All Apologies, for brighty-lit
Title: All Apologies
Author: downjune
Recipient: brightly-lit
Rating: pg-13
Wordcount: 4,257
Warnings: underage drinking and driving, language
Notes: I combined two of your prompts, brightly-lit: Stanford-era hurt/comfort, and Sam falling back on some of his hunter training. I hope you enjoy the result! Nod to Nirvana for the title and lyric. And thank you to H for the speedy beta!
Summary: Two years before Jessica burned on the ceiling, it was actually Sam who asked something of Dean.
/What else should I be?/
Hey, Dean. It's, uh, it's Sam. Dean, man, I fucked up. You gotta come... can you come pick me up? I need-I need you to.... Can you just come, Dean? Please?
He gets the voicemail on the tail end of a hunt with Dad-a set of vengeful twins of the very not sexy kind. Checking his phone while Dad showered off grave dirt, Dean's heart kickstarts in his chest. They're almost right on the border of Arizona, Nevada, and California, and if Dean hustles, he can make it to Palo Alto by morning.
He tosses his duffel together, collects his guns to clean and oil later, and debates whether to bang on the bathroom door-always risky-or to just leave a note. Deciding it would be a dick move to leave without saying see ya, Dean takes a deep breath and knocks on the flimsy door.
"What the hell, Dean?" his father barks. A man's bathroom time is his own.
"Gotta make a run to Cali for the night. Meet up in a few days?"
For several seconds there's only the sound of the shower, and Dean can almost see his dad's scowl, pulling that apart, looking for what Dean's really up to. "Headed up north next to Idaho," he finally growls, voice echoing from the shower.
"Yeah. I'll be there, Dad. I'll give you a call when I hit the road."
"All right, be careful. Be good."
"Yes, sir," he answers, already slinging his bag onto his shoulder. John doesn't mean the moral sense; he means stay alive better than the other guy. "Take it easy," Dean offers on his way out the door, but if his father answers, he doesn't hear it. He knows better than to think that, with Dean out of his hair, John will do anything other than disappear into a bottle tonight. But Dean can only worry about one Winchester at a time now that they live in different states, so he replays Sam's message as he starts the Impala and tries to figure out what Sam's gotten into. It's the first he's called since Christmas.
Pulling out onto the road, Dean frowns when the message ends. "Dammit, Sam," he grumbles. The kid's obviously drunk as a skunk. He didn't even tell Dean where to find him. All he can do is hope he gets another call. Until then, he slips in Sam's battered copy of In Utero and thinks about how much a year can change the person you know better than anyone.
~*~
Sam walked out of his bio final to a nearly empty campus. It was the last scheduled exam on the last day of exams and Sam had the whole summer ahead of him. His job at the dining hall was over and he'd be kicked out of the dorms by the end of the week. No summer school, racing to catch up from all the classes he missed, no job, no training, no drills, no hunts, no driving, no motels, no Dad. No Dean. The freedom of the next three months was terrifying.
He stood in the California sun on the empty quad and felt like he was standing on the side of an empty road, miles and miles of nothing all around him. The frantic pace of school, work, and friends had finished and, for the first time in his life, Sam was cut loose.
It'd been Christmas since he'd talked to Dean-a hushed phone conversation while Dad was passed out, Dean wary and quiet. It was weird enough that he hadn't called a few days later for Dean's birthday, and he didn't get one on his own just two weeks ago. His roommate Brady had taken him out to a party where Sam mostly worried that he'd miss the call from Dean. Finding no message on his room phone had felt like a fist in his chest.
Summers were always for him and Dean-time that they always had together. During the school year, his brother would go on hunts with Dad, but summer was different. This time, though, Sam had been the one to leave and the radio silence over his birthday told him Dean wasn't going to forgive that.
Sam needed to find work. He needed to find a place to live for the summer. But instead of doing either, he patted his pockets to be sure he had his wallet and phone, and went looking for a bar.
