My name is Sam -- [Part 3]
| Masterpost | Part One | Part Two | Part Three |-'-2000(SEP)-'-
The first time Sam saw Dean after the prep school started was during Labor Day weekend, and Sam drove out to see Dean every day for a couple of hours. It'd been over a month since he'd last seen his brother, but Sam'd never been away from Dean for that long before, and he most decidedly did not enjoy it (Sam didn't really think Dean much liked it, either), but then Dean would look around, or start talking about the basic cadet training he'd just been put through, or the classes he'd been in, and there'd be this spark in his brother's eyes that he'd never seen before, not like this, and just like that Sam knew why Dean had to do this. Because if he didn't? Then maybe, probably, Dean would disappear one day, just like Dad, and Sam'd never see his brother again. Never know if he was alive or if he'd been killed by a monster or a ghost or a demon - or who knew what else? Never hear from him again and spend the rest of his life ignorant about the fate of his own brother. So yeah, Sam would deal with Dean being in the Air Force and he'd maybe learn to accept it, because it was what Dean needed to do, but he wasn't sure if he could ever like Dean being part of an institution that didn't recognize people like Sam, didn't accept them or offer them the same rights that everyone else was afforded.
It was probably the closest thing to an education in hunting you could find, though, and the fact that the government paid you for it just made it all the better. And Dean liked it, Sam reminded himself, looking at his brother smiling and talking about the absolute hell basic combat training had been, and how he'd totally aced it, and that was really all that mattered.
-'-
Sam started hanging out more and more at the Community Council for Adolescent Development downtown, using the rooms and facilities open down there to study, instead of doing it at home or at the library. It was never quiet at the center, which was good, because the quiet wasn't the same anymore when there wasn't anyone to snap at for being too loud. He kept busy a lot of the time, working out with the AFJROTC (the words "Air Force Junior Reserve Officers' Training Corps" was the sort of mouthful Sam rather omitted than voluntarily spelled out, but that's what it was and the training was vigorous to the point where it left him limp as a noodle, and he still went back for more, because he kinda loved it, too) program he'd talked Dean into letting him join so he could finally earn the credits he needed for PE, as well as being even more active in the martial arts club and the track team. The principal had pulled him from the official teams (he didn't think she'd ever get how someone could want to switch sexes, but he tried not to care) but still let him join the practices, so that was something, at least. His track coach was pissed at him because of it, and it only took about a month before Sam snapped, and then the coach didn't press him about it again.
At the CCAD center downtown they had a movie night one Friday, and Sam saw 'Boys Don't Cry' for the first (and only) time in his life and hoped to god that Dean never saw it.
Every weekend, Dean called Sam, or Sam called Dean, and they spent roughly an hour on the phone, pretending they weren't worlds apart. It wasn't really any surprise that Dean excelled in the physical training, or that he had a lot to make up for in the theoretical subjects, but he was doing the best he could. Sam just hoped that Dean's grades would be good enough that he'd be allowed to come home on the weekends, but he never pressured his bother about it.
Sam still went running as often as he could, and Dean's former boss, Major Banks, still joined him whenever they ran into each other. Sometimes they practiced hand-to-hand combat, and Sam still went to the local shooting range every Sunday when he managed to stumble out of bed in time.
The one good thing that came out of Sam living on his own was that he finally started to get the hang of grocery shopping and the planning thereof, as well as how to cook (which he did approximately once a week, on Sundays, and then only as big a batch as he could get away with so he could eat leftovers the rest of the week).
He still kept an eye out, still looked for hunts in the area, but without Dean around he had little to no chance of taking care of them, so he started relaying information to Bobby. At first he just called, but then he set up an email and started writing as well, detailing everything he could find on case after case, attached every single file he had on the subject and forwarded it all to Bobby. Sometimes Missouri called, and even though Sam was always glad to hear from people he knew but didn't see all that often, he never really felt like he completely understood every facet of his conversations with her.
-'-
"Winchester," Colonel Redford said one day after Sam had finished the one and a half mile run first. It wasn't the first time; in fact, he won most times except on the days when he wasn't feeling well. Out of all the officers involved with the AFJROTC training, Colonel Redford was the most insistent that Sam join the program all the way. The other instructors didn't prod him as much and mostly deferred to Colonel Redford instead, which left Sam with the less than desirable task of deflecting the man.
"Sir," Sam said, because talking to military officers was a bit like talking to Dad had been - before he ditched them - and it was so easy to fall back into the habit.
"I understand Principal Kinley is the one who won't let you commit fully to this program."
Sam paused. He was still red in the face, sweaty and short of breath after his run and really, this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with an Air Force officer, like, ever.
"She dismisses my appeals to have you fully enrolled in the program. You're a good student, Winchester. Diligent. You work hard. I think you'd make a good officer."
"My brother's in the prep school," Sam evaded by saying.
"You could go straight to the Air Force Academy," Colonel Redford talked over him.
"I think I want to go to Stanford, actually."
"You've got the brains," Colonel Redford continued. "Be frank with me, son. Why won't Kinley let you join my program? She's citing medical reasons, but you're better trained than all the other cadets here."
Sam rubbed his face and shrugged.
"You a homosexual, then?"
Sam froze. "What? No!" he protested. "Why'd you… No, sir, I am not. Dr. Kinley wouldn't care if I was gay, you know."
Colonel Redford looked at him with contemplating eyes. "Coach Trent doesn't like you."
Sam shrugged. "Coach Trent has issues," he said shortly. "I want to run; he lets me run."
"He used to talk about how he wanted you on the official track team but Kinley wouldn't let you," Colonel Redford said. "Now the man won't even say your name. You got something I should know, you need to tell me now before I find out on my own."
"Yes, sir," Sam agreed, but he didn't say anything. He talked to Dean about it the next time his brother called, and Dean let him rant and freak out for about five minutes, then took over for another ten. All in all, Sam felt a lot better about it the next time he saw Colonel Redford.
-'-2000(OCT)-'-
Sam slowly got the hang of living by himself; it wasn't easy or hard, it was just different and new. It didn't mean he liked it, or that he didn't miss his brother, because he did; it was just that he didn't feel like he was floundering in the dark anymore. Or, well, so much, anyway.
Then one day toward the end of October, Dean rang. It was a Friday, around five in the afternoon, and Sam was being lazy, just hanging out at home and watching some weird documentary on killer whales that was on. Sam frowned, because Dean only ever called him on the weekends. They sent texts on weekdays and called on weekends; those were the rules.
"Dean?" Sam answered on the second ring. "Everything all right?"
"Fucking awesome," Dean drawled. "Now come pick me up, bitch. I have a craving the size of Texas for a good fucking cheeseburger."
Sam was in the car before he was aware that he'd even moved and, next thing he knew, he was at the parking lot of the Air Force Academy.
Dean was there, wearing his leather jacket, worn jeans, scuffed boots and olive green Henley, and Sam was out of the car before it'd even slowed down fully; he just pulled the handbrake and jumped out and crushed Dean in a giant bear hug.
"Dean!"
Dean laughed, patted Sam on the back and slithered out of the hug. "Whoa, Sammy, when'd you turn into a fucking Sasquatch?"
"Shut up, Dean!" Sam laughed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt and his dimples just about eclipsed his face. "I fucking missed you, man."
Dean's expression sobered, but his eyes shone. "Yeah, me too. I have until 'round five on Sunday, so what say we make the most of it, huh?"
-'-2000(NOV)-'-
The drove up to Bobby's over Thanksgiving, mostly because they didn't really have anything else to do, and people seemed to find it offensive that they tended to skip holidays because they didn't know what to make of them. They celebrated birthdays, sort of, in that they acknowledged them, and last year they'd given Christmas a shot for almost the first time since Sam was a kid. Halloween meant hunts galore, Easter meant moving states and switching schools (which every single holiday Sam'd ever had from school had meant, in a way) and summer meant long, long days spent on the road.
"Holy cow, Sam Winchester, what the hell've you been eating, kid?" Bobby sputtered when he opened the door at five in the morning to let them inside the house. They'd driven in shifts through the night, and Sam was exhausted. Still, he couldn't help but grin.
"I feel great, Bobby."
"You look like a beanstalk," Bobby snapped back. "Now to bed with you; the both of you. I'll talk to you when the sun's shining."
-'-
Sam and Bobby spent the weekend trading research, Dean and Bobby spent the weekend looking over some of the cars outside, Sam and Dean ran and laughed and went over their weapons collection. They ate too much, slept a lot and probably annoyed Bobby to no end, what with all the grumbling the man was doing, but he didn't try to get rid of them even once, which was what really mattered, when it came down to it.
"Your daddy was here not a week ago," Bobby said the day they were heading back home. It was five in the morning, and the sun wasn't even up yet.
Sam froze and Dean tensed. "What?" Dean demanded.
Bobby lifted his shoulders, looking only a little uncomfortable. "He was here. Stayed two days, then took off as if someone lit a fire under him. Wouldn't say what he was doing, only that he had a lead."
"He always has a fucking lead, Bobby!" Dean exclaimed, and it was the first time that Sam could remember that Dean sounded angry with Dad - angry and annoyed and disappointed. "We're his kids, and we haven't seen him in almost two years now; that's not normal! You don't treat your kids like this. We're family," he added, a bit more quietly but no less angry or hurt. "You don't walk out on family, Bobby; you don't ditch your kids."
"You're doing all right," Bobby said, eyes a little narrowed and his jaw tense. Sam couldn't decide if it was because he hated that it was true, or if it was because he agreed and disagreed.
"That's not the point and you know it," Dean snapped. "He goes off, just like always, and next thing I know, he's sending postcards, won't pick up his fucking phone and he's just gone?!"
-'-
"Truth is," Dean said later, when it was just them in the car and the road stretched out in front of them, long and dark and vast into the horizon. Dean's voice was raw and subdued. "If Dad came back? Now? I'd fucking punch him in the face."
"I'd go hide in our room," Sam murmured.
"For real? Since when're you too chicken to stand up for yourself, huh?"
Sam shook his head. "It's not that. I just. I don't want him to take one look at me and decide he hates what he sees. Who I am. I don't think I could take that. Or. Dean, what if he won't even recognize me?"
Dean frowned. "What d'you mean? You're still you, Sammy."
"I've been on T for almost two years now. I don't- I don't look like a girl at all anymore. All those things that're soft and squishy on girls? They're gone, Dean. I'm taller than you and my feet are size thirteen."
Dean glanced at him briefly, more focused on the road than he strictly had to be. "Yeah, okay," he said after a while. "I guess I can see that. But truth is, Sammy, no matter how much you change? You're still my little brother. I'd recognize you anywhere. It's the hair, I swear. Stands out like a beacon, honestly."
Sam's grin was reflexive and the fist he slammed into Dean's thigh amid a lot of cursing and yelling and laughter was mandatory.
-'-2000(DEC)-'-
In December, the heating broke and Sam made use of the money Dad had sent for the first time to repair it. Dean's flimsy pay as an Air Force cadet went untouched - mostly because there wasn't enough of it, even piled up, to cover the cost. It worked in terms of paying rent and buying food, but that was it, really.
Dean had two weeks off over Christmas, so Sam did all the Christmas preparations that year. He even baked a pie, which was no small feat, and then waited for Dean to get home so they could get a tree and decorate it.
-'-
"You got a girlfriend yet, Sammy?" Dean asked the second day after he'd come home. They were down at the center and they were playing one of those crappy board games that the common room was cluttered with. Sam had an appointment in about an hour, so Dean had suggested they go down early so he could see for himself what his little brother got up to in that place. Growing up, they hadn't really played games in that sense, because anything bigger than a deck of cards was impractical to take with them in the car. It wasn't the first time he'd played Monopoly, no, but it was the first time he'd played against someone who sucked just as much as he did at it.
