-5 and had a stepford wife and a mortgage—even if it was so obviously a lie. Think he’d stay, anyway. Long as Dean was in there with him, he’d stay.

Long as there was that ivy-green hue surpassing everything else gray-scaled and mundane.

***

Still the same intimidating swarm of wasps. And since Dean was one too, apparently, he was alone again in making it through the hallways.

He made it halfway through before something latched onto him—his untied shoelace—and sent him tumbling to the floor. Messy grout work got stuck in the threads of his jeans, pulled it apart slightly. Few chuckles around him. Sam looked up and was met with that light brown tassel-y bag, Penny M. written on the keychain hanging off it.

Blondie—Penny—looked down at him with a smirk. “No big brother?” she said with blatant scorn.

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, seething. He got it now—this wasn’t just some snarky remark routine he could brush off until their three weeks were up. This was Queen Bee of freshmen—or whatever grade she was in—and he hadn’t immediately gone and kissed her feet, so that was reason enough.

She also seemed to have a thing for Dean, and as pathetic as it was, it was smart, knowing the two were closer than the usual pair of siblings they got around here. She had to isolate Dean in order to get him to herself. Sam was competition. The thought was almost laughable.

He rose slowly. My own brother? Two can play that game. Dean was a horny idiot but he wasn’t stupid. Penny was going to tear herself in half trying to turn them against each other—not even the vengeful spirits they hunt had been successful.

He bumped her shoulder as he continued past.

He found Dean sitting on the bleachers when lunchtime came around. It took a lap around the school and one trip to the bathroom to stare at himself; what am I doing? He probably left—but when he was close enough, Dean fished through his pocket and tossed him a muffin. Chocolate chip. Sam smiled.

He actually felt excited to see what Penny would do next. Tripping him in the hallway while Dean wasn’t around didn’t do much of anything, and there was only so much eyelash batting she could do before Dean figured it out. Maybe she’d put gum in his hair, or throw trash over the bathroom stall while he was eating alone in there. Or maybe she would find an embarrassing photo of him and plaster it all over the school’s walls—yeah, good luck. Would be easier for Sam to do to her.

“Cafeteria for cheap,” Dean said.

“Thanks.”

Sam sat down next to him and started to unwrap it. A ziplock bag was pulled out of the inside of Dad's jacket—a sandwich. Opened it and stuffed it in his mouth with the presumed elegance of an orangutan. His eyes trailed to the scuff on Sam’s knees, the new thread now hanging out. He leaned forward to get a better look, then leaned back and turned to him.

“You fall or somethin’?” he questioned around a mouthful of turkey.

Sam grimaced in disgust. “Yeah, or something.” Not going to tell him just yet.

Dean hummed. “What’d you just have?” He picked a piece of bread out of his teeth. Flicked it onto the grass.

“Math. You?”

He smirked. “I had walking ‘round town for two and a half hours,” he answered, shoulders rolled back so he could lean on the seats behind them. “Hot waitresses,” he noted.

His hand grazed Sam’s arm. “Dean! You can’t just ditch school for that long—”

“Oh, sorry. What’s my time limit?”

Sam scoffed, “Jerkface.”

He smacked Dean’s hand away from where his fingertips lightly brushed up and down. Dean chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Bitchface.” He took another bite of his sandwich. Sam finally broke a piece of the muffin off and ate it, looking up to watch the rest of the students on the oval. Bleachers were mostly empty except for the small groups of friends on the top far left and bottom far right. Sam and Dean placed strategically in the middle.

Out of the corner of his eye, Penny enter the field, Holes on her arm. They walked past the football practice going on beside them in search for a bench. Sam prayed they wouldn’t come to the bleachers. Then Holes looked up and saw him again and pointed again and Penny laughed just like the last two times, and Dean’s attention was suddenly on her.

Penny liked that. She twirled her hair and tilted her head. Dean flipped her off.

“Oh my God, Dean.” Sam yanked his arm down.

“What?” Penny and Holes were walking away now. “Isn’t she the damn girl from the milk bar?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her fuckin’ problem anyway?”

Sam sighed. “I don’t know.”

Another bite of his sandwich. Dean chewed for a few seconds before pointedly not meeting Sam’s eyes to speak. “You tell me if she messes with you. I’ll break her damn spine.”

“You’re not going to break her spine,” he said, even though his chest got tight from hearing it.