~*~
He gets a visitor's permit and everything-hangs it from the mirror and parks in the designated lot. It's just after eight in the morning when he lugs his duffel to Sam's dorm, sneaks in when a girl slips out to begin the post-hookup walk of shame, and sets about picking the lock to Sam's door. He could knock but he needs the practice and he doesn't want to bother with the stress of waiting for Sam to answer. He'd just have to break in then, anyway, if Sam didn't.
The lock is solid and picking it takes several minutes of careful waiting and feeling for the pins to set, but eventually he gets it and the door swings inward. Dean pushes it open and peers inside, dreading an empty bed, but Sam is there, passed out on his stomach, bloody, bruised, and smelling like exertion and stale alcohol. Dean locks the door behind him, watches Sam sleep for a moment until he's sure the kid's breathing, then crawls into the empty bed across the room.
That whole side is empty, he realizes-Sam's roommate must have moved out for the summer. Flopping down on the mattress, Dean drops into unconsciousness as soon as his eyes close.
~*~
The crack of the cue and the sound of the balls clacking together gave him a visceral sense memory so strong that he could hear the deeper voices of a honky-tonk crowd, smell the old wood of the bar, and see the shadowed bulk of his father and brother as they worked a table together. Even though this bar was slick and new, for a different crowd than Sam was used to, the feel of the chalk and the felt under his fingers gave him the momentary illusion that he was home, that he had family at his back.
But he didn't, not even a little. He didn't even have Brady with him to impress with the tricks Dean had taught him. All he had was a good fake ID-the only one he'd kept-and a bad attitude to match his brother's.
Hustling pool always worked better with a partner and Sam's was who-knew-where, probably knee-deep in zombie guts or with his face between some girl's legs. He played the part of the drunk college kid, losing Daddy's allowance like he was giving it away, until he had a line of guys waiting to take his money. But in Palo Alto the bets were bigger than any watering hole the Winchesters had frequented when he was a kid. By midnight, the pile of cash was up to a thousand bucks. By midnight, Sam hated everyone and everything that smacked of privilege and entitlement. What had bubbled under the surface all school year broke free like a busted dam.
His sloppy grin disappeared and he straightened the slope of his shoulders. He took that grand with all the skill of a pro and none of his brother's style. He took it and walked out before anyone had the chance to pick their jaws up off the floor.
Then he went looking for the next bunch of suckers so he could do it again.
~*~
Dean awakens to a six-foot something in bed with him, sweaty, snoring, and way overdue for a shower. "Dude," he mumbles. "Why are you on me?"
Next to him, Sam shifts and groans. "I came over to wake you up but I fell asleep. Feel like shit, man."
Dean has the overwhelming urge to grab Sam into a hug to see if his arms still fit around him like they used to. They haven't shared a bed since they were kids, but right then, he wants more than memory. But turning his head on the pillow, he gets a noseful of toxic armpit and coughs out a laugh. "You stink like a bar bathroom-what did you do?"
"Think I spent some time in one."
"You think?"
"I'm not really sure."
"Dammit, Sam-"
"Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? How'd you-"
"Jesus, you blacked out? And you didn't have anyone to drive you home? You're lucky I wasn't in Texas or North Carolina or, hell, even on the other side of Arizona."
"Dean, I obviously made it home just fine." Sam shoves himself up, pissy as ever. Dean almost smiles at the sight. "You didn't have to come."
Dean snorts and buckles Sam's elbow so that he lurches back down onto the bed. "You should have heard the message you left, dude. You're lucky I didn't play it for Dad-he woulda marched across the whole damn country to rip you a new one."
"No, he wouldn't," Sam says with total confidence, lying on his side and regarding Dean with sober eyes.
Dean inhales quietly and doesn't quite know how to answer that. "But you knew I'd come," he says.
"I guess," Sam answers, rolling onto his back. "In my drunken state, yeah, I must have thought you'd come."
~*~
Sam's head snapped to the side with the punch and he staggered. He was lit enough to not feel any pain-enough to grin at the four guys surrounding him in the parking lot, even at the pull and sting of his split lip. Their money was tucked safely in his pocket. He'd won enough to maybe set him up for the summer if he could find a cheap sublet. There might even be some cash left over to start next year's textbook fund.
Sam felt reckless and confident, a combination only Dean could ever really pull off. "I'll take you all on," he said, defiant. "I won, fair and square."