Sam shook his head. "No. Don't you think I'd have told you if I was seeing someone? I'm crap at keeping secrets from you, man."
"Hey, I remember that girl you were seeing a couple of years back. Never told me about her."
Sam went red. "'Cause I was nervous, maybe? I mean. I didn't know what to say, or how you'd react. Or. I was just. I guess I wasn't ready to say it out loud, I dunno."
"You honestly thought I'd have minded?"
Sam shook his head. "No, not really. But you would've said I was a lesbian, I would've said I wasn't, and, well. I don't think I was ready to have that argument back then."
"Huh," Dean said, and rolled the dice. "Oh, hey. Your street, Sammy."
"I don't think you're supposed to tell me when you owe me money, Dean."
"Hmm. Right. Not your street, then." Dean pushed his car one step forward and ended up on a train station.
"That's. Dean, don't cheat."
"You're the one cheating, Sammy. No way you got all the orange ones fair and square."
"Yes, I did! You're just a sore loser."
"You're a sore loser," Dean muttered.
"Because you cheat," Sam spelled out, pushing Dean's piece back one step, then snagged some of Dean's money. "You can't build houses unless you own all the streets in the same set."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Dean drawled and plunked a hotel down on a train station.
"Dean."
"What? Lots of train stations have hotels!"
Sam narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he bit out.
The game got a little bit out of hand, after that.
Like:
"Hey! Where'd you get all that money?"
"Credit card scams."
Or:
"My, my, d'you end up at the triple Hilton?"
"Uh, no. I'm bulldozing the place 'cause you're crap at paying taxes."
-'-
"So," Dean said after Sam was done with his check-up.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, I know, or they'd have told me. No, I just meant a lot of people back there were giving me the stink eye."
Sam blinked. "Oh."
"What?"
"I dunno. I guess they think you're a homophobic ass 'cause I told them all you're in the Air Force or something."
Dean laughed and made a point of taking Sam to every check-up he feasibly could after that.
-'-
"I sent out applications," Sam said one evening. They were slouching on the couch, watching one of Dean's awful, bad taste horror flicks. "To colleges and stuff."
"Yeah?" Dean took a sip of his beer and didn't look away from the oh-so-riveting television. "What schools?"
Sam snorted. "All of them? Dude, my hand was cramping for a month."
"If your hand cramps, then you're not doing it right." Dean leered and flashed Sam a wink.
"Jerk," Sam muttered, ears a bit red, and snagged the candy away from Dean in protest. "No, but seriously, I think I applied to every school I could apply to. To be honest, I think the school counselor was a bit pissed at me toward the end."
"Geek on, Sammy."
Sam tossed a lollipop at Dean and hit him square in the forehead. "You have no grounds to complain about me being a geek anymore," Sam declared, only slightly smug. "I've seen your grades, man. You're such a nerd for a lot of weird-ass stuff. I mean, seriously? Math? That's what gets you hot?"
Dean scowled, but it didn't really hide how much he reddened or hid behind his frigging layers; Sam knew him well enough to know his ears had never been that particular shade of pink unless he was embarrassed. "I told you: I like building things," Dean complained, but he didn't really sound upset or annoyed. A bit embarrassed, maybe, but mostly sort of proud, because he was complicated like that.
"So, engineering?" Sam hazarded a guess.
Dean shrugged. "I dunno. But math? It's logical. There are patterns and rules. I, I guess I like that. It's like monsters: predictable. You know what's really weird, though?"
Sam scrunched up his face as he went through the list of Dean's grades that had arrived in the mail a few days ago. Most of the subjects were the same old standard ones Sam had seen on most 'come join the military' pamphlets that made their way into his hands, which all checked out with Dean's - with one notable exception. "I guess… I dunno, Latin doesn't really make sense; not in the Air Force."
"Exactly," Dean agreed. "I am awesome at Latin. It's all rules and grammar and endings, right?"
"Dean, you know exorcisms and banishment rituals in Latin."
"So? It's still Latin."
"Yeah, but." Sam sighed. "You know what? Never mind. You want hot chocolate? I got some of that chili stuff."
"We got whiskey?"
Sam nodded. "Think so, yeah. I know we have whipped cream."
-'-2001(MAR)-'-
Sam got wind of a hunt in early March that year. He waited for over a week before he told Dean about it, and then he laid down the facts his research had unearthed. There were four victims so far, all coinciding with the full moons of February and January. The vics all had the gear and clothing of hunters - wildlife, not supernatural - and not all of them had been found immediately.
"Dude. The monster's eating their hearts?"
Sam shrugged. "Looks that way. It's the only thing that links the victims. I, uh, I called Bobby, and he agrees with me."
Dean grinned. "It's a werewolf, right? They eat hearts, come out during full moons. It's in an isolated area in a forest. You don't get better hunting grounds than that."
"That's what he said," Sam agreed. "And what the research showed."
"So?"
"So?" Sam repeated, only he didn't sound nearly as excited as his brother. "Dean, we don't exactly carry silver bullets anymore. Dad took all of them, remember? Full moon's in two weeks, which gives us way too little time to prepare. I have to check in with Bobby next weekend and stock up on supplies." Sam was ranting and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. Werewolves were dangerous; way more than a ghost or a kappa. If Dad'd been around, he'd never have let either of them go out, alone, into a dark forest to take care of it. Dad would've probably called in some other hunter for backup, would've scouted the area for weeks in advance. Sam and Dean had two weeks - well, no, they didn't even have that, because school took up an insane amount of time, which meant they didn't have the luxury of checking out the forest beforehand.
"Is Bobby joining us?"
Sam ran a hand through his hair. "God, Dean, I fucking hope so. We can't corner something when there's just the two of us. Not in a forest that big. Shit, I mean, how fucking lucky are we that school's on break? Seriously? What if-"
"We're cool," Dean interrupted, then he put his hands on Sam's shoulders and forced his brother to meet his eyes. "When's the last time you slept the night through, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged out of Dean's hold, then collapsed on the couch. "I. I don't know," he mumbled.
"Nightmares?"
Sam's laugh was hysterical and brittle. "Dude, I have nightmares of my college applications vanishing in the mail. What the fuck is that about? I mean, usually? My nightmares at least included monsters or something, right? But now? It's all about some mistake making sure I never go to college."
Dean chuckled and sat down next to Sam. He rubbed a hand over his face, then leaned back against the couch until he was in a good and proper slouch. "You get in, then?"
"God!" Sam exclaimed, voice shrill. "I got in fucking everywhere. It's insane! I don't even know where I should go or which college to turn down. And shit, Redford is still on me about the Air Force, my friends at the center are concerned you're bulling me 'cause you're Air Force, my friends at school all think it's really weird I don't shower in the locker rooms, and the girls want me to take them out and think I'm weird when I don't. And the prom! God, the prom. I just. Dean. I just don't know what to do anymore, and then this hunt. I just."
"How about this," Dean started, looping an arm around Sam's widening shoulders and pulling him close. "How about this, Sammy: relax. Don't think about it, just go with the flow. If a girl catches your eye? Ask her out. You don't have to sleep with her if you don't want to; say you want to take it slow, or that you're religious or something. If you really like her? Tell her the truth and let her take it from there, okay? Ignore Redford; he's a dick and he's got nothing on you. You just be yourself, you hear me? And for god's sake, just ignore the dicks wanting to see you naked in the locker rooms."
Sam nodded and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Dean's shoulder.
"Good. Now. Bring out your bunch of letters from all the colleges begging you to pick them and we'll go over it together. The hunt can wait until tomorrow."
It probably couldn't, but Sam didn't feel like arguing, and besides: he'd rather look at his college acceptances with Dean anyway.
-'-
The pile on the coffee table was quite high. Sam ran a hand through his hair, then said, "I don't even know where to start."
"How 'bout you sort out the ones where you didn't get a scholarship offer," Dean suggested. "You know we can't afford to send you to college and no way anyone'd grant us a loan."
Sam sighed. "That's a no to Harvard, then?"
Dean paused. "Dude. You got accepted at Harvard?"
Sam shrugged, his shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Yale, Berkeley, New York. I think the only place that didn't want me was MIT, and that's only 'cause I really didn't want to go there."
"Why the hell did you apply if you don't wanna go?"
"Why not?" Sam muttered. He pulled the stack of envelopes closer, then started laying them all out, one by one; ten envelopes all in all, and nine of them were thick and bulging.
"You got accepted to all of them?"
"Except-"
"Except MIT, yeah, got it."
"The principal and the guidance counselor are over the moon," Sam murmured. "Apparently I'm the best student they've had in years, even if they don't quite know what to make of me. You know, 'cause I'm not a boy but I'm not a girl?" Sam griped, bitter and tired.
"Dude, you're a bitch," Dean muttered, but he was a bit distracted with the acceptance letter from Harvard to really pay his brother any mind. "I just. Sammy, you're awesome. How many can honestly say they got accepted to Harvard after living the kind of life we have? I just. Honestly. This is amazing."
"They'll give me a scholarship if I run track for them, but I can't really do that, 'cause, well. It's the same with, uh, Columbia University, really."
"Fucking sucks," Dean muttered, then shoved the envelope away and grabbed a new one. "Their loss if they're too fucking bigoted. Seriously, if they can't see how amazing you are then they don't deserve you. Next is. Uh. University of New York. The Big Apple, huh? Oh. Is that a lot of money?"
Sam shook his head. "Covers about a third of the tuition. Same with Yale and Berkeley, Cornell and Duke. Got a full ride to UT at Austin."
"Texas?" Dean echoed, sounding skeptical and, well.
Sam's smile was thin and tired. "Yeah, I know. But I got in, right? I don't have to run around naked in front of a bunch of rednecks, but yeah."
"Sam," Dean said, and his tone was the one where you could argue 'til you were blue in the face and it wouldn't make any difference. "You're not going to Texas."
"But-"
"No buts," Dean snapped, then plucked the UT envelope off the table and dropped it on the floor. "Well?"
"University of Toronto," Sam murmured and pushed the envelope over to Dean.
Dean read it through, then stayed quiet.
"Dean?"
"Shit, Sammy," Dean muttered and closed his eyes. "Full ride to fucking Canada?"
Sam shrugged, but he was smiling a little too, because it was kinda awesome that he'd been awarded a scholarship in Canada.
"I'm not letting you go to Canada," Dean muttered, this time sullen instead of standoffish and overbearingly protective.
Sam grinned, his hair hanging into his eyes. Maybe it was time for a haircut, but he hadn't made up his mind yet. It was kinda weird, because before he started taking T? He'd have hunted down Dean and his scissors long before it got to the point where his hair threatened to grow long. But now? In a body that was finally more male than female? He literally couldn't care less about the state of his hair.
"What you smiling about?" Dean demanded, his tone suspicious. "You didn't accept it, right?"
Sam shook his head. "Haven't decided yet. Haven't declined or accepted anything. S'just…"
"What?" Dean barked. "I get that, yeah, it's kinda awesome that you got in at fucking Toronto, but, man, it's way too far away, and it's in Canada," he complained. "I…" Dean trailed off and shook his head. "Never mind," he muttered.
Sam's grin grew a little, and he nudged Dean's shoulder with his own. "What? You have plans on another four years at the AF Academy? I know you love it, so don't pretend that you don't. You get paid to play with guns, man."