“Arm, then. The right one.” He brought his arm closest to Sam floppy. “Girls hate it when their handwriting isn’t as neat as Leo’s pubes.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. As in… Leonardo DiCaprio? “Um. Why Leo?”

“He’s got OCD,” Dean said.

Sam couldn’t help the laugh that erupted. He covered his mouth when muffin crumbs flew out. He shook his head fondly—Oh, Dean, the man that you are.

He was too engrossed in his own valiant affection and laughter to hear the rest of his brother’s rambling. (“Why was she even hassling you anyway? Girls don’t usually pick on boys. Normally the other way around.”) But he was pretty sure that it wasn’t anything important.

***

It seemed he’d underestimated Penny.

Since the school had already accounted for the number of students, and Sam was a late enrollee, he did not get a locker. That saved him from the classic fake secret admirer letters, glitter bombs and names written over top. He’d been bummed about having to carry everything in his bag every day but it really wasn’t different from any of his previous schools; a locker is a privilege. And if he was lucky enough to get one, that privilege only lasted a fortnight at most. He sometimes felt it was better not to get attached to a school for that reason. Because of a fucking locker—arguably the most permanent aspect of his life.

(Apart from Dean, of course—but he liked to think of Dean more as a consistency than a permanence. He would leave and come back, then leave and come back, but Sam always knew the procedure. Always knew he’d return to Sam’s side by the end of the day.)

However, the lack of a locker did not exempt Sam from the rest of her menacing schemes.

Monday: Chewing gum on his seat, which sticks to his butt the entire day and leaves a mark when he peels it in front of the mirror—and he hadn’t even realized he had geography with Penny. Tuesday: His copy of The Great Gatsby goes missing the day of his presentation. He sees Holes in the back row. Then Wednesday; He was poked and prodded as he walked down the hallway, had to hold his jeans up with tight fists to counter the three or four people trying to pull them down. Thursday: A rumor that he pisses in the lavatory sinks spread like wildfire. His back adorned with sticky notes of splashback sam! and the porcelain pioneer <3.

It’s a miracle Dean didn’t notice. He peeled the sticky notes off on the way home and discarded them in a bush, the days that Dean didn’t pick him up, and he scratched at his back pocket to confirm there wasn’t any gum-like residue left behind.

In between classes and breaktimes, Sam either hid in a bathroom stall or found Dean waiting for him, somewhere where he could watch the varsity kids practice for that week’s game. Something tells him that Dean would’ve done well as a quarterback. Then when Dean asked him about his day, his classes, his work, he lied straight to his face. Gave a heatless shrug and accepted whatever snack Dean brought him that day. Said he was bored, the work was too easy, that everyone around him was a bunch of disorganized apes, Dean included.

Dean always just patted him on the back with a laugh. “You’re the best of ‘em, Sammy,” he would say. “Don’t worry, four more years and you’re outta here. Some big shot genius that’s gonna buy me my first suit.”

Sam shook his head, said, “Not if you have nowhere to wear it.” Then Dean said something about weddings and a damn good girl, and Sam tuned it all out and tried not to cry.

***

Flickering lamp in the corner, their bed covered in papers and Sam’s backpack, calculator and ratty binders. He sat cross-legged but it was starting to hurt his hips. Quiet outside but it was only eight p.m., light out, that dusty spring overcast that made the streetlights look like the sun when you looked up at them.

Dean tapped the wall lightly as he swung his head around the corner with the phone on it. “How far away is Georgia from here?”

Sam looked up from the page he was on, pencil dropped from his bottom lip. “What? Why?”

Dean walked over to the armchair next to the bed and propped himself in it comfortably. Legs swung over the side. “Where Dad is, chasin’ some rougarou.”

“You joking? He was in Texas last he called.”

“Yeah, well, I guess.” Dean shrugged. “Moves like Batman.”

Sam mumbled, “If Batman was allergic to seeing his kids,” with a sudden hint of anger in his tone.

“Don’t be salty.”

Sam shook his head to himself, mostly in annoyance. He went back to his homework. Stuck the end of his pencil between his two front teeth. The thought of Dad even further away from them than before. He grimaced, frowned. Then Dean noticed and spoke up because he always does and Sam never knows whether to be irritated or grateful at that.

“Yeah?” Like he could sense something was up.

“Just this,” Sam said. “Don’t understand.”

“Finally burning out?” Grateful that Dean understood he was talking about the homework.

“No.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. Seen it coming for a while now.”

Sam sighed and looked up. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Dean’s probably just looking to rile him up again, but if Sam wasn’t a willing participant every time.

