New Story: My Brilliant Career (Supernatural, Gen)

[ancastar]

 

My Brilliant Career

by Ancasta

When Sam Winchester is five years old, he tells his brother Dean he wants to grow up to be a Jedi Knight.

Dean is unimpressed.

"Figures. You would watch a movie with Han Solo in it and decide you want to be the other guy."

They're in a motel room just outside Athens, Illinois. It looks a lot like the motel room they'd left the day before near Youngs Creek, Kentucky. Sam doesn't mind that, though. Because this motel room has a VCR in it. And Dean talked their father into renting Star Wars from the man behind the counter.

"What's wrong with liking Luke Skywalker?" Sam asks, struggling not to yawn. He doesn't want to remind Dean it's past his bedtime.

Dean aims the remote as if it were a blaster and turns off the television. Sam doesn't care. Once the movie was over, there wasn't anything on he really wanted to watch. "There's nothing wrong with liking Luke Skywalker," Dean says. Sam thinks maybe Dean has changed his mind. Until Dean continues, "If you like whiney-assed, boring, pajama-wearing goodie two-shoes."

"He is not whiney-assed!" Sam cries before he can stop himself, deeply insulted on Luke Skywalker's behalf. "He's a Jedi Knight."

Dean looks over at him and raises one eyebrow, something Sam wishes he could do. But every time he's tried practicing it in the mirror, both of his go up, even when he holds one down with his finger. "You know what? Maybe you should be a Jedi. You've got the whole whiney part down."

Sam is tired. So he's sure that's why Dean's teasing is making him feel like whining even more. He rubs his eyes and sits up straighter against the pillows. Dean already treats him like a little kid. Sam doesn't want to give his big brother any more ammunition.

"Jedis are cool," he tells Dean. "They have powers and they fight and they get to fly spaceships."

Dean slides off the bed and starts clearing away the mess from dinner. Sam knows he should probably help. But he's mad at Dean, so he stays where he is. "Big deal. Take away Luke's light saber, and Han is a way better fighter, and the Millennium Falcon is ten times cooler than one of those stupid X-wings."

Sam has to admit, the Millennium Falcon is pretty cool, still… "He's a hero."

Dean shoves the empty pizza box and mini cartons of milk into the trash before looking back at Sam and shrugging. "So? There are lots of heroes out there. Ones that make your buddy Luke look like the loser farm boy he is. Pick someone better."

Sam tries to be a good kid, like his dad and Dean ask him to. But he doesn't always do everything Dean tells him to do. This time, though, he thinks it might be a good idea. Dean seems awfully sure Sam is making a mistake by wanting to be a Jedi. And even though he can be bossy sometimes, Dean is pretty smart.

"Like who?" Sam wonders.

Dean returns to the bed and sits back down, facing Sam. "Why don't you pick somebody real this time?"

"Somebody real?"

"Yeah. You know Luke Skywalker isn't real, right? He's just a character in a movie."

Sam frowns. He hadn't known for sure. But he isn't going to admit that to Dean. "'Course."

Dean ducks his head and looks Sam in the eye, like he always does when he's going to tell Sam something important. Sam listens close. "And there are no Jedi Knights. Not in real life."

Even though he's not surprised, Sam is disappointed. He would really like to learn how to use The Force. "I know."

Dean nods. "So who in the real world is your hero, the one you want to grow up to be?"

Sam scrunches up his face tight while he thinks. He finds it helps. Only not so much this time. "Um…I don't know. I don't know many real people."

For some reason that makes Dean laugh. "What do you think Dad and I are? Or the people staying at this motel or the ones in the diner this morning? We're all real, Sam. Even you."

"But I don't know them," Sam insists, beginning to become concerned. He hadn't realized this was a potential problem. "Those other people. I don't know their names or where they live or anything."

"You know Dad and me," Dean says.

Dean is right, of course. But that doesn't fix the problem. "You're just a kid. I can't be like you when I grow up."

Dean doesn't seem insulted. He's smiling at Sam, which makes Sam want to smile back. Funny how he isn't mad at Dean anymore. "What about Dad then?"