Dean shrugged. "If you wanna go to Canada, then we'll go to Canada. I could-"
"No," Sam said, just a bit of bite to his tone.
"No what?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're not giving up what you want just to stalk me to Canada."
Dean glared. "Look, I ain't letting you go off to some other country alone. No way in hell, Sammy."
"Dean-"
"No, Sammy."
"It's Sam, dammit," Sam snapped. "Look, would you let me run off to California? Or is that too far away as well?"
Dean narrowed his eyes. The table was empty; all the envelopes had been sorted through. "What's in California, Sam?"
Sam flushed a little. "Stanford?" he chanced, throwing a glance at Dean and rubbing at his thighs.
"Stanford," Dean echoed, voice hard.
"Uh, yeah. Full ride."
"Bring it on, bitch," Dean ordered, and Sam fished out the envelope from behind the couch. It was just as thick as the one from Toronto, and Dean sure took his sweet time reading through every single page in it. Sam was sure it was some kind of revenge for him making Dean think he was running off to Canada, so he kept his mouth shut and only fidgeted a little (okay, he fidgeted a lot).
"This what you want, Sammy?"
Dean's voice startled Sam enough that he flinched by reflex. He wet his lips before speaking up. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I mean, don't get me wrong; Toronto is amazing, but Stanford? I just. Yeah, I want to go."
"Why didn't you just start the conversation by saying: 'So, hey, Dean, guess what? I wanna go to Stanford'."
Sam shrugged. "Dunno," he muttered. "Maybe because I wanted you to- I dunno."
"Approve?" Dean drawled, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the letter. "Give my unbiased opinion on Toronto and UT?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. "I just. What if I choose wrong?"
"You won't."
"But what if-"
"No ifs or buts about it, Sam. What do you want to study?"
"I'm not sure," Sam hedged. "But either way, Toronto or Stanford is good for it. Better than UT, at any rate. I'm not stupid, Dean: I'm transsexual. Me going to Texas, sharing a room with a guy, and public bathrooms and stuff? I just don't see how that'd go over well. And Toronto doesn't care where you live. But Stanford? They have all sorts of different housings and stuff, and yeah, it's mandatory for the first year, but I figure all I have to do is find a place that suits me."
Dean looked at him for a long time, then he nodded and declared, "We'll figure something out, Sam. Promise."
-'-
Bobby came down two days before the full moon, his rust bucket of a car loaded to the brim with silver bullets and knives and fucking machetes. The dog was a surprise, though; Bobby hadn't had it the last time they drove up to visit. Sam took one look at it, then didn't really let the overgrown puppy out of sight unless he absolutely had to.
"Heard from Dad?" Dean wondered as he put together something for dinner the first night.
"Nope," Bobby drawled, examining Sam's growing collection of books (of course, Dean used them too, but it was Sam who'd hunted every single book down and brought it home). They didn't really have a bookshelf, but it wasn't like they used all the cabinets in the kitchen, either, and it worked (most of Sam's friends from school and the CCAD center thought it was a bit odd). "Called him, though. Left a message."
"Yeah, me too." Dean's sigh of frustration was almost audible.
Sam looked up from where he was busy giving Rumsfeld, the dog, a thorough belly rub on the floor. "He hasn't sent a postcard in a while," he said, voice subdued. "Last one was around Dean's birthday and that was months ago," he pointed out because, yeah, he was just as worried about Dad when the postcards took too long a time arriving as Dean was.
"Caleb says he ran into him last week, somewhere down 'round New Orleans," Bobby offered, but didn't add any details. "Must say, you boys've got an impressive collection of books going on here."
Sam's grin was toothy and wide. "Well, I gotta do something when Dean's busy shooting guns."
"Yeah, how's that going for you?"
Dean shrugged. "It's all right."
"He's going back next year," Sam put in. "His CO is really happy with him."
"That so?" Bobby drawled. "Good job, Dean. And you, too, Sam, on getting into Stanford; that takes something extra, all right. You boys sure know how to make a man proud."
And just like that, the tense line of Dean's shoulders was gone and Sam felt about a million times lighter. A part of him couldn't help but wonder about Dad, though. For as long as Sam could remember, it had been all about the hunt with him, right up 'til the point where he vanished to hunt for something he wouldn't let either Sam or Dean know about - or help with, for that matter. So these days they only hunted when they had time, which was almost never, and ended up delegating most of the hunts Sam stumbled upon over to Bobby so he could pass them along.
It wasn't what Dad had raised them to do, and sometimes Sam couldn't help but wonder what Dad would think about that if he knew.
-'-
The forest was damp and cold, the ground covered in a thin layer of frost that crunched underneath Sam's boots. Dean had strapped a knife around Sam's ankle, a machete across his shoulders, a gun into his waistband and shoved a hunting rifle into his hands that Sam was quick to hang over his shoulder by one of the leather straps Bobby had brought. Sam had the sneaking suspicion that Dean was taking out his overprotective instincts when it came to Sam by arming him to the teeth like some kind of Terminator or something.
They had walkie-talkies that Bobby'd brought, and right now they were all spread out in the forest. Within shouting distance, hopefully, or at least running distance.
Sam hadn't been on a hunt like this since he was fifteen and Dad'd been trying to take down a shapeshifter in Maine. Sam'd cracked a couple of ribs that time, and Dean hadn't let him out of his sight for months afterward.
Sam's radio crackled. "I've got a gutted deer," came Dean's static voice. "Animal attack, maybe."
"Our guy?" Bobby asked.
"Maybe. Shit. Thing's such a goddamned mess I can't make out what the fuck's missing and what's not."
"Stay sharp and keep looking. Sam, you with us?"
"Yeah," he confirmed, eyes and ears alert and tuned into his surroundings. "It's quiet here." Even as he said it, he realized that, yeah, it was the complete and utter truth. A cold, heavy feeling settled like lead in his stomach. "Actually, it's too quiet. No birds."
"Sammy."
Sam kept walking, but he lifted his arm and took a good look at the compass that Dean had insisted they all wear, then started heading in his brother's direction. "Two klicks east of me, right?"
"Heading your way," Dean confirmed.
"Ditto," Bobby barked. "I got birds here."
"I have-" Sam swallowed and tried to pick up his pace without being obvious about it. His back was tense, neck bunched up and stiff. There were footsteps in the forest behind him, light and fast, that kept his exact pace. "I think I'm being stalked," he whispered.
"Keep walking, Sammy. Don't run."
"I'm not stupid," Sam hissed. Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped. Everything in Sam screamed at him to run, to just get the hell out of there as fast as he could and get somewhere safe, dammit, right the fuck now. But he couldn't, because there was no faster way of getting a predator to hunt you down than to let on that you knew they were there, so he kept walking, trying to keep to somewhat level terrain even as he tried to remember what direction he should head in, where his brother and Bobby were, where he was. Behind him, the treads came closer and faster. Sam refused to give into the urge that whispered and tempted him to just turn around and look.
"I can see a lake," he said and walked toward the shore closest to him on the left.
Somewhere, too close to be comforting but not distinguishable enough to pinpoint the exact location, something began to growl behind him. His brother was shouting at him in his pocket, but Sam wasn't listening. As soon as he cleared the tree line, he started running. Behind him, the werewolf growled and crashed through the trees and the undergrowth. Not too far ahead, there was an old, wooden pier with a shabby dinghy tied to it, and Sam headed for it as fast his legs could possibly carry him. His lungs burned, his vision was a bit spotty, but he didn't dare to slow down because there was a fucking monster growling and snarling and panting at his heels.
The wooden planks rattled underneath his feet. It submerged enough under his weight that cold, icy lake water started lapping at the ankles of his boots as soon as he set foot on it. Sam came to a skidding stop and whirled around.
The beach was empty.
The moon was fat and full in the sky, and it lit up Sam's mad rush across the pebbled and sandy shore well enough that he could track his journey across it just fine. There were his footsteps and there was a second set right behind them that veered off at the last second and disappeared back into the forest.
"Dean!"
"Sammy, goddammit! Don't fucking ignore me!"
Sam panted, fingers clammy and frantic on the speak button of the walkie-talkie, hunting rifle hanging heavy down his back. "It's in the forest. It came after me, out to the lake, then went back into the forest when I ran out onto the pier. I can't- I can't see it anymore. Dean, it, it's gone."
"No, it ain't," Bobby interrupted. "Listen, this thing's a damned near perfect hunter. The second you clear that pier and step back down on ground? It's gonna come hurtling out from the forest. Be careful, Sam. We're almost there; no need for idiotic acts of heroism, you got me?"
"Won't it come after you?"
"I'm already at the lake. Got the water at my back. It comes rushing out at me, I blow its brains out."
"Dean?"
"I'm good. Keep an eye out."
The radio clicked as it went silent and Sam shoved it back down in his pocket. He took a deep breath, then broadened his stance, put the butt of the rifle tight against his shoulder and took careful aim. Just because he couldn't see it, didn't mean it wasn't there.
The first time Bobby put a hunting rifle in his hands he'd barely been strong enough to hold it up and aim for more than a couple of seconds at a time. These days, he was stronger and taller, body pumped with adrenaline and fear, but his arms still started shaking long before either Dean or Bobby made it to him.
All right, Sam, he told himself, lower the rifle, five seconds, then back up. Can't keep a steady aim if you can't even hold the rifle still. Sam took a deep breath, counted to three, then lowered his weapon.
Sam never looked away from the tree line, but he still didn't see when the werewolf rushed out from the shadows of the forest and came at him again, because it was just there, between one blink and the next, snarling and stalking toward him as if it'd never left. Mostly, Sam later realized, because he hadn't been looking at the right section of the forest. Also, he admitted to himself, possibly because he'd been watching out for a werewolf.
"Dean," he said, voice shaky, as he raised the radio to his mouth.
"Sammy?"
"There are two of them."
Sam took a deep breath, trying to keep both calm and steady. He wet his lips as he carefully, slowly, raised his rife and pressed it hard against his shoulder.
"Shit," Dean cursed, and then Sam stopped listening to his brother.
Every step Sam backed up, he cursed himself for being so fucking stupid as to run out on a stupid fucking pier for safety, because he'd run out of space to back up in a lot sooner than the werewolves advancing on him would, and they knew it. In his pocket, the radio was crackling and Sam could only just make out Dean's voice, but he couldn't afford to pull it out and respond because he needed both of his hands right now. Maybe he should've pulled his gun instead, because you didn't need to reload guns between every shot to get rid of the empty shell casing the way you did with hunting rifles (and, he admitted to himself, because the other reason was purely selfish: he only needed one hand to hold a gun, so if he'd pulled that instead, then he could've kept talking to Dean), but it was too late to do anything about that now, because the werewolves were close and Sam was rapidly running out of planks to back out on.
His boots hit the wooden post at the edge of the pier way too soon. The werewolves stood side by side, hissing and snarling, just where the wooden planks started and the sand of the shore ended. Sam glanced down, caught sight of a frayed rope coiled loosely around the pole, but then he snapped his eyes back up again, because the pier started creaking under the combined weight of the two werewolves slowly stalking toward him.
Sam crouched, took hold of the rope, aimed carefully, then squeezed the trigger, calm and slow, just like Dean'd taught him to.
The werewolf he hit went down with a high pitched whine, then went quiet. The other one? It howled with rage and fury and leaped at him just as Sam threw himself backward. The wind went out of him at the impact and his back felt like he'd broken it. With his foot, he kicked against the pier and sent the dilapidated dinghy he'd landed in careering out into the lake. With shaking hands he lifted the rifle, pulled the bolt backward, snapping the spent shell casing out of the chamber, then forward again to load the next bullet in the mag, before taking aim all over again.