The booze made his movements loose and easy, made him feel like he could dodge bullets.
"Fuckin' punk, you've got such a beating comin' to you." That came from one of his earlier marks-a muscled, mean-looking kid named Danny.
Sam laughed and thumbed his nose. He'd seen his brother do it.
~*~
After his shower, Sam slouches against the row of sinks in the bathroom so Dean can look him over, his spine curving just enough so he's Dean's same height. The fact that his little brother grew to be taller than him in the year he's been gone is more upsetting than he cares to admit. If he rubs at Sam's split lip a little rougher than necessary with the wet washcloth, he tells himself it's because he's mad at Sam for getting black-out drunk and picking a fight.
Nevermind that Dean had done the same thing more than once just after Sam left for school.
"So what's on your plate for today?" he asks, moving on to the abrasion on Sam's cheek. It looks like road rash, with some of the road still embedded in his skin.
"What do you mean?" Sam mumbles, hissing at the bite of the washcloth against his skin. "Yesterday was the last day of exams-there's nothing to do."
"Are you in the dorms all summer? How are you for money?"
He has the satisfaction of seeing Sam look extremely uncomfortable before he finally sucks it up and says, "I have to be out by Sunday. And I don't have any place to go yet."
With considerable effort, Dean keeps himself from rolling his eyes. Sam's still just a kid, but he should know better than this. None of this is like Sam. "Well then, maybe you and me should hit the pavement today and find you a sublet."
His brother seems to sag against the counter, body yielding under some kind of weight-or maybe relief. "I have to look for work, too," he says.
Dean nods, all business. "Not gonna be easy, you lookin' like six feet of trouble."
"Six-two and counting," Sam says. "Guess you'll just have to provide a character reference, then."
"It'd be a pleasure, Sammy. Should I start with your science fair trophies or your part in the school play? Or maybe, that time we practiced your swing with a crowbar and that murdering psycho spirit up in Butte? You hit a home run in gym the next day, remember?" He likes all those memories, and they're all at least five years old.
Sam gives him a crooked smile, careful not to split his lip open again. "Maybe you should let me do the talking."
Dean claps him on the shoulder a little harder than necessary and Sam winces.
~*~
His pulse thudded in his ears as he ran, but now his body was sluggish and clumsy. The adrenalin and the booze kept him from feeling his injuries, but it still seemed like he was wading through a rip tide.
Parked cars lined the street, offering shelter and escape, but also alarm systems and GPS. He scanned each one as he ran, and unsurprisingly, most of them were new enough that he'd have cops coming down on him faster than he could hotwire one. Especially with his hands as torn up as they were.
But there were places in every city where people tried not to look, neighborhoods with lousy lighting and crumbling sidewalks. Strangely, he felt more at ease stumbling down one of these dark streets than he did anywhere else in Palo Alto. He'd left these places behind because of what lurked in them.
There was a beat-up old Pontiac parked crooked at the end of the block and he slowed to a stop. Sam breathed a sigh of relief at having found his ride for the night. He didn't have his kit with him so he'd have to do this the old-fashioned way, and as he wrapped his arm in his coat and prepared to break the window, he could almost hear Dean whispering encouragement in his ear.
He glanced up and down the street and wished he had an audience. He wanted to show Brady and Becky and Sandy-this is who I am, this is what I can do. In that moment as he shattered the window, unlocked the car, and slid down into the seat, he wanted someone there to see and know him-stuck in this impossible position between normal and wherever it was a Winchester lived.
If Dean were here, he'd shove Sam over and cuss him out for driving drunk. But Dean wasn't talking to him, hadn't even called him on his birthday.
Finally coaxing the Pontiac to life, Sam sighed to no one. He turned the radio on until he found Smells Like Teen Spirit on the college station, executed a sloppy k-turn, and headed off in the rough direction of campus.
~*~
A quick check of Craigslist finds them three places to visit within the next two hours, so they hit the road.