Sam thinks, concentrating very hard, so hard his forehead kind of begins to hurt. "Is Dad a hero?"

"Yeah," Dean says, sort of quiet and serious. "He is."

But that doesn't answer Sam's question. Not really. He doesn't know what his father does. No one will tell him. All he knows is it's important. So important that Dad and Dean and him need to travel all the time so Dad can be where he needs to be. Dean says Dad helps people, but that's not a lot for Sam to go on.

"Come on," Dean says, and pulls on Sam's arm. "Let's wash your face and brush your teeth. It's time for bed."

Sam allows himself to be led to the bathroom, where he gets ready while Dean watches from the doorway.

Sam thinks some more as he rubs the soapy washcloth over his face.

His dad goes out alone at night and he always takes all that stuff in the trunk Sam isn't allowed to touch. Sam has seen inside there though, once or twice. There are guns and knives and other things that remind of him of the weapons Batman has on his tool belt. Dad is gone for hours. He doesn't come home 'til really late, long after Sam has gone to bed.

Sometimes Dad gets hurt, but it never seems to bother him much.

"All part of the job, Sammy," his dad will say, smiling even though Sam can tell he'll probably need to use up a whole bottle of aspirin before he feels better. Sam has seen him with cuts and bruises all over his body. Sometimes his knuckles even bleed. But that never stops Dad from picking him up to hug him or put him to bed, holding Sam high and strong. Like Sam weighs nothing. Like his dad has super strength…

And suddenly, while Sam is brushing his teeth, everything makes sense. He realizes what his father must do for a living.

"I do want to be like Dad," Sam announces, turning and spewing toothpaste foam in Dean's direction. "I want to do what he does when I grow up."

"Good answer," Dean says, giving Sam a pat on the shoulder and handing him a glass of water. "Here. Rinse and spit. Dad is going to have my head if he comes home and you're still up."

Sam swishes the water around inside his mouth, then spits it into the sink, dripping only a little outside the bowl. And through it all, even when he's tucked in bed and Dean has settled into the chair by the door to keep watch, Sam can’t help but smile. Because now he knows his destiny.

When he grows up, he's going to be just like his dad.

His dad, the superhero.

No way is Han Solo cooler than that.

***

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio."

Sam is standing beside an open grave, next to a mound of dirt that's almost as tall as he is. Dean is below, balancing on top of the casket they're working to uncover. Dad's back got screwed up after a poltergeist threw him up against a wall the week before in Terre Haute. He's on lookout at the cemetery gates while Sam and Dean do the grunt work. Sam is nine years old and can't believe what just came out of his brother's mouth.

"What did you say?"

Dean grins up at him, a shovel in his hand, same as Sam. His eyes shine in the lantern light. He has a smudge of dirt on his cheek. "That's Shakespeare, dude. The Immortal Bard."

Sam lifts his brows. "Since when do you quote Shakespeare?"

"Since Ms. Garrison assigned it for homework in English class."

"You’re doing your English homework now?"

"I am when Ms. Garrison is the one assigning it."

Sam is surprised. Dean doesn't do that well in school. Not like Sam does. Sam knows it isn't that Dean is stupid, because he really, really isn't. Sam thinks it may be because Dean has decided school doesn't matter. He might be right. Sam is only in fourth grade, but so far he hasn't finished out a single semester at the same school he started with.

"You got a crush on her or something?" he asks, burying his shovel in more of the soft, crumbly ground Dean has pitched out of the grave. It's Sam's job to move it away from the edge so it doesn't fall back in.

"Or something," Dean agrees, scooping away another pile of earth from the coffin lid. "You should see her, Sammy. She's blonde, with big blue eyes, and the cutest little dimples. And when she bends over…"

"Dean!" Sam says, stopping to lean on his shovel and glare down at his brother. "Gross! She's your teacher!"

Dean just smiles. "So? If all my teachers were as smokin' hot as Ms. Garrison, I'd be a better student. Hell-I'd even consider going to college."