He shot at the werewolf before it could get any ideas about joining him in the boat and watched as it went down in a growling, whimpering heap, then he just- just slumped down, stretched out uncomfortably across the wet, cold bottom of the dinghy. On the pier, the werewolf was whining, and in his pocket, Dean was shouting at him.
Sam fumbled out the walkie-talkie and held it against his lips. "Dean?" he murmured.
"Sammy! Fucking answer when I talk to you!" Dean growled out.
"Dean. Where are you?"
"At the lake. God, just fucking tell me you didn't fall in, you goddamned idiot. What kind of stupid fucking stunt was that, anyway? You can't just go throwing yourself off into a freezing lake, Sam!"
Sam's teeth chattered, and he was suddenly so, so cold. Maybe it was because the pier had sunk down into the water until he was soaking wet, mid-shin down. Maybe, maybe it was because the bottom of the dinghy was covered with a thin layer of water. He wasn't sure, but he was just so cold and tired, and, to be frank, kinda scared and terrified witless.
"I… there was a boat?"
There was a shot, sudden and shockingly loud, slicing through the silence of the night, and then the whimpering from the werewolf went silent.
"Sam," Bobby said. "Toss me the rope now, boy."
Sam blinked and looked at the radio, but it was quiet for now, so he raised his head and there was Bobby on the pier. He made an interesting picture as a knight in shining armor, with his trucker's cap, scruffy clothes and the rifle hanging across his back.
"You're taking in water," Bobby continued, crouched at the end of the pier. "Just toss me the rope and I'll pull you in. You'll be fine, just try not to move too much, all right?"
Sam nodded. He stuffed the radio away, grabbed the rope that he was still holding on to, then threw it toward Bobby and hoped that it was long enough to reach all the way, because this dinghy? Did not come equipped with oars.
"You got in a mighty fine shot, Sam," Bobby was saying as the dinghy started to move ever so slowly. "Saw you take the first one out before you went down. Damned foolish move, but brave. Just kinda wish the clouds hadn't come in to cover the moon up. Couldn't see where you went. Of course, there wasn't no splash, so at least I knew you weren't drowning. You missed the heart by an inch on the second one."
"Bobby?" Sam could barely raise his voice; he was suddenly just so tired.
"Yeah, kid?"
"I'm tired," he mumbled. "And wet and cold and- Is. Can you see Dean?"
"Not yet. You just keep your eyes open. How much water is there in the boat?"
Sam glanced around. "Oh. A lot," he declared, kind of surprised because he would've bet Dean a month of laundry duty there hadn't been this much water in the boat just a second ago. "If I get urinary tract infection, I'm gonna kill someone."
"You already took out the werewolves. Isn't that enough?"
"No," he whined. "That shit hurts!"
Sam could've sworn Bobby was laughing at him, but the next thing he said was, "All right, hand me that rifle, son." Sam handed it over, then didn't move while Bobby carefully spun the boat around. "I'm gonna grab you under your shoulders, slowly pull you out, okay? You hurt anywhere?"
"My back," Sam mumbled. "Hit it pretty hard."
"I think you're just lucky you didn't sink the boat with that stupid stunt, you idiot. That thing looks like a well-aimed sneeze could rip it to shreds."
Then Bobby was grabbing him, pulling him up and out until Sam was sort of standing, sort of leaning against Bobby on the sagging pier.
"Didn't want the monsters to get me."
"And they didn't."
Bobby pulled him off the pier, and then Dean was there, patting him down and hugging him close. "You're fine," Dean breathed into his hair, and just like that Sam finally relaxed.
-'-
Later that evening, Dean stripped Sam until he was sitting on his bed in just his underwear, then methodically went over every bruise and scrape on the back of his thighs and his back. He fingered Sam's skull through his hair for bumps, cursed at him for keeping it too long, then put him to bed and stood guard until Sam fell asleep.
-'-
"I thought you were still binding," Dean said the next morning and gestured around his chest.
Sam just shook his head. "No. Doc says it's a combination of the T redistributing my body fat and because I work out a lot."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "I thought T couldn't remove tits. Make them smaller, yeah, but not just-" Dean gestured over his chest again, eyebrows raised.
Sam shrugged. "I guess? I don't know, Dean; it happened, and I'm not complaining. Dude, I hated my tits."
Dean blinked, then grinned and shook his head. "Let me guess: you didn't fucking have any tits to get rid of."
"I so did!" Sam protested. "They were, like, there! Poking out!"
Dean snorted and shook his head, big fat smirk on his face. "Yeah, right. Maybe in, like, another dimension or something. You were flatter than a brick, Sam."
Sam narrowed his eyes, offended for all the wrong reasons (or maybe for all the right ones; he wasn't sure). "I was not!" he argued.
"Oh, yes, you were."
"I had. Bumps," he got out, and was just about ready to attack Dean, wipe that ugly smirk right off his face, when Bobby knocked sharply on the door.
"You girls done trading beauty tips in there? I wanna get to breakfast sometime today, if you ain't too busy painting each other's toenails." Bobby's voice was just loud enough to penetrate the closed door. He sounded lazily amused and just a little bit tired. Sam went bright red and scowled, but Dean just threw his head back and laughed.
-'-2001(APR)-'-
The third week in April, a package arrived, delivered straight to their doorstep. It was stuffed full of books and it didn't carry a note or the name of whoever'd sent it. Sam took a good look at the contents, then unpacked the books, one by one, only stopping long enough to thumb through some of the more interesting looking ones.
They were all pretty heavy, pretty dark, and pretty much exclusively into demons and the majority of them weren't even in English. He stashed them with the book Dad'd sent him the title of, all those months ago, and tried not to think too hard about why Dad was sending stuff here. When he mentioned it to Dean, his brother went quiet and stared at the additions in Sam's hunting library for a good hour under the pretense of cooking dinner. They spent the whole night between Friday and Saturday going through the books, but they didn't offer any clues about where Dad was. Just-
Just that he was hunting demons and that whatever he'd stumbled across was close, dangerous and pretty fucking dark.
-'-2001(MAY)-'-
Sam was eighteen when he handed in his petition for a legal name change with the court in Colorado Springs. It was a long process and, had he told Dean about it, he was sure his brother would've snapped at the judge present at his hearing. As it was, Sam felt more than a little intimidated when he stood in front of the rounded, graying judge with the cool, clear eyes. The questions were numerous, some of which Sam didn't feel comfortable answering at all. But he had his papers from the center, all of which were in order, he had the report card of his grades and he was a Winchester - and stubborn to boot.
Because, when it came down to it: "Do I really look like a Samantha to you, sir?" he asked, and stumbled only a little over the name. "It's not like I'm completely changing my name. Everyone already calls me Sam. My driver's license and my birth certificate say Samantha, but I'm not. I'm not Samantha, sir. I'm Sam."
"I see," the judge drawled. Sam wasn't sure if he did, because he was too focused on reading through the various reports in front of him, from Sam's school and his doctors.
The two hours he spent in the court room were two of the longest in his life. It was all worth it, though, because the court order meant he could request a new birth certificate that said Sam Winchester, nothing more, nothing less. After that came the driver's license, which he proudly brandished to Dean.
Dean grinned, ruffled his hair and said, "Way to go, Sammy."
-'-
Dean graduated in May and was granted a whopping forty-five days of leave without pay. It didn't matter much, though, because Sam was frugal with money, and besides, it wasn't like he had much of anything to spend it on. But yeah, other than the fact that Dean basically got paid to go to school and play with guns and shit - which was kind of awesome, really - there was the fact that they had medical insurance - legal medical insurance - for the first time in Sam's life.
Having Dean back also meant Sam didn't have to cook anymore, or drive anywhere, because Dean was doing his very best to make up for lost time with his 'baby'.
So no, Sam wasn't quite prepared for the stony silence that greeted him in the car when Dean picked him up after school one day - and how weird was it that Sam no longer drove around everywhere on his own, anyway? - because so far Dean'd been pretty mellow and relaxed.
"Dean?"
"Got another fucking crate," Dean muttered.
Sam blinked. "Oh," he murmured.
"Yeah. Books, scrolls, pictures. Hell, box was full of herbs and shit, too, and it was literally covered with sigils and holy water."
"Why is he sending all this?"
"Hell if I know."
"You talk to Bobby?"
"He ain't got a clue," Dean drawled, eyes on the road. Even though it only took about five minutes to drive from the school to their home, Dean still reached over and turned on the music, volume turned to max and blaring from the loudspeakers.
-'-
School let out the last week of May. Sam and Dean locked up the house, then drove up to see Bobby, making a short detour on the way there to stop by at Missouri's. Missouri looked troubled, but wouldn't say why, and Bobby was the same as always. His dog was a slightly bigger puppy, but still miles away from being full grown. One day, Sam thought, scratching the dog behind the ears, and promised himself that he'd get a dog as a reward if he survived college intact.
-'-2001(JUN)-'-
They took care of a haunting in Peetz, CO, on the way back home, and then Dean's phone rang.
They drove in stony silence after that, Dean tapping out angry rhythms on the wheel and Sam staring blindly out the window as the scenery rushed by.
"You hungry?" Dean grunted, somewhere between halfway home and there.
"No," Sam said, and didn't move.
"Bullshit," Dean declared and pulled off at the next intersection.
Despite the fact that they lived pretty close to Denver these days, they'd almost never taken the time to actually go there all that much (well, Sam had, on occasion, it was just that Dean'd never gone with him), but Dean still managed to find a somewhat acceptable café where they could eat in a relatively short amount time.
There was a rainbow flag in the window, just a small one, but the sight of it somehow lifted Sam's spirits enough that he could acknowledge and sate his hunger. Still.
"Dude, why do you know where a gay café is, anyway?"
Dean shrugged. He was stirring milk and sugar into his coffee - which, yeah, was pretty far from the norm when it came to Dean - and wouldn't look up when he spoke. "There's this girl at the Academy. She goes here with her sister all the time; won't stop jabbering on about it. Thought it was worth checking out, that's all."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You've got a girlfriend now, Dean?"
"No," Dean snapped. "I've got a friend who's a girl, dickhead."
"Oh." Sam looked back down at his plate where the last of his fries were slowly going cold. "Sorry."
Dean shook his head. "No, man, it's all right. I just…"
"Yeah," Sam agreed, then ate the last of his fries, movements systematic rather than laidback and relaxed.
He wasn't really hungry anymore.
-'-
There was a large, black pickup truck parked in their driveway when Sam and Dean made it back to their house. Sam looked at the car, then the house, and turned to Dean. "We'll have to cancel the lease," he said.
Dean blinked and frowned. "What?"
"I mean, when I go to Stanford, right? No sense in keeping this place." Sam's tone was mostly even, except for how it shook a little. "It'll be empty except for when you get out on weekends, and. Well. No point in keeping it, right? Save more money if we don't, s'all I'm saying."
Dean turned off the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Focus, Sammy. One matter at a time, all right?"
Sam's nod was maybe slightly too manic. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then took another and a third before he opened his eyes, squared his shoulders and stepped out of the car. By the time he reached the door, Dean's shoulder was brushing his and he took some comfort in that, no matter what happened after this point, Dean would always be by his side.
And that, he decided, was at the heart of it all anyway: Dean was the most important person in his life - always had been, always would be - no doubt about it. Regardless of what Dad said or how he reacted, Sam would always have Dean, and that was what made Sam's world right.
If he could have Dean, then everything was all right and nothing else mattered.