The first apartment is a total shithole-nasty carpet, the cat piss smell of mildew everywhere, and more than one dead roach in the kitchen. They'd grown up in some dingy houses and motels but this place has 'gross student' all over it and Dean hustles his brother back out into the spring sunshine before he can weigh whether the cheap rent is worth it.
They stop for sandwiches before the next appointment and, sitting across from each other in the hard plastic booth, the silence gets uncomfortable for the first time. Sam shoots him looks from under his hair until finally Dean kicks him under the table and asks, "What's on your mind, Samantha? You sure are broody over there."
Sam scowls at the name but then shrugs, taking a huge bite of his overpriced ham and swiss. "Nothing," he says after swallowing, which is obviously a lie because then, "just-are you-are you mad at me? I mean-" He looks down. "I don't really remember last night and what I was thinking-I'm kind of surprised you're here."
Dean chews and swallows a bite of his salami and doesn't know how to answer.
Sam left. He left and made it clear who, what, and why he was leaving. Dean is still mad about it-all the time. On every single hunt, on every stupid holiday, with every goddamn routine and tradition he and Sam used to share that he can't do by himself because it's too painful.
Dean is fucking furious. And heartsick. And probably a little depressed, if he and Dad stopped long enough to think about it.
But none of that means he wouldn't drop everything if Sam needed him. He can't say that, though-would never say that. Says instead, "Was givin' you your space, Sammy. Thought that's what you wanted."
Sam shakes his cup, the ice making a hollow sound inside. "It is," he mumbles. "But I... didn't want us to be like this. Almost like strangers."
Dean feels his anger burn in him like indigestion, a hard clamping fist just under his ribs. He has to keep himself from shouting. "What the fuck did you think would happen?" he bites out, voice carefully pitched to carry just to Sam. "You ditched us. You ditched me. You can't have it both ways-you can't walk out on your family and then bitch about the lack of care packages in the mail."
Sam nods jerkily. "I know. I know, I just thought maybe we'd-I thought it might be different with you and me. I thought you might understand why I had to get out."
And just like that Dean loses the high ground, slips down so fast his head spins.
"It's not like it's been easy," Sam continues. "Sometimes I feel like this-this freak sitting there with these kids, pretending I understand their problems, wishing I could just tell them something that's actually true about myself, wishing I could tell them about you. And then I called you at Christmas and you were-it was so obvious you didn't want to talk to me. And you didn't call on my birthday."
He looks so miserable - hungover as shit, beat to hell, and just lonely - that Dean can't figure out which instinct to follow. He hears their father barking at Sam to man up, quit moping around like a lovesick girl, and live with the consequences of his actions. And he feels eighteen years of muscle memory kicking in, demanding that he fix this. He sits frozen while his brother flounders across the table from him, has the desire to not follow either, to work out a new one.
"So just-did you just come because I needed help? Because of some pathetic message I left? I don't need-I can do this, Dean. I swear I can. And I don't need your guilt trip, all right? I almost called you to come get me, like, twenty times this year, but I didn't. And I won't. I'm where I should be right now."
The moment for Dean to offer any kind of reassurance passes and he doesn't try to get it back. Sam watches him and makes a valiant effort to cover up all the emotional crap he's just aired out. They finish their lunch in silence and Dean takes Sam's garbage to throw out with his own.
He holds the door open for Sam as they leave for their second apartment viewing. His brother watches him sidelong as he passes through, like he's unsure what Dean might do, but Dean just follows him outside.
~*~
He'd only been in California a year, and he didn't have a car. He stayed on campus most of the time and only went off with friends with cars who already knew where they were going.
He didn't know where he was and he didn't know how to get back.
Dean and Dad would both be livid, would both tell him that he needed to know his surroundings at all times, know the exits as well as safe places to hole up in a pinch. Sam knew the bus route between campus and the grocery store.
His vision swam as the alcohol in his system dragged him toward unconsciousness. The third time he nearly ran off the road, a pedestrian saw him do it and, heart thundering in his ears, he pulled over. The equilibrium in his body abruptly shifted and his stomach heaved. Barely managing to get the door open in time, he leaned out and threw up in the street. It smelled like bourbon - that's always what Dean drank - and the stink was bad enough that he vomited again, completely emptying his stomach.