Dean smirked and raised his hands lazily. “Nothin’. Just that you been more snippy here,” he explained. “And you were snippy the last coupla states but this is different. Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Well, good, ‘cause I don’t want it. Piss off.”

“Whoa! Sam,” Dean sat up. “What’s the matter?”

Sam internally smacked himself. Lolled his head around like a stupid ragdoll—let too much of that supposed irritation out, and now Dean knows something really is up. Not just one of his usual moods. He sniffed out. Sam shrank into himself, feeling bad for snapping.

Although he didn’t say anything and so Dean didn’t either. Rigid in his chair and holding the sides with his fingers digging into the scratchy material. Sam saw him staring through the corner of his eye, worried. If he didn’t, he would probably feel it regardless, Dean’s gaze one borne into his entire being since before he could remember. A few minutes passed of Sam still biting the lead’s edge splintering out of the wood, and Dean awkwardly shifting in his seat, contemplating whether he should leave Sam to his angst or stay and figure out how to help. Dean got up and walked over.

He sat down heavy on the bed, weirdly close beside Sam, and took the textbook. “Alright, show me this devil math.” Squinted at the words and started reading with his finger.

Sam watched, confused. “You know how to do algebra?” he asked. Sounded like a dumb question.

“Not just a pretty face, Sammy,” Dean said, focused.

“Huh.”

Dean looked at him. “What?” He furrowed his eyebrows. “You think I’m some idiot?”

Well. “You’re hardly at school.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention when I am,” he scoffed.

Sam grunted. He dropped the pencil in Dean’s lap and leaned back on the headboard of the bed frame. “Fine. Do my homework, then.” He crossed his arms and did not pout—no matter what Dean later would say.

“Nice try.” Voice duller. Mad. Hurt buried under it all. Sam pinched himself as punishment.

Dean worked out the problem relatively quickly—even went on to complete the next few in his renewed state of flow, maybe just to prove a point. Scribbled down his working out in pencil, his messy handwriting, but Sam could make it out. Could usually make out anything Dean did. Dean bit his lip when he was deep in thought. Dean picked at his cuticles when he was stressed or nervous. Dean chugged milk as much as he could when he was angry, for some reason. He also hung up his wet towel immediately after a shower, whereas Sam let it soak on the floor for at least a few hours.

Sam liked it when Dean yelled at him to pick it up.

Dean double-checked the answers by flipping to the back of the textbook. Grinned like the Cheshire Cat as he let the pages slap back to their previous spot and tossed the pencil back to Sam. “Eat me.”

Sam picked the book up. His eyes widened. “Dean,” he started, irises engraved in the page—had he tried. The numbers jumbled in his mind now neatly presented on paper—via his brother’s secretive aptitude. Competent, meanly, the first word that came to mind. “You’re actually good at this.”

Didn’t even feel challenged for his role of the ‘brains’ in the family. Just astounded. “You sound surprised,” Dean said.

“Well…”

Dean scoffed. “Gee, thanks. Next you’ll tell me I have feelings.”

“Do you?”

“Only when I stub my toe. Or when you say something nice—which is a depleting practice, clearly.”

“Can you stop acting like I’m making fun? I’m being serious. Why don’t you try in school?” Sam asked without trying to sound insulting.

“Screw you, I try.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, you don’t, actually,” he corrected. “Is it Dad? Is he making you drop out before you graduate? You can do a lot with a diploma.”

Dean silently looked away, scooted further off the bed. No, Sam thought dreadfully. A moment went. Then Dean said quietly, “N’t making me.”

Sam pushed his homework away. “Dean.” He crawled closer, sat on his feet and put his palms on his knees. Neck craned forward to catch Dean’s slipping face. “What’re you thinking? You can’t drop out! Not for this line of business—it’s crazy!”

“You don’t get it.” Dean moved off the bed fully.

Sam blinked. “Wh—of course I get it! You’re destroying your future because you think hunting’s all you’re good for!” He winced hearing his own words. “It’s not, by the way—and if it’s Dad, he’s insane for making you think—”

“Shut up, Sam!” Dean exclaimed. He faced him on a whim and his chest rose and fell, made Sam swallow the saliva building up in his mouth from all the things he wanted to say. A soft pink hue dusted over Dean’s face. Brought out his freckles in contrast. Made him look dishevelled and embarrassed but Sam knew only one of them were true. “You don’t get it! And you never will ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ baby who hates it when daddy and big brother leave you alone for too long! Can’t fucking stand it—and that’s why we’re different! Don’t fuckin’ lecture me about what I can and can’t do. Do fucking everything for you—how ‘bout a goddamn thank you? Fuck.”