Not even Dad.
Masterpost
The first time Sam saw Dean after the prep school started was during Labor Day weekend, and Sam drove out to see Dean every day for a couple of hours. It'd been over a month since he'd last seen his brother, but Sam'd never been away from Dean for that long before, and he most decidedly did not enjoy it (Sam didn't really think Dean much liked it, either), but then Dean would look around, or start talking about the basic cadet training he'd just been put through, or the classes he'd been in, and there'd be this spark in his brother's eyes that he'd never seen before, not like this, and just like that Sam knew why Dean had to do this. Because if he didn't? Then maybe, probably, Dean would disappear one day, just like Dad, and Sam'd never see his brother again. Never know if he was alive or if he'd been killed by a monster or a ghost or a demon - or who knew what else? Never hear from him again and spend the rest of his life ignorant about the fate of his own brother. So yeah, Sam would deal with Dean being in the Air Force and he'd maybe learn to accept it, because it was what Dean needed to do, but he wasn't sure if he could ever like Dean being part of an institution that didn't recognize people like Sam, didn't accept them or offer them the same rights that everyone else was afforded.
It was probably the closest thing to an education in hunting you could find, though, and the fact that the government paid you for it just made it all the better. And Dean liked it, Sam reminded himself, looking at his brother smiling and talking about the absolute hell basic combat training had been, and how he'd totally aced it, and that was really all that mattered.
-'-
Sam started hanging out more and more at the Community Council for Adolescent Development downtown, using the rooms and facilities open down there to study, instead of doing it at home or at the library. It was never quiet at the center, which was good, because the quiet wasn't the same anymore when there wasn't anyone to snap at for being too loud. He kept busy a lot of the time, working out with the AFJROTC (the words "Air Force Junior Reserve Officers' Training Corps" was the sort of mouthful Sam rather omitted than voluntarily spelled out, but that's what it was and the training was vigorous to the point where it left him limp as a noodle, and he still went back for more, because he kinda loved it, too) program he'd talked Dean into letting him join so he could finally earn the credits he needed for PE, as well as being even more active in the martial arts club and the track team. The principal had pulled him from the official teams (he didn't think she'd ever get how someone could want to switch sexes, but he tried not to care) but still let him join the practices, so that was something, at least. His track coach was pissed at him because of it, and it only took about a month before Sam snapped, and then the coach didn't press him about it again.
At the CCAD center downtown they had a movie night one Friday, and Sam saw 'Boys Don't Cry' for the first (and only) time in his life and hoped to god that Dean never saw it.
Every weekend, Dean called Sam, or Sam called Dean, and they spent roughly an hour on the phone, pretending they weren't worlds apart. It wasn't really any surprise that Dean excelled in the physical training, or that he had a lot to make up for in the theoretical subjects, but he was doing the best he could. Sam just hoped that Dean's grades would be good enough that he'd be allowed to come home on the weekends, but he never pressured his bother about it.
Sam still went running as often as he could, and Dean's former boss, Major Banks, still joined him whenever they ran into each other. Sometimes they practiced hand-to-hand combat, and Sam still went to the local shooting range every Sunday when he managed to stumble out of bed in time.
The one good thing that came out of Sam living on his own was that he finally started to get the hang of grocery shopping and the planning thereof, as well as how to cook (which he did approximately once a week, on Sundays, and then only as big a batch as he could get away with so he could eat leftovers the rest of the week).
He still kept an eye out, still looked for hunts in the area, but without Dean around he had little to no chance of taking care of them, so he started relaying information to Bobby. At first he just called, but then he set up an email and started writing as well, detailing everything he could find on case after case, attached every single file he had on the subject and forwarded it all to Bobby. Sometimes Missouri called, and even though Sam was always glad to hear from people he knew but didn't see all that often, he never really felt like he completely understood every facet of his conversations with her.
-'-
"Winchester," Colonel Redford said one day after Sam had finished the one and a half mile run first. It wasn't the first time; in fact, he won most times except on the days when he wasn't feeling well. Out of all the officers involved with the AFJROTC training, Colonel Redford was the most insistent that Sam join the program all the way. The other instructors didn't prod him as much and mostly deferred to Colonel Redford instead, which left Sam with the less than desirable task of deflecting the man.
"Sir," Sam said, because talking to military officers was a bit like talking to Dad had been - before he ditched them - and it was so easy to fall back into the habit.
"I understand Principal Kinley is the one who won't let you commit fully to this program."
Sam paused. He was still red in the face, sweaty and short of breath after his run and really, this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with an Air Force officer, like, ever.
"She dismisses my appeals to have you fully enrolled in the program. You're a good student, Winchester. Diligent. You work hard. I think you'd make a good officer."
"My brother's in the prep school," Sam evaded by saying.
"You could go straight to the Air Force Academy," Colonel Redford talked over him.
"I think I want to go to Stanford, actually."
"You've got the brains," Colonel Redford continued. "Be frank with me, son. Why won't Kinley let you join my program? She's citing medical reasons, but you're better trained than all the other cadets here."
Sam rubbed his face and shrugged.
"You a homosexual, then?"
Sam froze. "What? No!" he protested. "Why'd you… No, sir, I am not. Dr. Kinley wouldn't care if I was gay, you know."
Colonel Redford looked at him with contemplating eyes. "Coach Trent doesn't like you."
Sam shrugged. "Coach Trent has issues," he said shortly. "I want to run; he lets me run."
"He used to talk about how he wanted you on the official track team but Kinley wouldn't let you," Colonel Redford said. "Now the man won't even say your name. You got something I should know, you need to tell me now before I find out on my own."
"Yes, sir," Sam agreed, but he didn't say anything. He talked to Dean about it the next time his brother called, and Dean let him rant and freak out for about five minutes, then took over for another ten. All in all, Sam felt a lot better about it the next time he saw Colonel Redford.
-'-2000(OCT)-'-
Sam slowly got the hang of living by himself; it wasn't easy or hard, it was just different and new. It didn't mean he liked it, or that he didn't miss his brother, because he did; it was just that he didn't feel like he was floundering in the dark anymore. Or, well, so much, anyway.
Then one day toward the end of October, Dean rang. It was a Friday, around five in the afternoon, and Sam was being lazy, just hanging out at home and watching some weird documentary on killer whales that was on. Sam frowned, because Dean only ever called him on the weekends. They sent texts on weekdays and called on weekends; those were the rules.
"Dean?" Sam answered on the second ring. "Everything all right?"
"Fucking awesome," Dean drawled. "Now come pick me up, bitch. I have a craving the size of Texas for a good fucking cheeseburger."
Sam was in the car before he was aware that he'd even moved and, next thing he knew, he was at the parking lot of the Air Force Academy.
Dean was there, wearing his leather jacket, worn jeans, scuffed boots and olive green Henley, and Sam was out of the car before it'd even slowed down fully; he just pulled the handbrake and jumped out and crushed Dean in a giant bear hug.
"Dean!"
Dean laughed, patted Sam on the back and slithered out of the hug. "Whoa, Sammy, when'd you turn into a fucking Sasquatch?"
"Shut up, Dean!" Sam laughed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt and his dimples just about eclipsed his face. "I fucking missed you, man."
Dean's expression sobered, but his eyes shone. "Yeah, me too. I have until 'round five on Sunday, so what say we make the most of it, huh?"
-'-2000(NOV)-'-
The drove up to Bobby's over Thanksgiving, mostly because they didn't really have anything else to do, and people seemed to find it offensive that they tended to skip holidays because they didn't know what to make of them. They celebrated birthdays, sort of, in that they acknowledged them, and last year they'd given Christmas a shot for almost the first time since Sam was a kid. Halloween meant hunts galore, Easter meant moving states and switching schools (which every single holiday Sam'd ever had from school had meant, in a way) and summer meant long, long days spent on the road.
"Holy cow, Sam Winchester, what the hell've you been eating, kid?" Bobby sputtered when he opened the door at five in the morning to let them inside the house. They'd driven in shifts through the night, and Sam was exhausted. Still, he couldn't help but grin.
"I feel great, Bobby."
"You look like a beanstalk," Bobby snapped back. "Now to bed with you; the both of you. I'll talk to you when the sun's shining."
-'-
Sam and Bobby spent the weekend trading research, Dean and Bobby spent the weekend looking over some of the cars outside, Sam and Dean ran and laughed and went over their weapons collection. They ate too much, slept a lot and probably annoyed Bobby to no end, what with all the grumbling the man was doing, but he didn't try to get rid of them even once, which was what really mattered, when it came down to it.
"Your daddy was here not a week ago," Bobby said the day they were heading back home. It was five in the morning, and the sun wasn't even up yet.
Sam froze and Dean tensed. "What?" Dean demanded.
Bobby lifted his shoulders, looking only a little uncomfortable. "He was here. Stayed two days, then took off as if someone lit a fire under him. Wouldn't say what he was doing, only that he had a lead."
"He always has a fucking lead, Bobby!" Dean exclaimed, and it was the first time that Sam could remember that Dean sounded angry with Dad - angry and annoyed and disappointed. "We're his kids, and we haven't seen him in almost two years now; that's not normal! You don't treat your kids like this. We're family," he added, a bit more quietly but no less angry or hurt. "You don't walk out on family, Bobby; you don't ditch your kids."
"You're doing all right," Bobby said, eyes a little narrowed and his jaw tense. Sam couldn't decide if it was because he hated that it was true, or if it was because he agreed and disagreed.
"That's not the point and you know it," Dean snapped. "He goes off, just like always, and next thing I know, he's sending postcards, won't pick up his fucking phone and he's just gone?!"
-'-
"Truth is," Dean said later, when it was just them in the car and the road stretched out in front of them, long and dark and vast into the horizon. Dean's voice was raw and subdued. "If Dad came back? Now? I'd fucking punch him in the face."
"I'd go hide in our room," Sam murmured.
"For real? Since when're you too chicken to stand up for yourself, huh?"
Sam shook his head. "It's not that. I just. I don't want him to take one look at me and decide he hates what he sees. Who I am. I don't think I could take that. Or. Dean, what if he won't even recognize me?"
Dean frowned. "What d'you mean? You're still you, Sammy."
"I've been on T for almost two years now. I don't- I don't look like a girl at all anymore. All those things that're soft and squishy on girls? They're gone, Dean. I'm taller than you and my feet are size thirteen."
Dean glanced at him briefly, more focused on the road than he strictly had to be. "Yeah, okay," he said after a while. "I guess I can see that. But truth is, Sammy, no matter how much you change? You're still my little brother. I'd recognize you anywhere. It's the hair, I swear. Stands out like a beacon, honestly."
Sam's grin was reflexive and the fist he slammed into Dean's thigh amid a lot of cursing and yelling and laughter was mandatory.
-'-2000(DEC)-'-
In December, the heating broke and Sam made use of the money Dad had sent for the first time to repair it. Dean's flimsy pay as an Air Force cadet went untouched - mostly because there wasn't enough of it, even piled up, to cover the cost. It worked in terms of paying rent and buying food, but that was it, really.
Dean had two weeks off over Christmas, so Sam did all the Christmas preparations that year. He even baked a pie, which was no small feat, and then waited for Dean to get home so they could get a tree and decorate it.
-'-
"You got a girlfriend yet, Sammy?" Dean asked the second day after he'd come home. They were down at the center and they were playing one of those crappy board games that the common room was cluttered with. Sam had an appointment in about an hour, so Dean had suggested they go down early so he could see for himself what his little brother got up to in that place. Growing up, they hadn't really played games in that sense, because anything bigger than a deck of cards was impractical to take with them in the car. It wasn't the first time he'd played Monopoly, no, but it was the first time he'd played against someone who sucked just as much as he did at it.