Shaking his head, Sam goes back to digging, but his mind isn't on it. Not anymore. In a way, he is surprised he has been able to concentrate on the work they're doing as long as he has. "Do you ever think about it?"

"Think about what?"

Sam shrugs. "Going to college. What you'd study and all."

Sam looks over and sees Dean staring up at him like Sam has suddenly turned into a zombie on him, or grown another head.

"Sam, I was kidding about college."

"Maybe you were," Sam says, wishing Dean would stop looking at him that way. It makes it hard for him to meet Dean's eyes. "But I might want to go."

Dean frowns. "Why would you want to do something like that?"

Sam thinks about how to explain, and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. It's a cool night, but there's a lot of moisture in the air. Fog drifts between the headstones, pale like a ghost. Sam would worry it might actually be Lorraine Hunnicutt, the woman they're currently trying to unearth, only she normally rises on Thursdays and her haunt is the county library. It's Saturday. So they have lots of time.

"I like school," Sam tells Dean. "I'm kind of good at it. I think I'd like to go to college. When I'm old enough, I mean."

He doesn't tell Dean the reason he's started thinking about it is because of what their waitress said this morning. Her name was Cindy and she was young and really friendly, and she talked to Sam when their dad went up to pay the bill and Dean was in the restroom.

While he waited at the table for Dean, Cindy told him she was a sophomore at the local university and had just moved on campus after living at home her freshman year and commuting.

"It's great," she said, tucking her long brown hair behind her ear and snapping her gum. "Living in the dorms, your friends are around you all the time. You've always got somebody to do something with, even if all you want to do is talk. And there's tons of stuff happening on campus-movies, concerts, sports. It's like a little town. You wouldn't ever have to leave if you didn't want to."

Sam doesn't tell Dean how nice that sounds, to have a place that's yours, that you know really well and where you feel like you belong. Sam loves Dean and their dad as much as he can ever imagine loving anyone. But he doesn't know if having just the two of them in his life will be enough for him. Not forever. Sam thinks he'd like to have friends his own age, boys and girls who like the things he likes, things besides stealing into graveyards in the middle of the night to salt and burn the corpses of restless librarians.

Sam is so wrapped up in his own thoughts he doesn't realize at first Dean hasn't said anything. When he pays attention again, he sees his brother just standing there, looking up at him. Sam can't tell what Dean is thinking. Dean is still frowning and looking kind of worried.

"What?" Sam asks.

Dean blinks, and all of a sudden what was there earlier is gone. He smiles now. But his eyes don't shine like they did before. "You are such a dork."

"I am not," Sam says, his response automatic.

Dean ignores him. "You're like what-thinking about something nearly ten years in the future? I mean…I know Dad keeps talking about how important planning is on a hunt. But don't you think you're overdoing it?"

Sam turns away and buries his shovel so deep in a pile of soil he has trouble lifting it. "I am not planning," he says. Even though he totally has been since breakfast.

"Bull," Dean says from somewhere behind him. "That's exactly the kind of thing you'd do. Come on, Sammy-admit it. You've already decided what your major is gonna be."

Sam hasn't. Which is part of what he has spent the day thinking about. But he has an idea for an answer that should shut his big brother up. At least for now. "Oh yeah? Well maybe I have."

"I knew it!" Dean practically crows. He's digging again now too. Between them, the dirt is flying fast and furious. "So what're you gonna be? Doctor? Lawyer? Indian chief?"

"Archaeologist."

"Archaeologist?" Dean echoes and stops what he's doing. Sam tries to hide his smile by continuing to shovel. "Why the heck would you want to be an archaeologist?"

Sam isn't all that good at telling jokes. He forgets the exact words he is supposed to say and Dean is always telling him his timing sucks. So he takes special care with this punch line. He feels like he owes it to his brother.

"With as much time as you, me and Dad spend digging things up, I'd say I already have plenty of practice. Wouldn't you?" Sam says, one hand resting on his shovel, the other on his hip. "Think how far ahead of the other kids I'll be."