Dean left the room running a hand through his hair. Sam sat there, shocked, partially sore and and partially aching because most of it was true. Hated it whenever Dad left. Hated it even more when it was Dean who was leaving with him, too.

***

Then Friday.

He avoided the cafeteria as often as he could in every school. Avoided it like the plague. Too many tables, too many chairs. Too many people and too crowded and too squishy. The food was not worth the experience—and besides at this school he had Dean buying his lunch for him, so win-win.

Chatter boomed throughout the space. People bumped and pushed and shoved and Sam was caught in the middle of all of it. Couldn’t find Dean, so he resorted to this. He would’ve skipped lunch as a whole but they’d also just run out of cereal yesterday morning, as per Sam having the final serving for breakfast, so his stomach was growling a little more than usual. Couldn’t imagine how hungry Dean was, always giving up meals for Sam like an idiot.

It was worse that everyone had their own pre-established groups because it meant Sam’s chances of finding an empty table plummeted to zero. And if he found one with only one or two people occupying it, it wouldn’t be too long before the rest of the friends showed up, giving him the side glances and inevitably, inadvertently kicking him off. He knew how it all went. Was a bit of a loser-y thing to do to sit and eat in the hallway, though. Or if he stuck with the bathrooms—probably wouldn’t hear the end of it after the ‘sink’ incident that actually never happened in the first place.

His tray got filled with mystery meat and ominous goo—bologna and mashed potato, the lady explained at his frightened expression. He nodded and smiled politely, kept on walking and faced the crowd. He looked down at the tray. Not even the dinners he and Dean got creative with looked this bad. He looked back up, sighing.

Fucking Dean. Making him go through this shit.

He did his best to navigate the stampede with his tray, but found, of course, there were no spots available for him. There was somebody he partnered with for a science practical, a girl who had lent a pencil to him when his also went missing inexplicably, but that was past bordering desperate and he would rather stand.

He gave one final scan of the cafeteria before concluding it unprocurable. With a hefty groan, he spun around and began in the direction of the exit, open trash can ready for him to discard of his tray. Blonde, tassels, headband. Penny stepped in front, hands on her hips and a shit-eating grin. Sam took a step back and swallowed.

He felt the lingering sensation of paper being stuck to the back of his jacket, of fingers hooking themselves around his belt loops. His hands slightly shook and he bit his lip to distribute the nerves. The overhead lights suddenly felt very bright and very revealing above him.

“Um, excuse me.” He looked to the floor on instinct as he attempted to walk around. She stopped him again with her foot, side-stepping back into his space and blocking his stride. Sam tried again, and again and again, but she followed his movements and watched as he grew more skittish. Sam watched the stupid grin grow and wished it would split her face open.

People gathered around the two, and Sam thought there was about to be some kind of chant. He didn’t want there to be a fight. God, let there not be a fight. It was bad enough he had a girl picking on him—couldn’t escape the teasing from Dean for the world—but being done up for hitting one? Was never going to live it down, never going to be allowed in another school again. Sure, he trained with Dad and Dean for hunts, but he still pulled his punches. Even without the prior disincentives, this surpassed embarrassing.

He took another step back but bumped into someone. He turned around, expecting annoyance, except—trays, more of them, all held by someone making up the circle surrounding him and Penny. The grip on his own tightened. In front of him, Penny nodded, and he watched as they all lifted their trays—dug their hands into the food—swung their arms back and threw.

Hit him before he even had a chance to comprehend. The back of his hood coated in thick, white globs of mashed potato, sweetie, don’t look so shocked. Flimsy slabs of it-doesn’t-bite bologna against his chest. Then peas and corn and tubed yoghurt on him, juice boxes even with their straws. That chocolate chip muffin Dean had gotten him that apparently everybody liked to pick apart. Even trays thrown, because it hadn’t already gone far enough. He shielded his head like Dad taught him to, lifted his arms up and covered his face with his tray, waited for a shot to ring out and for Dean to say, clear, Sammy! You’re all good! Jumbled and unorderly cackling that sounded like something wild, and Sam couldn’t escape it because he tried to whip his head around but the sound followed him everywhere. Echoing.

Penny snatched the tray from his hands and tipped it over the front of his shirt. Smushed the potato in his face thoroughly. He yelped, staggering back and smacking her hands away. No denying it now—he was crying like a baby.