Sam shook his head. "No. Don't you think I'd have told you if I was seeing someone? I'm crap at keeping secrets from you, man."
"Hey, I remember that girl you were seeing a couple of years back. Never told me about her."
Sam went red. "'Cause I was nervous, maybe? I mean. I didn't know what to say, or how you'd react. Or. I was just. I guess I wasn't ready to say it out loud, I dunno."
"You honestly thought I'd have minded?"
Sam shook his head. "No, not really. But you would've said I was a lesbian, I would've said I wasn't, and, well. I don't think I was ready to have that argument back then."
"Huh," Dean said, and rolled the dice. "Oh, hey. Your street, Sammy."
"I don't think you're supposed to tell me when you owe me money, Dean."
"Hmm. Right. Not your street, then." Dean pushed his car one step forward and ended up on a train station.
"That's. Dean, don't cheat."
"You're the one cheating, Sammy. No way you got all the orange ones fair and square."
"Yes, I did! You're just a sore loser."
"You're a sore loser," Dean muttered.
"Because you cheat," Sam spelled out, pushing Dean's piece back one step, then snagged some of Dean's money. "You can't build houses unless you own all the streets in the same set."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Dean drawled and plunked a hotel down on a train station.
"Dean."
"What? Lots of train stations have hotels!"
Sam narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he bit out.
The game got a little bit out of hand, after that.
Like:
"Hey! Where'd you get all that money?"
"Credit card scams."
Or:
"My, my, d'you end up at the triple Hilton?"
"Uh, no. I'm bulldozing the place 'cause you're crap at paying taxes."
-'-
"So," Dean said after Sam was done with his check-up.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, I know, or they'd have told me. No, I just meant a lot of people back there were giving me the stink eye."
Sam blinked. "Oh."
"What?"
"I dunno. I guess they think you're a homophobic ass 'cause I told them all you're in the Air Force or something."
Dean laughed and made a point of taking Sam to every check-up he feasibly could after that.
-'-
"I sent out applications," Sam said one evening. They were slouching on the couch, watching one of Dean's awful, bad taste horror flicks. "To colleges and stuff."
"Yeah?" Dean took a sip of his beer and didn't look away from the oh-so-riveting television. "What schools?"
Sam snorted. "All of them? Dude, my hand was cramping for a month."
"If your hand cramps, then you're not doing it right." Dean leered and flashed Sam a wink.
"Jerk," Sam muttered, ears a bit red, and snagged the candy away from Dean in protest. "No, but seriously, I think I applied to every school I could apply to. To be honest, I think the school counselor was a bit pissed at me toward the end."
"Geek on, Sammy."
Sam tossed a lollipop at Dean and hit him square in the forehead. "You have no grounds to complain about me being a geek anymore," Sam declared, only slightly smug. "I've seen your grades, man. You're such a nerd for a lot of weird-ass stuff. I mean, seriously? Math? That's what gets you hot?"
Dean scowled, but it didn't really hide how much he reddened or hid behind his frigging layers; Sam knew him well enough to know his ears had never been that particular shade of pink unless he was embarrassed. "I told you: I like building things," Dean complained, but he didn't really sound upset or annoyed. A bit embarrassed, maybe, but mostly sort of proud, because he was complicated like that.
"So, engineering?" Sam hazarded a guess.
Dean shrugged. "I dunno. But math? It's logical. There are patterns and rules. I, I guess I like that. It's like monsters: predictable. You know what's really weird, though?"
Sam scrunched up his face as he went through the list of Dean's grades that had arrived in the mail a few days ago. Most of the subjects were the same old standard ones Sam had seen on most 'come join the military' pamphlets that made their way into his hands, which all checked out with Dean's - with one notable exception. "I guess… I dunno, Latin doesn't really make sense; not in the Air Force."
"Exactly," Dean agreed. "I am awesome at Latin. It's all rules and grammar and endings, right?"
"Dean, you know exorcisms and banishment rituals in Latin."
"So? It's still Latin."
"Yeah, but." Sam sighed. "You know what? Never mind. You want hot chocolate? I got some of that chili stuff."
"We got whiskey?"
Sam nodded. "Think so, yeah. I know we have whipped cream."
-'-2001(MAR)-'-
Sam got wind of a hunt in early March that year. He waited for over a week before he told Dean about it, and then he laid down the facts his research had unearthed. There were four victims so far, all coinciding with the full moons of February and January. The vics all had the gear and clothing of hunters - wildlife, not supernatural - and not all of them had been found immediately.
"Dude. The monster's eating their hearts?"
Sam shrugged. "Looks that way. It's the only thing that links the victims. I, uh, I called Bobby, and he agrees with me."
Dean grinned. "It's a werewolf, right? They eat hearts, come out during full moons. It's in an isolated area in a forest. You don't get better hunting grounds than that."
"That's what he said," Sam agreed. "And what the research showed."
"So?"
"So?" Sam repeated, only he didn't sound nearly as excited as his brother. "Dean, we don't exactly carry silver bullets anymore. Dad took all of them, remember? Full moon's in two weeks, which gives us way too little time to prepare. I have to check in with Bobby next weekend and stock up on supplies." Sam was ranting and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. Werewolves were dangerous; way more than a ghost or a kappa. If Dad'd been around, he'd never have let either of them go out, alone, into a dark forest to take care of it. Dad would've probably called in some other hunter for backup, would've scouted the area for weeks in advance. Sam and Dean had two weeks - well, no, they didn't even have that, because school took up an insane amount of time, which meant they didn't have the luxury of checking out the forest beforehand.
"Is Bobby joining us?"
Sam ran a hand through his hair. "God, Dean, I fucking hope so. We can't corner something when there's just the two of us. Not in a forest that big. Shit, I mean, how fucking lucky are we that school's on break? Seriously? What if-"
"We're cool," Dean interrupted, then he put his hands on Sam's shoulders and forced his brother to meet his eyes. "When's the last time you slept the night through, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged out of Dean's hold, then collapsed on the couch. "I. I don't know," he mumbled.
"Nightmares?"
Sam's laugh was hysterical and brittle. "Dude, I have nightmares of my college applications vanishing in the mail. What the fuck is that about? I mean, usually? My nightmares at least included monsters or something, right? But now? It's all about some mistake making sure I never go to college."
Dean chuckled and sat down next to Sam. He rubbed a hand over his face, then leaned back against the couch until he was in a good and proper slouch. "You get in, then?"
"God!" Sam exclaimed, voice shrill. "I got in fucking everywhere. It's insane! I don't even know where I should go or which college to turn down. And shit, Redford is still on me about the Air Force, my friends at the center are concerned you're bulling me 'cause you're Air Force, my friends at school all think it's really weird I don't shower in the locker rooms, and the girls want me to take them out and think I'm weird when I don't. And the prom! God, the prom. I just. Dean. I just don't know what to do anymore, and then this hunt. I just."
"How about this," Dean started, looping an arm around Sam's widening shoulders and pulling him close. "How about this, Sammy: relax. Don't think about it, just go with the flow. If a girl catches your eye? Ask her out. You don't have to sleep with her if you don't want to; say you want to take it slow, or that you're religious or something. If you really like her? Tell her the truth and let her take it from there, okay? Ignore Redford; he's a dick and he's got nothing on you. You just be yourself, you hear me? And for god's sake, just ignore the dicks wanting to see you naked in the locker rooms."
Sam nodded and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Dean's shoulder.
"Good. Now. Bring out your bunch of letters from all the colleges begging you to pick them and we'll go over it together. The hunt can wait until tomorrow."
It probably couldn't, but Sam didn't feel like arguing, and besides: he'd rather look at his college acceptances with Dean anyway.
-'-
The pile on the coffee table was quite high. Sam ran a hand through his hair, then said, "I don't even know where to start."
"How 'bout you sort out the ones where you didn't get a scholarship offer," Dean suggested. "You know we can't afford to send you to college and no way anyone'd grant us a loan."
Sam sighed. "That's a no to Harvard, then?"
Dean paused. "Dude. You got accepted at Harvard?"
Sam shrugged, his shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Yale, Berkeley, New York. I think the only place that didn't want me was MIT, and that's only 'cause I really didn't want to go there."
"Why the hell did you apply if you don't wanna go?"
"Why not?" Sam muttered. He pulled the stack of envelopes closer, then started laying them all out, one by one; ten envelopes all in all, and nine of them were thick and bulging.
"You got accepted to all of them?"
"Except-"
"Except MIT, yeah, got it."
"The principal and the guidance counselor are over the moon," Sam murmured. "Apparently I'm the best student they've had in years, even if they don't quite know what to make of me. You know, 'cause I'm not a boy but I'm not a girl?" Sam griped, bitter and tired.
"Dude, you're a bitch," Dean muttered, but he was a bit distracted with the acceptance letter from Harvard to really pay his brother any mind. "I just. Sammy, you're awesome. How many can honestly say they got accepted to Harvard after living the kind of life we have? I just. Honestly. This is amazing."
"They'll give me a scholarship if I run track for them, but I can't really do that, 'cause, well. It's the same with, uh, Columbia University, really."
"Fucking sucks," Dean muttered, then shoved the envelope away and grabbed a new one. "Their loss if they're too fucking bigoted. Seriously, if they can't see how amazing you are then they don't deserve you. Next is. Uh. University of New York. The Big Apple, huh? Oh. Is that a lot of money?"
Sam shook his head. "Covers about a third of the tuition. Same with Yale and Berkeley, Cornell and Duke. Got a full ride to UT at Austin."
"Texas?" Dean echoed, sounding skeptical and, well.
Sam's smile was thin and tired. "Yeah, I know. But I got in, right? I don't have to run around naked in front of a bunch of rednecks, but yeah."
"Sam," Dean said, and his tone was the one where you could argue 'til you were blue in the face and it wouldn't make any difference. "You're not going to Texas."
"But-"
"No buts," Dean snapped, then plucked the UT envelope off the table and dropped it on the floor. "Well?"
"University of Toronto," Sam murmured and pushed the envelope over to Dean.
Dean read it through, then stayed quiet.
"Dean?"
"Shit, Sammy," Dean muttered and closed his eyes. "Full ride to fucking Canada?"
Sam shrugged, but he was smiling a little too, because it was kinda awesome that he'd been awarded a scholarship in Canada.
"I'm not letting you go to Canada," Dean muttered, this time sullen instead of standoffish and overbearingly protective.
Sam grinned, his hair hanging into his eyes. Maybe it was time for a haircut, but he hadn't made up his mind yet. It was kinda weird, because before he started taking T? He'd have hunted down Dean and his scissors long before it got to the point where his hair threatened to grow long. But now? In a body that was finally more male than female? He literally couldn't care less about the state of his hair.
"What you smiling about?" Dean demanded, his tone suspicious. "You didn't accept it, right?"
Sam shook his head. "Haven't decided yet. Haven't declined or accepted anything. S'just…"
"What?" Dean barked. "I get that, yeah, it's kinda awesome that you got in at fucking Toronto, but, man, it's way too far away, and it's in Canada," he complained. "I…" Dean trailed off and shook his head. "Never mind," he muttered.
Sam's grin grew a little, and he nudged Dean's shoulder with his own. "What? You have plans on another four years at the AF Academy? I know you love it, so don't pretend that you don't. You get paid to play with guns, man."