Dimly, he was aware of the pedestrian yelling at him from across the street-something about how she should call the police. Sam took a few deep breaths and leaned back against the seat. The upholstery stunk of cigarettes and chemical air freshener, a combination that wasn't helping his stomach at all. Knowing he needed to ditch the car before the cops came, Sam gave the steering wheel, gear shift, and door handle a cursory wipe down with the hem of his t-shirt, just in case the police decided to be thorough. Then he lurched up out of the seat and made his way back in the direction he thought was downtown.
When he scrubbed his hands over his face, he felt wetness on his cheeks. Before he could stop himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through his contacts to his brother's number. He didn't know where he was but, somehow, Dean would.
It rang through to voicemail and Sam exhaled in disappointment. "Hey, Dean. It's, uh, it's Sam."
~*~
Sam whips out a wad of cash to pay the rest of May and June's rent up front and Dean has to hide a proud half smile behind his hand. He'd bet all the money in his pockets Sam won that hustling pool.
Glancing around the apartment one more time, he decides this one will definitely work. It's small and a little cave-like, but it feels safe-easy to salt the doors and windows when there are so few of them, very little glass so Sam isn't exposed. Dad will be glad to know Sam's set up for the summer in a place like this. Plus the kid who's leaving for an internship in L.A. isn't a total douche. So, bonus.
On the walk back to the dorm, Sam's shoulders finally relax-he always feels better after accomplishing something like that, proving to Dean that he's responsible and trustworthy. He probably feels like less of a screw-up after last night, too.
Their shoulders brush and Dean nudges him gently. "You can't do that shit with no one here to watch your back." Sam looks up at him, confused and instantly defensive, but Dean pushes on to clarify. "You wanna get loaded after finals, that's cool. I'm sure you earned it, how much you always put into your schoolwork." His brother hesitates, but then nods. "But you gotta be smart about gettin' stupid, okay?"
Sam huffs a brittle laugh but doesn't say anything.
"Anyway," Dean says, taking a deep breath. "You get all that green on your bar crawl last night? Didn't look like sweaty trucker money you were handing over, but-I don't imagine there're too many of those in this town."
Sam's laugh comes a little easier this time. "Yeah, that's crisp cocky rich kid money. I lost some when four guys jumped me, but I kept hold of the rest."
"Nice," Dean says with a wide grin. He wishes he could have seen that fight. Wishes he could have been there to even the odds.
"You know, you could stay the summer," Sam blurts, stopping on the sidewalk and squinting down at him. "It'd be like always-we always hang out in the summer. We can make some money, go to the beach-you can meet some college girls. Who knows, maybe you could read a book or something."
Dean shoves Sam's shoulder, but at Sam's wide hopeful eyes, he swallows the wiseass answer and considers his words carefully.
"Thought you didn't need me here."
"That's not what I said. I said I can do this-I can be here. Doesn't mean I don't-that I don't want-"
"I've gotta be in Idaho in a couple days," Dean interrupts. "I promised Dad."
"Okay, after?"
"...Yeah. We'll see, Sammy." He's almost viciously satisfied to see the doubt in Sam's eyes. He has a selfish, uncharitable moment when all he wants is for Sam to know what it feels like to be let down, left behind. No matter that Sam's already pretty intimately acquainted with that feeling-it's the reason he's out here.
"Well," Sam says finally, "if you're here for another day or two, I could show you around campus. We could go to the library and then there's this fish taco place that'll blow your mind. What do you think?"
Dean's throat kind of closes on him for a second, but he nods and swallows. "Yeah, Sammy. Give me the college-boy tour."
Author: downjune
Recipient: brightly-lit
Rating: pg-13
Wordcount: 4,257
Warnings: underage drinking and driving, language
Notes: I combined two of your prompts, brightly-lit: Stanford-era hurt/comfort, and Sam falling back on some of his hunter training. I hope you enjoy the result! Nod to Nirvana for the title and lyric. And thank you to H for the speedy beta!
Summary: Two years before Jessica burned on the ceiling, it was actually Sam who asked something of Dean.