His legs must’ve picked up because the cackling subsided and felt faraway, and solidness under his palms that he pushed forward frantically, it swinging open from the pressure. Penny’s voice behind him, too close behind him. “Look! The little baby’s crying! He’s crying!” Ran. “What’s wrong, bitchface? Thought you were hungry!”

“Whoa—Sammy?”

Dean in bed against the headboard with another magazine, looking nonplussed and bored but now confused, already pushing himself forward on the mattress. Anger fizzled in Sam’s stomach at the sight and he thought he might vomit. He dropped his bag and slammed the door behind him, made a beeline for the bathroom and shut the door.

It opened a second later, Dean’s worried face filling the entire frame. “What the hell happened?”

Sam felt his face wet with tears. He screamed, just an abhorrent outburst, and turned away from Dean, twisting the tap. “Where were you!

“What—”

“You weren’t at lunch! Why’d you leave?!”

Dean blinked, putting his arms up. “I-I’m sorry, I decided to ditch the rest of the day. Did—” He stepped forward and took in Sam’s appearance properly. “Did someone do this to you?”

Sam cried more. Couldn’t help it. Cried and gathered toilet paper and ran it under the sink with wobbly hands. He tipped his head under the water, tugged at his hair fervently, ignoring the way the water stung when it got in his eyes and how it was mixed with bits of food. He lifted himself back up and hysterically started wiping at his shirt—his shirt with holes in it.

Dean grabbed hold of his wrists. “Buddy, hey, slow down. And look at me.” Sam’s tear-stained face was all red and puffy. He hiccuped between his sobs, and snot still ran down because it was still spring and he still had hay fever. Dean kneeled on the cold tiles right in front of him. “It’s alright, Sam. My god.”

He pulled Sam in, tight arms wrapping around him and holding his head by his neck. Sam held back like it was a lifeline, fingers curled in his shirt. Dean dragged strong hands up and down his back, slightly into his hair and carded it. He didn’t seem to mind the mess. Then Dean pulled away but kept his hands on Sam’s food face.

“Is that mash?”

Sam’s bottom lip trembled. Dean winced.

“Okay, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Here, let me—” He took the toilet paper from Sam’s hands and chucked it in the toilet bowl. Grabbed the towel from the rack instead. “—get it for you.”

Sam chose to let him, despite his anger. Gave his eyes one final wipe and closed them as Dean stroked his face with his thumb, soothingly, sickeningly, comfortingly. Sam hated how much he loved it. Dean always had that effect. Like his hands were magnetized to the most fatally wounded depths of him and brought them back to full strength with little to no effort from his end. Casual. Straightforward. Knocked the wind out of Sam every time.

Dean was shushing him, and Sam hadn’t even noticed him start doing it. Hadn’t noticed his own sobbing receding. “‘S okay, Sammy. ‘S okay. I gotcha.”

He wiped at Sam’s clothes gently, holding them flat by the hem and picking off dried bits from the material. It was clear stuff had soaked through. Wet spots stained the front of his shirt, the smell lingering on his hoodie. Dean unzipped it completely and shrugged it off his shoulders a bit for better access.

He swiped at the skin of Sam’s stomach near his belly button with the hand holding the shirt’s hem. “Big brother’s got you, m’kay? Yeah?”

Sam only had the energy to nod weakly, but it conveyed enough. He squirmed under Dean’s touch.

Dean chuckled lowly. “Yeah. You like that. Don’t worry, I do, too.” He smiled at Sam. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Really?” Sam looked up.

“Yeah, Sammy, you’re my boy. My best boy.”

Leave it to Dean to say the softest things without realizing.

And leave it to Dean to notice the way Sam reacted each time. “Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me.” He shrugged Sam’s hoodie off the rest of the way and placed it aside by the sink.

There was a certain dance to this whole thing they did. Most days, Dean would be drawn back and nonchalant and not give anything Sam said a second thought unless it was entertaining or informative, because that’s just how he was as a big brother. Where bickering and arguments slept under the same covers they shared and not even Dad could make it stop with all his shouting and empty threats to kick them out if they didn’t shut up. Then something would happen, and Dean would be all over Sam the following instant, even before Sam had admitted there was something wrong in the first place, or had even known. (Tell me where it hurts, Sammy.) And Dean would hover and get touchy and check in a thousand times—and Sam couldn’t help but get the same because despite all his protest and fight, he was still Dean’s little brother.