Dean shrugged. "If you wanna go to Canada, then we'll go to Canada. I could-"
"No," Sam said, just a bit of bite to his tone.
"No what?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're not giving up what you want just to stalk me to Canada."
Dean glared. "Look, I ain't letting you go off to some other country alone. No way in hell, Sammy."
"Dean-"
"No, Sammy."
"It's Sam, dammit," Sam snapped. "Look, would you let me run off to California? Or is that too far away as well?"
Dean narrowed his eyes. The table was empty; all the envelopes had been sorted through. "What's in California, Sam?"
Sam flushed a little. "Stanford?" he chanced, throwing a glance at Dean and rubbing at his thighs.
"Stanford," Dean echoed, voice hard.
"Uh, yeah. Full ride."
"Bring it on, bitch," Dean ordered, and Sam fished out the envelope from behind the couch. It was just as thick as the one from Toronto, and Dean sure took his sweet time reading through every single page in it. Sam was sure it was some kind of revenge for him making Dean think he was running off to Canada, so he kept his mouth shut and only fidgeted a little (okay, he fidgeted a lot).
"This what you want, Sammy?"
Dean's voice startled Sam enough that he flinched by reflex. He wet his lips before speaking up. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I mean, don't get me wrong; Toronto is amazing, but Stanford? I just. Yeah, I want to go."
"Why didn't you just start the conversation by saying: 'So, hey, Dean, guess what? I wanna go to Stanford'."
Sam shrugged. "Dunno," he muttered. "Maybe because I wanted you to- I dunno."
"Approve?" Dean drawled, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the letter. "Give my unbiased opinion on Toronto and UT?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. "I just. What if I choose wrong?"
"You won't."
"But what if-"
"No ifs or buts about it, Sam. What do you want to study?"
"I'm not sure," Sam hedged. "But either way, Toronto or Stanford is good for it. Better than UT, at any rate. I'm not stupid, Dean: I'm transsexual. Me going to Texas, sharing a room with a guy, and public bathrooms and stuff? I just don't see how that'd go over well. And Toronto doesn't care where you live. But Stanford? They have all sorts of different housings and stuff, and yeah, it's mandatory for the first year, but I figure all I have to do is find a place that suits me."
Dean looked at him for a long time, then he nodded and declared, "We'll figure something out, Sam. Promise."
-'-
Bobby came down two days before the full moon, his rust bucket of a car loaded to the brim with silver bullets and knives and fucking machetes. The dog was a surprise, though; Bobby hadn't had it the last time they drove up to visit. Sam took one look at it, then didn't really let the overgrown puppy out of sight unless he absolutely had to.
"Heard from Dad?" Dean wondered as he put together something for dinner the first night.
"Nope," Bobby drawled, examining Sam's growing collection of books (of course, Dean used them too, but it was Sam who'd hunted every single book down and brought it home). They didn't really have a bookshelf, but it wasn't like they used all the cabinets in the kitchen, either, and it worked (most of Sam's friends from school and the CCAD center thought it was a bit odd). "Called him, though. Left a message."
"Yeah, me too." Dean's sigh of frustration was almost audible.
Sam looked up from where he was busy giving Rumsfeld, the dog, a thorough belly rub on the floor. "He hasn't sent a postcard in a while," he said, voice subdued. "Last one was around Dean's birthday and that was months ago," he pointed out because, yeah, he was just as worried about Dad when the postcards took too long a time arriving as Dean was.
"Caleb says he ran into him last week, somewhere down 'round New Orleans," Bobby offered, but didn't add any details. "Must say, you boys've got an impressive collection of books going on here."
Sam's grin was toothy and wide. "Well, I gotta do something when Dean's busy shooting guns."
"Yeah, how's that going for you?"
Dean shrugged. "It's all right."
"He's going back next year," Sam put in. "His CO is really happy with him."
"That so?" Bobby drawled. "Good job, Dean. And you, too, Sam, on getting into Stanford; that takes something extra, all right. You boys sure know how to make a man proud."
And just like that, the tense line of Dean's shoulders was gone and Sam felt about a million times lighter. A part of him couldn't help but wonder about Dad, though. For as long as Sam could remember, it had been all about the hunt with him, right up 'til the point where he vanished to hunt for something he wouldn't let either Sam or Dean know about - or help with, for that matter. So these days they only hunted when they had time, which was almost never, and ended up delegating most of the hunts Sam stumbled upon over to Bobby so he could pass them along.
It wasn't what Dad had raised them to do, and sometimes Sam couldn't help but wonder what Dad would think about that if he knew.
-'-
The forest was damp and cold, the ground covered in a thin layer of frost that crunched underneath Sam's boots. Dean had strapped a knife around Sam's ankle, a machete across his shoulders, a gun into his waistband and shoved a hunting rifle into his hands that Sam was quick to hang over his shoulder by one of the leather straps Bobby had brought. Sam had the sneaking suspicion that Dean was taking out his overprotective instincts when it came to Sam by arming him to the teeth like some kind of Terminator or something.
They had walkie-talkies that Bobby'd brought, and right now they were all spread out in the forest. Within shouting distance, hopefully, or at least running distance.
Sam hadn't been on a hunt like this since he was fifteen and Dad'd been trying to take down a shapeshifter in Maine. Sam'd cracked a couple of ribs that time, and Dean hadn't let him out of his sight for months afterward.
Sam's radio crackled. "I've got a gutted deer," came Dean's static voice. "Animal attack, maybe."
"Our guy?" Bobby asked.
"Maybe. Shit. Thing's such a goddamned mess I can't make out what the fuck's missing and what's not."
"Stay sharp and keep looking. Sam, you with us?"
"Yeah," he confirmed, eyes and ears alert and tuned into his surroundings. "It's quiet here." Even as he said it, he realized that, yeah, it was the complete and utter truth. A cold, heavy feeling settled like lead in his stomach. "Actually, it's too quiet. No birds."
"Sammy."
Sam kept walking, but he lifted his arm and took a good look at the compass that Dean had insisted they all wear, then started heading in his brother's direction. "Two klicks east of me, right?"
"Heading your way," Dean confirmed.
"Ditto," Bobby barked. "I got birds here."
"I have-" Sam swallowed and tried to pick up his pace without being obvious about it. His back was tense, neck bunched up and stiff. There were footsteps in the forest behind him, light and fast, that kept his exact pace. "I think I'm being stalked," he whispered.
"Keep walking, Sammy. Don't run."
"I'm not stupid," Sam hissed. Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped. Everything in Sam screamed at him to run, to just get the hell out of there as fast as he could and get somewhere safe, dammit, right the fuck now. But he couldn't, because there was no faster way of getting a predator to hunt you down than to let on that you knew they were there, so he kept walking, trying to keep to somewhat level terrain even as he tried to remember what direction he should head in, where his brother and Bobby were, where he was. Behind him, the treads came closer and faster. Sam refused to give into the urge that whispered and tempted him to just turn around and look.
"I can see a lake," he said and walked toward the shore closest to him on the left.
Somewhere, too close to be comforting but not distinguishable enough to pinpoint the exact location, something began to growl behind him. His brother was shouting at him in his pocket, but Sam wasn't listening. As soon as he cleared the tree line, he started running. Behind him, the werewolf growled and crashed through the trees and the undergrowth. Not too far ahead, there was an old, wooden pier with a shabby dinghy tied to it, and Sam headed for it as fast his legs could possibly carry him. His lungs burned, his vision was a bit spotty, but he didn't dare to slow down because there was a fucking monster growling and snarling and panting at his heels.
The wooden planks rattled underneath his feet. It submerged enough under his weight that cold, icy lake water started lapping at the ankles of his boots as soon as he set foot on it. Sam came to a skidding stop and whirled around.
The beach was empty.
The moon was fat and full in the sky, and it lit up Sam's mad rush across the pebbled and sandy shore well enough that he could track his journey across it just fine. There were his footsteps and there was a second set right behind them that veered off at the last second and disappeared back into the forest.
"Dean!"
"Sammy, goddammit! Don't fucking ignore me!"
Sam panted, fingers clammy and frantic on the speak button of the walkie-talkie, hunting rifle hanging heavy down his back. "It's in the forest. It came after me, out to the lake, then went back into the forest when I ran out onto the pier. I can't- I can't see it anymore. Dean, it, it's gone."
"No, it ain't," Bobby interrupted. "Listen, this thing's a damned near perfect hunter. The second you clear that pier and step back down on ground? It's gonna come hurtling out from the forest. Be careful, Sam. We're almost there; no need for idiotic acts of heroism, you got me?"
"Won't it come after you?"
"I'm already at the lake. Got the water at my back. It comes rushing out at me, I blow its brains out."
"Dean?"
"I'm good. Keep an eye out."
The radio clicked as it went silent and Sam shoved it back down in his pocket. He took a deep breath, then broadened his stance, put the butt of the rifle tight against his shoulder and took careful aim. Just because he couldn't see it, didn't mean it wasn't there.
The first time Bobby put a hunting rifle in his hands he'd barely been strong enough to hold it up and aim for more than a couple of seconds at a time. These days, he was stronger and taller, body pumped with adrenaline and fear, but his arms still started shaking long before either Dean or Bobby made it to him.
All right, Sam, he told himself, lower the rifle, five seconds, then back up. Can't keep a steady aim if you can't even hold the rifle still. Sam took a deep breath, counted to three, then lowered his weapon.
Sam never looked away from the tree line, but he still didn't see when the werewolf rushed out from the shadows of the forest and came at him again, because it was just there, between one blink and the next, snarling and stalking toward him as if it'd never left. Mostly, Sam later realized, because he hadn't been looking at the right section of the forest. Also, he admitted to himself, possibly because he'd been watching out for a werewolf.
"Dean," he said, voice shaky, as he raised the radio to his mouth.
"Sammy?"
"There are two of them."
Sam took a deep breath, trying to keep both calm and steady. He wet his lips as he carefully, slowly, raised his rife and pressed it hard against his shoulder.
"Shit," Dean cursed, and then Sam stopped listening to his brother.
Every step Sam backed up, he cursed himself for being so fucking stupid as to run out on a stupid fucking pier for safety, because he'd run out of space to back up in a lot sooner than the werewolves advancing on him would, and they knew it. In his pocket, the radio was crackling and Sam could only just make out Dean's voice, but he couldn't afford to pull it out and respond because he needed both of his hands right now. Maybe he should've pulled his gun instead, because you didn't need to reload guns between every shot to get rid of the empty shell casing the way you did with hunting rifles (and, he admitted to himself, because the other reason was purely selfish: he only needed one hand to hold a gun, so if he'd pulled that instead, then he could've kept talking to Dean), but it was too late to do anything about that now, because the werewolves were close and Sam was rapidly running out of planks to back out on.
His boots hit the wooden post at the edge of the pier way too soon. The werewolves stood side by side, hissing and snarling, just where the wooden planks started and the sand of the shore ended. Sam glanced down, caught sight of a frayed rope coiled loosely around the pole, but then he snapped his eyes back up again, because the pier started creaking under the combined weight of the two werewolves slowly stalking toward him.
Sam crouched, took hold of the rope, aimed carefully, then squeezed the trigger, calm and slow, just like Dean'd taught him to.
The werewolf he hit went down with a high pitched whine, then went quiet. The other one? It howled with rage and fury and leaped at him just as Sam threw himself backward. The wind went out of him at the impact and his back felt like he'd broken it. With his foot, he kicked against the pier and sent the dilapidated dinghy he'd landed in careering out into the lake. With shaking hands he lifted the rifle, pulled the bolt backward, snapping the spent shell casing out of the chamber, then forward again to load the next bullet in the mag, before taking aim all over again.