For a split second, Dean doesn't say or do anything. Then, all at once, he smiles big and wide. And laughs so loud, Sam almost shushes him, fearing their dad will hear and come barreling out of the darkness to read them both the riot act. Only Sam can't. Because pretty soon he's laughing right along with Dean. And even though they both try, neither of them can stop.

Laughing is good. It reminds Sam of all the hours spent traveling the country in Dad's cool car, windows rolled down, the three of them singing along to the radio at the top of their lungs. Of all the games of Gin Rummy, Go Fish, and Crazy Eights, and the times Sam is pretty sure Dean let him win. Of all the pizza parlors, hotdog stands and diners, sharing French fries or onion rings, and blowing the paper off the end of his straw, aiming as always for Dean's face.

Sam loves that. All of it. And he doesn't want to lose it. Maybe it's enough, Dad and Dean and him. Maybe it's all Sam needs.

For now.

***

Today, Sam turned fourteen. It's not his best birthday ever. He is spending it wondering if he'll live to see fifteen.

He is lying across the back seat of the Impala, his back resting against Dean's chest. Dean is braced in the corner, one leg on either side of Sam, one foot pressed flat on the floor to keep them both in place. Dean's right arm is wrapped across Sam's chest, holding him still and close. Dean's other hand is clutching a towel more red than white against the gouges slashed low on Sam's belly.

The wounds ache and burn.

It's like nothing Sam has ever felt before.

And nothing he ever wants to feel again.

"How much farther, Dad?" Sam hears Dean as if from a distance.

"Almost there," Dad says, his words sounding to Sam like they come from equally far away.

Sam hears them nonetheless. Though he isn't sure he believes his father. Sam was attacked inside Custer National Forest. The closest hospital he knows of is in Hardin. That's over an hour away, even with Dad coaxing every last bit of horsepower out of the Chevy.

"I'm…gettin' blood on the seat," Sam mumbles, searching for something to say. Dean told him to stay awake. And he's trying. Honest, he is. But it's hard. Part of his mind is whirling a mile a minute, remembering the hunt and all that went wrong with it. Another part feels disconnected somehow, miles away from everything. Which at that moment, is exactly where he would like to be.

But Sam doesn't go.

He stays where Dean is.

"You're totally making a mess, Sam," Dean murmurs, sounding closer than before. "When you're better, I bet Dad will make you scrub out every single stain on your own. Either that, or have you pay to get the back seat reupholstered. You're trashing his baby."

"Didn't mean to," Sam says.

"I know," Dean assures him, his hand tightening for a moment on Sam's shoulder. "I know you didn't. Nobody meant for this to happen."

They had set out just after sundown to track an unhcegila, a Lakota dragon that reportedly was chowing down on hikers and campers in the wilderness near Little Big Horn Battlefield. Sam had been responsible for researching lore prior to the trip, only he hadn't found much to go on. All he was able to learn for certain was the unhcegilas were land creatures, aggressive, and humans were their favorite prey.

Well, if nothing else, he got the "aggressive" part right.

"Sorry," Sam says, turning his head on Dean's shoulder in an attempt to look his brother in the eye, wanting Dean to see the truth of his apology face-to-face. Only the angle isn't right. All he winds up with is a pretty good view of Dean's nose. "Wasn't fast enough."

Dean sighs. Sam feels the lift and fall of it against his back. "None of us were, Sammy. Don't worry about it. It's not your fault."

"Should have 'spected they could fly…" Sam says, mentally kicking himself. He had read a lot about Chinese dragons while doing his research. He knew most of them could fly. He should have expected the same thing out of their North American cousins. "They always fly…"

"It's those dinky little wings," Dean says, cutting off Sam's ramblings. Sam can't seem to find the off switch on his own. "Who would expect something that small to be able to lift something that big, huh?"

"Didn't think…" Sam begins, closing his hand around Dean's forearm, trying to get his brother's attention, to make him understand, "Chinese…live in water. This one s'posed to be…land…"

"Dean, are you keeping pressure on the wound?" their father asks.

"Yes, sir." With that, Dean presses with the towel, harder than before.