“Who did this, man?” Dean asked quietly. “You gotta tell me who did this.” He rattled Sam’s shoulders lightly.

And then Dean would try and pry the culprit out of him, but sometimes it was Sam’s own sorrow that got him so riled up. Sorrow about having no home to go back to when the days got hard. Just a motel room. Sorrow about Dad missing out on their birthdays. Sorrow about the things that were out there that could get them at any given moment and everything could be a hundred times different and a thousand times worse than it already was, and somehow Sam was still sad about a girl at school. Dean couldn’t fix that; he couldn’t reach down into the recesses and yank it out and rip it to shreds. Couldn’t kill it—there was no killing that sorrow.

Sam shook his head.

“Sam…”

“No one.”

“Look at you, Sam. ‘S not very convincing.”

“I said no one!”

“What, a ghost dumped their lunch all over you then?”

Sam sobbed even harder. He didn’t want to admit it all to Dean because it wasn’t supposed to get this bad. Wasn’t supposed to reach this point. Penny was just some dumb bully and he could handle it. He could cope. Didn’t want Dean’s help because he always got Dean’s help. He wanted to fix something by himself for a change.

Dean let him lean into his neck, sighing and holding him again.

“Just give me a name. One name, and I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right.”

Sam shook his head ‘no’ against him as he rubbed his back. Felt Dean rock him back and forth, but knew he only did that when he needed to think. Think of a way to make it all better for Sam. But Sam didn’t want that. It would be three weeks soon, and this school would be history, and they’d never come back to this part of Montana, and Penny and her light brown tassels and pebble necklace would just be some silly nightmare, some funny thing they’d bring up years down the line. Hey. Remember when you had a girl pickin’ on you your freshman year? It would all be over, and then it would all be fine. He shook his head and clung on tighter.

Dean’s lips grazed his temple. “Damnit, Sam.”

***

Dean had run a shower for him and they had fallen asleep together watching The Matrix. Sam woke up in the middle of the night to Dean’s voice.

“Where are you? Christ. That why you’re calling so late? No, I’m fine, it’s just—” Sam saw him turn around to check if he was still sleeping through half-lidded eyes. “Some kids are pickin’ on Sammy, I think. No, I know. I asked, but—well, no, but… Huh. Actually, that’s not half bad, Dad. No, for real, that could work.”

Sam tried to fall asleep again.

“Yeah, okay, I know. Dad, I know how to do my job. Dad—man, I’m going back to bed. I’ll call you soon.”

***

Dean woke him up on the usual Monday morning. “Rise and shine.” Sam had hardly seen any of him that weekend and now he was bearing despicable news.

“Please don’t make me go,” Sam pleaded, curling further in the covers. “Dean.”

He watched the glint pass over but it wasn’t enough. Dean blinked and patted his knee. “Sorry, Sammy. You’re the family prodigy.”

They arrived at school and Sam immediately started feeling sick. Overhead lighting be damned. Dean didn’t ditch him as soon as they entered the corridor which was nice. Figured a strange sight, a wasp in a bee’s nest. Sam followed behind him skittishly and felt acutely akin to a scared child hiding behind their parent, all that missing a strong hand in his, guiding. He felt his fingers dance around Dean’s. The eagle death spiral.

As expected people snickered as Sam walked past, and as expected Dean flipped them the bird with little to no hesitation. Sam didn’t have the energy to tell him off but he did mumble a wary, “Dean.”

Dean spared a quick look down at his name so quiet then looked back up and kept walking. “Stop giving them the kicked-puppy look, then. Just makes it easier for them to pick on you.”

“Yeah, it’s my fault,” Sam scoffed.

Dean ignored him. They dodged two flying fists and a circle of people cheering. A wet floor sign and the drama club showcasing their latest act. He kept Sam close through all the obstacles and then gripped him tighter than usual and turned a rogue corner, a completely different way that Sam usually took to get to English. Sam looked back, confused. He wriggled his wrist in Dean’s grip, but with not much effort because he liked the grounding feeling.

“Uh, Dean?” he said. “Dean, I have English first. This isn’t the way.”

“Sure it is,” Dean replied.

“No, it’s definitely not. It’s on a whole different floor.”

Dean kept dragging. “We’re going the scenic route.”

“The—Dean.”

Sam stopped—planted his feet to the floor like a weed in your garden. He found the courage to remove himself from Dean’s hold and crossed his arms, the middle of the hallway, glowering. Sullen. Very seldom the occasions in which he presented his little brotherism so shamelessly.