He shot at the werewolf before it could get any ideas about joining him in the boat and watched as it went down in a growling, whimpering heap, then he just- just slumped down, stretched out uncomfortably across the wet, cold bottom of the dinghy. On the pier, the werewolf was whining, and in his pocket, Dean was shouting at him.
Sam fumbled out the walkie-talkie and held it against his lips. "Dean?" he murmured.
"Sammy! Fucking answer when I talk to you!" Dean growled out.
"Dean. Where are you?"
"At the lake. God, just fucking tell me you didn't fall in, you goddamned idiot. What kind of stupid fucking stunt was that, anyway? You can't just go throwing yourself off into a freezing lake, Sam!"
Sam's teeth chattered, and he was suddenly so, so cold. Maybe it was because the pier had sunk down into the water until he was soaking wet, mid-shin down. Maybe, maybe it was because the bottom of the dinghy was covered with a thin layer of water. He wasn't sure, but he was just so cold and tired, and, to be frank, kinda scared and terrified witless.
"I… there was a boat?"
There was a shot, sudden and shockingly loud, slicing through the silence of the night, and then the whimpering from the werewolf went silent.
"Sam," Bobby said. "Toss me the rope now, boy."
Sam blinked and looked at the radio, but it was quiet for now, so he raised his head and there was Bobby on the pier. He made an interesting picture as a knight in shining armor, with his trucker's cap, scruffy clothes and the rifle hanging across his back.
"You're taking in water," Bobby continued, crouched at the end of the pier. "Just toss me the rope and I'll pull you in. You'll be fine, just try not to move too much, all right?"
Sam nodded. He stuffed the radio away, grabbed the rope that he was still holding on to, then threw it toward Bobby and hoped that it was long enough to reach all the way, because this dinghy? Did not come equipped with oars.
"You got in a mighty fine shot, Sam," Bobby was saying as the dinghy started to move ever so slowly. "Saw you take the first one out before you went down. Damned foolish move, but brave. Just kinda wish the clouds hadn't come in to cover the moon up. Couldn't see where you went. Of course, there wasn't no splash, so at least I knew you weren't drowning. You missed the heart by an inch on the second one."
"Bobby?" Sam could barely raise his voice; he was suddenly just so tired.
"Yeah, kid?"
"I'm tired," he mumbled. "And wet and cold and- Is. Can you see Dean?"
"Not yet. You just keep your eyes open. How much water is there in the boat?"
Sam glanced around. "Oh. A lot," he declared, kind of surprised because he would've bet Dean a month of laundry duty there hadn't been this much water in the boat just a second ago. "If I get urinary tract infection, I'm gonna kill someone."
"You already took out the werewolves. Isn't that enough?"
"No," he whined. "That shit hurts!"
Sam could've sworn Bobby was laughing at him, but the next thing he said was, "All right, hand me that rifle, son." Sam handed it over, then didn't move while Bobby carefully spun the boat around. "I'm gonna grab you under your shoulders, slowly pull you out, okay? You hurt anywhere?"
"My back," Sam mumbled. "Hit it pretty hard."
"I think you're just lucky you didn't sink the boat with that stupid stunt, you idiot. That thing looks like a well-aimed sneeze could rip it to shreds."
Then Bobby was grabbing him, pulling him up and out until Sam was sort of standing, sort of leaning against Bobby on the sagging pier.
"Didn't want the monsters to get me."
"And they didn't."
Bobby pulled him off the pier, and then Dean was there, patting him down and hugging him close. "You're fine," Dean breathed into his hair, and just like that Sam finally relaxed.
-'-
Later that evening, Dean stripped Sam until he was sitting on his bed in just his underwear, then methodically went over every bruise and scrape on the back of his thighs and his back. He fingered Sam's skull through his hair for bumps, cursed at him for keeping it too long, then put him to bed and stood guard until Sam fell asleep.
-'-
"I thought you were still binding," Dean said the next morning and gestured around his chest.
Sam just shook his head. "No. Doc says it's a combination of the T redistributing my body fat and because I work out a lot."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "I thought T couldn't remove tits. Make them smaller, yeah, but not just-" Dean gestured over his chest again, eyebrows raised.
Sam shrugged. "I guess? I don't know, Dean; it happened, and I'm not complaining. Dude, I hated my tits."
Dean blinked, then grinned and shook his head. "Let me guess: you didn't fucking have any tits to get rid of."
"I so did!" Sam protested. "They were, like, there! Poking out!"
Dean snorted and shook his head, big fat smirk on his face. "Yeah, right. Maybe in, like, another dimension or something. You were flatter than a brick, Sam."
Sam narrowed his eyes, offended for all the wrong reasons (or maybe for all the right ones; he wasn't sure). "I was not!" he argued.
"Oh, yes, you were."
"I had. Bumps," he got out, and was just about ready to attack Dean, wipe that ugly smirk right off his face, when Bobby knocked sharply on the door.
"You girls done trading beauty tips in there? I wanna get to breakfast sometime today, if you ain't too busy painting each other's toenails." Bobby's voice was just loud enough to penetrate the closed door. He sounded lazily amused and just a little bit tired. Sam went bright red and scowled, but Dean just threw his head back and laughed.
-'-2001(APR)-'-
The third week in April, a package arrived, delivered straight to their doorstep. It was stuffed full of books and it didn't carry a note or the name of whoever'd sent it. Sam took a good look at the contents, then unpacked the books, one by one, only stopping long enough to thumb through some of the more interesting looking ones.
They were all pretty heavy, pretty dark, and pretty much exclusively into demons and the majority of them weren't even in English. He stashed them with the book Dad'd sent him the title of, all those months ago, and tried not to think too hard about why Dad was sending stuff here. When he mentioned it to Dean, his brother went quiet and stared at the additions in Sam's hunting library for a good hour under the pretense of cooking dinner. They spent the whole night between Friday and Saturday going through the books, but they didn't offer any clues about where Dad was. Just-
Just that he was hunting demons and that whatever he'd stumbled across was close, dangerous and pretty fucking dark.
-'-2001(MAY)-'-
Sam was eighteen when he handed in his petition for a legal name change with the court in Colorado Springs. It was a long process and, had he told Dean about it, he was sure his brother would've snapped at the judge present at his hearing. As it was, Sam felt more than a little intimidated when he stood in front of the rounded, graying judge with the cool, clear eyes. The questions were numerous, some of which Sam didn't feel comfortable answering at all. But he had his papers from the center, all of which were in order, he had the report card of his grades and he was a Winchester - and stubborn to boot.
Because, when it came down to it: "Do I really look like a Samantha to you, sir?" he asked, and stumbled only a little over the name. "It's not like I'm completely changing my name. Everyone already calls me Sam. My driver's license and my birth certificate say Samantha, but I'm not. I'm not Samantha, sir. I'm Sam."
"I see," the judge drawled. Sam wasn't sure if he did, because he was too focused on reading through the various reports in front of him, from Sam's school and his doctors.
The two hours he spent in the court room were two of the longest in his life. It was all worth it, though, because the court order meant he could request a new birth certificate that said Sam Winchester, nothing more, nothing less. After that came the driver's license, which he proudly brandished to Dean.
Dean grinned, ruffled his hair and said, "Way to go, Sammy."
-'-
Dean graduated in May and was granted a whopping forty-five days of leave without pay. It didn't matter much, though, because Sam was frugal with money, and besides, it wasn't like he had much of anything to spend it on. But yeah, other than the fact that Dean basically got paid to go to school and play with guns and shit - which was kind of awesome, really - there was the fact that they had medical insurance - legal medical insurance - for the first time in Sam's life.
Having Dean back also meant Sam didn't have to cook anymore, or drive anywhere, because Dean was doing his very best to make up for lost time with his 'baby'.
So no, Sam wasn't quite prepared for the stony silence that greeted him in the car when Dean picked him up after school one day - and how weird was it that Sam no longer drove around everywhere on his own, anyway? - because so far Dean'd been pretty mellow and relaxed.
"Dean?"
"Got another fucking crate," Dean muttered.
Sam blinked. "Oh," he murmured.
"Yeah. Books, scrolls, pictures. Hell, box was full of herbs and shit, too, and it was literally covered with sigils and holy water."
"Why is he sending all this?"
"Hell if I know."
"You talk to Bobby?"
"He ain't got a clue," Dean drawled, eyes on the road. Even though it only took about five minutes to drive from the school to their home, Dean still reached over and turned on the music, volume turned to max and blaring from the loudspeakers.
-'-
School let out the last week of May. Sam and Dean locked up the house, then drove up to see Bobby, making a short detour on the way there to stop by at Missouri's. Missouri looked troubled, but wouldn't say why, and Bobby was the same as always. His dog was a slightly bigger puppy, but still miles away from being full grown. One day, Sam thought, scratching the dog behind the ears, and promised himself that he'd get a dog as a reward if he survived college intact.
-'-2001(JUN)-'-
They took care of a haunting in Peetz, CO, on the way back home, and then Dean's phone rang.
They drove in stony silence after that, Dean tapping out angry rhythms on the wheel and Sam staring blindly out the window as the scenery rushed by.
"You hungry?" Dean grunted, somewhere between halfway home and there.
"No," Sam said, and didn't move.
"Bullshit," Dean declared and pulled off at the next intersection.
Despite the fact that they lived pretty close to Denver these days, they'd almost never taken the time to actually go there all that much (well, Sam had, on occasion, it was just that Dean'd never gone with him), but Dean still managed to find a somewhat acceptable café where they could eat in a relatively short amount time.
There was a rainbow flag in the window, just a small one, but the sight of it somehow lifted Sam's spirits enough that he could acknowledge and sate his hunger. Still.
"Dude, why do you know where a gay café is, anyway?"
Dean shrugged. He was stirring milk and sugar into his coffee - which, yeah, was pretty far from the norm when it came to Dean - and wouldn't look up when he spoke. "There's this girl at the Academy. She goes here with her sister all the time; won't stop jabbering on about it. Thought it was worth checking out, that's all."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You've got a girlfriend now, Dean?"
"No," Dean snapped. "I've got a friend who's a girl, dickhead."
"Oh." Sam looked back down at his plate where the last of his fries were slowly going cold. "Sorry."
Dean shook his head. "No, man, it's all right. I just…"
"Yeah," Sam agreed, then ate the last of his fries, movements systematic rather than laidback and relaxed.
He wasn't really hungry anymore.
-'-
There was a large, black pickup truck parked in their driveway when Sam and Dean made it back to their house. Sam looked at the car, then the house, and turned to Dean. "We'll have to cancel the lease," he said.
Dean blinked and frowned. "What?"
"I mean, when I go to Stanford, right? No sense in keeping this place." Sam's tone was mostly even, except for how it shook a little. "It'll be empty except for when you get out on weekends, and. Well. No point in keeping it, right? Save more money if we don't, s'all I'm saying."
Dean turned off the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Focus, Sammy. One matter at a time, all right?"
Sam's nod was maybe slightly too manic. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then took another and a third before he opened his eyes, squared his shoulders and stepped out of the car. By the time he reached the door, Dean's shoulder was brushing his and he took some comfort in that, no matter what happened after this point, Dean would always be by his side.
And that, he decided, was at the heart of it all anyway: Dean was the most important person in his life - always had been, always would be - no doubt about it. Regardless of what Dad said or how he reacted, Sam would always have Dean, and that was what made Sam's world right.
If he could have Dean, then everything was all right and nothing else mattered.
Not even Dad.
Masterpost