/What else should I be?/
Hey, Dean. It's, uh, it's Sam. Dean, man, I fucked up. You gotta come... can you come pick me up? I need-I need you to.... Can you just come, Dean? Please?
He gets the voicemail on the tail end of a hunt with Dad-a set of vengeful twins of the very not sexy kind. Checking his phone while Dad showered off grave dirt, Dean's heart kickstarts in his chest. They're almost right on the border of Arizona, Nevada, and California, and if Dean hustles, he can make it to Palo Alto by morning.
He tosses his duffel together, collects his guns to clean and oil later, and debates whether to bang on the bathroom door-always risky-or to just leave a note. Deciding it would be a dick move to leave without saying see ya, Dean takes a deep breath and knocks on the flimsy door.
"What the hell, Dean?" his father barks. A man's bathroom time is his own.
"Gotta make a run to Cali for the night. Meet up in a few days?"
For several seconds there's only the sound of the shower, and Dean can almost see his dad's scowl, pulling that apart, looking for what Dean's really up to. "Headed up north next to Idaho," he finally growls, voice echoing from the shower.
"Yeah. I'll be there, Dad. I'll give you a call when I hit the road."
"All right, be careful. Be good."
"Yes, sir," he answers, already slinging his bag onto his shoulder. John doesn't mean the moral sense; he means stay alive better than the other guy. "Take it easy," Dean offers on his way out the door, but if his father answers, he doesn't hear it. He knows better than to think that, with Dean out of his hair, John will do anything other than disappear into a bottle tonight. But Dean can only worry about one Winchester at a time now that they live in different states, so he replays Sam's message as he starts the Impala and tries to figure out what Sam's gotten into. It's the first he's called since Christmas.
Pulling out onto the road, Dean frowns when the message ends. "Dammit, Sam," he grumbles. The kid's obviously drunk as a skunk. He didn't even tell Dean where to find him. All he can do is hope he gets another call. Until then, he slips in Sam's battered copy of In Utero and thinks about how much a year can change the person you know better than anyone.
~*~
Sam walked out of his bio final to a nearly empty campus. It was the last scheduled exam on the last day of exams and Sam had the whole summer ahead of him. His job at the dining hall was over and he'd be kicked out of the dorms by the end of the week. No summer school, racing to catch up from all the classes he missed, no job, no training, no drills, no hunts, no driving, no motels, no Dad. No Dean. The freedom of the next three months was terrifying.
He stood in the California sun on the empty quad and felt like he was standing on the side of an empty road, miles and miles of nothing all around him. The frantic pace of school, work, and friends had finished and, for the first time in his life, Sam was cut loose.
It'd been Christmas since he'd talked to Dean-a hushed phone conversation while Dad was passed out, Dean wary and quiet. It was weird enough that he hadn't called a few days later for Dean's birthday, and he didn't get one on his own just two weeks ago. His roommate Brady had taken him out to a party where Sam mostly worried that he'd miss the call from Dean. Finding no message on his room phone had felt like a fist in his chest.
Summers were always for him and Dean-time that they always had together. During the school year, his brother would go on hunts with Dad, but summer was different. This time, though, Sam had been the one to leave and the radio silence over his birthday told him Dean wasn't going to forgive that.
Sam needed to find work. He needed to find a place to live for the summer. But instead of doing either, he patted his pockets to be sure he had his wallet and phone, and went looking for a bar.
~*~
He gets a visitor's permit and everything-hangs it from the mirror and parks in the designated lot. It's just after eight in the morning when he lugs his duffel to Sam's dorm, sneaks in when a girl slips out to begin the post-hookup walk of shame, and sets about picking the lock to Sam's door. He could knock but he needs the practice and he doesn't want to bother with the stress of waiting for Sam to answer. He'd just have to break in then, anyway, if Sam didn't.
The lock is solid and picking it takes several minutes of careful waiting and feeling for the pins to set, but eventually he gets it and the door swings inward. Dean pushes it open and peers inside, dreading an empty bed, but Sam is there, passed out on his stomach, bloody, bruised, and smelling like exertion and stale alcohol. Dean locks the door behind him, watches Sam sleep for a moment until he's sure the kid's breathing, then crawls into the empty bed across the room.