Dean sighed, arms hitting his side. “What’s one small detour? We’re early as fuck anyways.”

“For a reason.” Sam minutely gestured to the people passing them. “I’m trying to avoid public humiliation today, remember? Not run headfirst into its arms.”

Dean didn’t respond. Sam could tell he was thinking of saying something teasing but bit his tongue at the last moment. Thought it would get him into more trouble than starting a fight with Sam was worth. He was right.

His feet picked up again and Sam had no choice but to follow. They stayed on the first floor, never even nearing the staircases on their left every few meters. Sam recognized a few faces. Remembered mashed potatoes and trays over his head. Wet down his shirt. He didn’t know the scenic route as well as Dean seemed to and he kept checking his wristwatch to keep an eye on the time. What Dean was admiring, he didn’t know—the same pale walls and metal lockers as far as scenery went in a high school. He wondered about that.

Penny stood idle at her locker talking with friends, that fucking bag with those fucking tassels, and suddenly Sam knew what was going on.

He stopped again. “Nope. No. No way—” Made a move to turn around but Dean was already grabbing him.

“Easy, cowboy,” he said, hand fisted in Sam’s collar and pulling him forward into another stride.

“Dean!”

“Listen—”

“You’re such an asshole! Let me go. Please, can we just—let’s go around.”

“Just stay here a sec,” he told Sam. Sam’s face paled, heart started hammering. Oh, God, Dean was going to do something.

Sam struggled against his grip for the second time that morning. “Why? So she can see me and—”

“Sam.” Dean bent down slightly so their eyes were at relatively the same level. Had his hands moved to Sam’s shoulders and was rubbing, around, circles—irresistible. Sam felt all the anger ooze out of him like he was a faulty soap dispenser. So green. “You trust me?”

Yeah, with all the reverence he could muster. “You have that look…” he ended up saying—words more unsure than intended but it made something swirl in that forest of his that Sam pledged he would literally kill to see again.

“Just my face,” Dean said before a heeky grin broke out. He winked.

“Bullshit,” Sam spat back. “It’s your ‘I did something’ face.”

As if all the doubt Sam gave him fueled a more excited response, “Then you should definitely trust me.”

Sam swallowed and fought back an agreeing nod. Dean stood behind him and rested his hands on his shoulders, staring straight ahead. Rubbing stopped, which Sam was less than content about—leaned back further into Dean and pressed his backpack to his chest, the squashing of his books. He was hyperaware of everything around him, the actuality of it all. How standing there staring at Penny was going to help them and not bound Sam to a torturous final week in Livingston, Montana. Dean’s unspecific yet enamouring orbit extended to his behvaior. What complex orchestration meant to him and how far he’d be willing to take it. Sam still did not understand and he feared that he never would.

His breath hitched as Penny moved even the slightest inch. She gave one of her friends a small punch to the arm and laughed. She twirled her hair and nodded while they spoke. That necklace of tiny pebbles hanging from her neck heavy on his eyes. She spun and faced her locker, started twisting the lock from 47… 22… 18. Tugged it open.

Dean’s fingers dug through his jacket to his skin, it felt like, and Sam felt himself grow more nervous in tandem.  People bumped into them from behind but Dean cushioned their impact, stayed glued to their spot.

Penny craned the door to the side, full view of her open locker. The anticipation rendered Sam unmoving and unblinking, and he was glad that it did because else he might’ve missed the bag of flour that exploded right in her face, powder coating her head to waist. Her friends beside her screamed at the sound, bystanders’ heads in the hallway turning faster than Sam could keep up with. Her eyes screwed shut on instinct, but when they opened it left a comedic dual nakedness to her face. Sam jerked back at the entire thing, Dean catching him—unsurprisingly—and pushing him upright. He felt his jaw drop almost instantly. Eyes widened to their ends degree. The hall broke into heinous laughter, all pointing fingers and wary, distancing steps backwards from the blonde girl. Penny wiped at her face frantically.

Sam felt more students crowd around them, him and Dean being at the front of the whole ordeal. Row seats, if you will. Dean tayed rigid behind him and fended off any unwanted contact or pushiness—but Sam didn’t care about that. He actually revelled in the sea of kids. Felt swallowed whole and invisible, one with the air they breathe. He was shook side to side, pushed and shoved back and forth in favor of everyone getting their fill of the scene. Sam squinted when he had the chance, zeroing in on the contraption in Penny’s locker. Some kind of tube, some messy wiring attached to the inside of the lock. A stopwatch counting down.