Sam can't help it. The moment Dean bears down, Sam arches his back, his chin tipped towards the sky, and screams. He doesn't want to. Not at all. He'd give anything to be the strong silent type. Like Dean is when he's the one banged up. But it hurts…it hurts…

…oh, Jesus God, it hurts.

"Easy, Sam. Easy," Sam hears Dean urge in his ear. He can feel Dean's breath, warm there, and fast. "Breathe through it. Breathe for me now. Come on, easy does it. That a boy. That's it."

Dean keeps talking, but never lets up on the vicious pressure threatening to rip Sam in two, right at the point of his injury. Sam surfs the pain like a wave, feeling it finally crest then fall away. He is on top of it now, riding it, instead of having it threaten to drown him. His screams die down to whimpers, and whenever they hit a bump, the occasional moan. But he's quieter than before. He no longer understands the actual words Dean speaks, but uses his brother's voice like a beacon, something he can focus on as he tries to find his way to shore.

"Another twenty minutes and we're there, boys," Dad says, his gruff voice speaking words Sam can suddenly understand. He notices Dean isn't saying anything anymore. He must have gotten tired. "I promise. Everybody just hang in there. We'll be at the hospital soon."

Twenty minutes. He can do twenty minutes.

Sam is pretty sure he can.

Searching for some way to make himself more comfortable as they near the home stretch, Sam turns his cheek and tucks his head against the curve of Dean's neck. It's warm there and smells of Dean's sweat and shampoo. Sam can feel the heat on his forehead. It's comforting.

But it's damp too. Weird. Tears had started rolling down Sam's cheeks before Dad and Dean had ever even gotten him back to the car, but at this point, he is all cried out. The moisture he’s feeling isn't coming from him, though. It's coming from Dean.

Dean is crying over him.

Dean never cries over anything.

"Hey…Dean?" Sam whispers, reaching up to tug on Dean's jacket collar. He wishes he could talk louder, but his mouth is dry and his throat hurts from screaming.

"Yeah? What is it, Sammy?" Dean lets go of Sam's shoulder and takes hold of his hand instead. Sam didn't realize it before. But sitting the way they are, it's like Dean is hugging him, cuddling him almost. Sam would give him such grief, if only he didn't like it as much as he does.

"Know what'd be…real great?"

"What?" Dean is whispering now too. It's like they're telling secrets.

"If we had a doc…a doctor."

"That's where we're heading, Sam. You heard Dad. We're going to the hospital. You just need to hang on."

Sam shakes his head. His hair catches against Dean's chin, gets tangled there. "No, no…here."

Sam can't see his brother, but he can feel Dean pull away a bit, like he might be trying to catch a glimpse of Sam's face. "What? In the car?"

"In the family."

Dean chuckles, quiet and short. It comes out sounding like a grunt. He squeezes Sam's hand. "Sorry to disappoint you, dude. But I don't think I'm ready to take on medical school."

"Hmm," Sam hums. He is finding it harder and harder to make his lips work. He hopes Dad gets them where they're going soon. "M'be me."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. Sam can tell Dean is trying to play along, trying to distract him the same way he is trying to distract Dean. Sam would laugh at the two of them if he had any energy to spare. "You think you're up for telling people to open wide and say 'ah'? Or are you just looking for a few minutes alone in an exam room with a pretty candy striper?"

"More like…" Sam swallows hard and his eyes slide shut. He can't get them to open again. "Surgery..."

"You want to be a surgeon?" Dean asks with obvious surprise. "Taking out people's appendix and junk?"

"Sew you up," Sam murmurs. He can't feel the pain much any more. That's a good thing, right? "Dad too."

"Better you than me, man," Dean says. "You know how I feel about needles."

"Yeah," Sam says softly, feeling his consciousness at long last beginning to fade. He needs to get in one more jab at his big brother while he can. One more distraction. Something for Dean to think about while Sam is down for the count. "An' blood."

It isn't true. Not with what they do. But Sam hopes Dean will find it funny.

When Dean leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head, Sam realizes Dean didn't get the joke.

"Yours most of all, Sam." Sam hears Dean's words as an echo while the world around him grays away.

***

Part 2