That whole side is empty, he realizes-Sam's roommate must have moved out for the summer. Flopping down on the mattress, Dean drops into unconsciousness as soon as his eyes close.
~*~
The crack of the cue and the sound of the balls clacking together gave him a visceral sense memory so strong that he could hear the deeper voices of a honky-tonk crowd, smell the old wood of the bar, and see the shadowed bulk of his father and brother as they worked a table together. Even though this bar was slick and new, for a different crowd than Sam was used to, the feel of the chalk and the felt under his fingers gave him the momentary illusion that he was home, that he had family at his back.
But he didn't, not even a little. He didn't even have Brady with him to impress with the tricks Dean had taught him. All he had was a good fake ID-the only one he'd kept-and a bad attitude to match his brother's.
Hustling pool always worked better with a partner and Sam's was who-knew-where, probably knee-deep in zombie guts or with his face between some girl's legs. He played the part of the drunk college kid, losing Daddy's allowance like he was giving it away, until he had a line of guys waiting to take his money. But in Palo Alto the bets were bigger than any watering hole the Winchesters had frequented when he was a kid. By midnight, the pile of cash was up to a thousand bucks. By midnight, Sam hated everyone and everything that smacked of privilege and entitlement. What had bubbled under the surface all school year broke free like a busted dam.
His sloppy grin disappeared and he straightened the slope of his shoulders. He took that grand with all the skill of a pro and none of his brother's style. He took it and walked out before anyone had the chance to pick their jaws up off the floor.
Then he went looking for the next bunch of suckers so he could do it again.
~*~
Dean awakens to a six-foot something in bed with him, sweaty, snoring, and way overdue for a shower. "Dude," he mumbles. "Why are you on me?"
Next to him, Sam shifts and groans. "I came over to wake you up but I fell asleep. Feel like shit, man."
Dean has the overwhelming urge to grab Sam into a hug to see if his arms still fit around him like they used to. They haven't shared a bed since they were kids, but right then, he wants more than memory. But turning his head on the pillow, he gets a noseful of toxic armpit and coughs out a laugh. "You stink like a bar bathroom-what did you do?"
"Think I spent some time in one."
"You think?"
"I'm not really sure."
"Dammit, Sam-"
"Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? How'd you-"
"Jesus, you blacked out? And you didn't have anyone to drive you home? You're lucky I wasn't in Texas or North Carolina or, hell, even on the other side of Arizona."
"Dean, I obviously made it home just fine." Sam shoves himself up, pissy as ever. Dean almost smiles at the sight. "You didn't have to come."
Dean snorts and buckles Sam's elbow so that he lurches back down onto the bed. "You should have heard the message you left, dude. You're lucky I didn't play it for Dad-he woulda marched across the whole damn country to rip you a new one."
"No, he wouldn't," Sam says with total confidence, lying on his side and regarding Dean with sober eyes.
Dean inhales quietly and doesn't quite know how to answer that. "But you knew I'd come," he says.
"I guess," Sam answers, rolling onto his back. "In my drunken state, yeah, I must have thought you'd come."
~*~
Sam's head snapped to the side with the punch and he staggered. He was lit enough to not feel any pain-enough to grin at the four guys surrounding him in the parking lot, even at the pull and sting of his split lip. Their money was tucked safely in his pocket. He'd won enough to maybe set him up for the summer if he could find a cheap sublet. There might even be some cash left over to start next year's textbook fund.
Sam felt reckless and confident, a combination only Dean could ever really pull off. "I'll take you all on," he said, defiant. "I won, fair and square."
The booze made his movements loose and easy, made him feel like he could dodge bullets.
"Fuckin' punk, you've got such a beating comin' to you." That came from one of his earlier marks-a muscled, mean-looking kid named Danny.
Sam laughed and thumbed his nose. He'd seen his brother do it.
~*~
After his shower, Sam slouches against the row of sinks in the bathroom so Dean can look him over, his spine curving just enough so he's Dean's same height. The fact that his little brother grew to be taller than him in the year he's been gone is more upsetting than he cares to admit. If he rubs at Sam's split lip a little rougher than necessary with the wet washcloth, he tells himself it's because he's mad at Sam for getting black-out drunk and picking a fight.