Then a big old glob of slime-like consistency covered her as it beeped. Dripped down her hair and off her shoulders, ran down the sides of her arms and made a small puddle at her feet. More screaming, more shouting, more laughing and Sam felt like he was floating.

Dean’s low chuckling above him. He looked up in disbelief. Dean clapped a hand on his back like he was congratulating him.

“You didn’t…” Sam started and found his voice was hoarse for a reason unknown to him.

Dean peered down at him and blinked. His smile unfaltering and he furrowed his eyebrows ridiculously innocently; Sam wasn’t even aware he was capable of it. “Who, me? Nah, I’m an angel,” he pressed his lips together, tightly sheltering a smirk.

Sam smiled back because this was his big brother.

Dean looked back at flour-and-slime-covered Penny. “Oh, that’s beautiful.” He sighed, shaking his head, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. Then clapped Sam on the shoulder again without meeting his eyes. “Nice job, Sammy.”

Sam snatched the bouts of affection hidden in that short sentence and held it close to his heart.

Penny sought out his face in the crowded space. Glare that shot right through him. Her head nearing exploding or combustion. “Bitchface!” she exclaimed with all the venom in her. Tiny specks of flour flew off her mouth as she did so.

Dean pointed accusingly. “Hey, watch your mouth!”

He never wanted to leave Livingston, Montana.

People patted him on the back and high-fived him, and said Nice job! as he left through the gates at the end of the day. Dean waited for him by the steps, grinning.

“Good day?” Dean asked.

Sam just stepped into his space and wrapped his arms around his waist. He whispered. “Thanks, jerk.”

Dean hugged back, slid his hands up gently to card through his hair. “Nothing about my face?”

“Nah.”

He seemed to understand. “Alright, bitch.”

***

“What? No—no, that was definitely you, Sam.”

“Are you kidding me? How on earth would I have pulled that off?”

“I don’t know. You’re a nerd. Would’ve done some nerdy shit.”

“By loose definition…”

“You got your revenge in a public, social setting, and it was all safe in the end. So no harm, no foul. Well-planned and hilarious.”

“Sure—except it wasn’t me.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you—hey, no, don’t walk away.”

“Isn’t Crowley still inside? Let’s not keep the devil waiting—or rather, the King of Hell, I guess.”

“Why won’t you admit it? All these years later and you won’t just tell me that it was you!”

“Do you smell that? Think it’ll rain later—”

“Dean.”

“—give my Baby a wash. Birds don’t know where to aim their asses these days.”

“Dean.”

“Oh, wait, is that a cloud already? Sweet.”

“Dean.”

“What? Am I the only one who wants to lock Hell up for good here? What’s with the trip down memory lane?”

“It’s not—I’m just…”

“What’s got you thinkin’ about ninth grade, anyway? You’re being weirdly nostalgic.”

“You brought it up!”

“Mmm. Specifics.”

“I’m not—I’m not mad or anything. I’m just… you know. Let’s not deny the truth.”

“The truth.”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah—and what is that, again, Sam? You sure you’re the one most qualified to be lecturing me about the facts and lies of reality?”

“Hm.”

“What’s that face? Oh, the pouty one. Hey, now I’m nostalgic.”

“Just admit it.”

“Alright fine. I don’t always wash my hands after taking a piss.”

“That’s not—What!”

“Oh—your laptop didn’t actually go missing that one time. I ran over it because the porn I saved accidentally downloaded, like, eight viruses.”

“You fucking kidding me, Dean? You ran over my laptop?”

“I think it’s all in the spirit of confession.”

“Dude, this is giving me a headache.”

“Me too. Let’s stop. Crowley—”

“Wait! No! I wanna hear you say it!”

“For fucks—say what, Sam? That that girl was a piece of work and she deserved to get humbled? Okay boom.”

“No! That you… that you defended me.”

“I do that all the time?”

“Yeah, but…”

“You could probably stand to do it a little more.”

“Shut up. You… Thank you. I never said thank you.”

Dean coughs.

“You did, actually.”

“Huh?”

“You, uh. You did.” He looks anywhere but Sam. “You said ‘thanks, jerk.’”

“Oh yeah. I remember that. Took the ‘face’ off it.”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah.”

Sam stands in front of the church doors.

“Well, thanks again.”

“…You’re welcome.”

Sam sighs a smile and pushes them open.