Nevermind that Dean had done the same thing more than once just after Sam left for school.
"So what's on your plate for today?" he asks, moving on to the abrasion on Sam's cheek. It looks like road rash, with some of the road still embedded in his skin.
"What do you mean?" Sam mumbles, hissing at the bite of the washcloth against his skin. "Yesterday was the last day of exams-there's nothing to do."
"Are you in the dorms all summer? How are you for money?"
He has the satisfaction of seeing Sam look extremely uncomfortable before he finally sucks it up and says, "I have to be out by Sunday. And I don't have any place to go yet."
With considerable effort, Dean keeps himself from rolling his eyes. Sam's still just a kid, but he should know better than this. None of this is like Sam. "Well then, maybe you and me should hit the pavement today and find you a sublet."
His brother seems to sag against the counter, body yielding under some kind of weight-or maybe relief. "I have to look for work, too," he says.
Dean nods, all business. "Not gonna be easy, you lookin' like six feet of trouble."
"Six-two and counting," Sam says. "Guess you'll just have to provide a character reference, then."
"It'd be a pleasure, Sammy. Should I start with your science fair trophies or your part in the school play? Or maybe, that time we practiced your swing with a crowbar and that murdering psycho spirit up in Butte? You hit a home run in gym the next day, remember?" He likes all those memories, and they're all at least five years old.
Sam gives him a crooked smile, careful not to split his lip open again. "Maybe you should let me do the talking."
Dean claps him on the shoulder a little harder than necessary and Sam winces.
~*~
His pulse thudded in his ears as he ran, but now his body was sluggish and clumsy. The adrenalin and the booze kept him from feeling his injuries, but it still seemed like he was wading through a rip tide.
Parked cars lined the street, offering shelter and escape, but also alarm systems and GPS. He scanned each one as he ran, and unsurprisingly, most of them were new enough that he'd have cops coming down on him faster than he could hotwire one. Especially with his hands as torn up as they were.
But there were places in every city where people tried not to look, neighborhoods with lousy lighting and crumbling sidewalks. Strangely, he felt more at ease stumbling down one of these dark streets than he did anywhere else in Palo Alto. He'd left these places behind because of what lurked in them.
There was a beat-up old Pontiac parked crooked at the end of the block and he slowed to a stop. Sam breathed a sigh of relief at having found his ride for the night. He didn't have his kit with him so he'd have to do this the old-fashioned way, and as he wrapped his arm in his coat and prepared to break the window, he could almost hear Dean whispering encouragement in his ear.
He glanced up and down the street and wished he had an audience. He wanted to show Brady and Becky and Sandy-this is who I am, this is what I can do. In that moment as he shattered the window, unlocked the car, and slid down into the seat, he wanted someone there to see and know him-stuck in this impossible position between normal and wherever it was a Winchester lived.
If Dean were here, he'd shove Sam over and cuss him out for driving drunk. But Dean wasn't talking to him, hadn't even called him on his birthday.
Finally coaxing the Pontiac to life, Sam sighed to no one. He turned the radio on until he found Smells Like Teen Spirit on the college station, executed a sloppy k-turn, and headed off in the rough direction of campus.
~*~
A quick check of Craigslist finds them three places to visit within the next two hours, so they hit the road.
The first apartment is a total shithole-nasty carpet, the cat piss smell of mildew everywhere, and more than one dead roach in the kitchen. They'd grown up in some dingy houses and motels but this place has 'gross student' all over it and Dean hustles his brother back out into the spring sunshine before he can weigh whether the cheap rent is worth it.
They stop for sandwiches before the next appointment and, sitting across from each other in the hard plastic booth, the silence gets uncomfortable for the first time. Sam shoots him looks from under his hair until finally Dean kicks him under the table and asks, "What's on your mind, Samantha? You sure are broody over there."
Sam scowls at the name but then shrugs, taking a huge bite of his overpriced ham and swiss. "Nothing," he says after swallowing, which is obviously a lie because then, "just-are you-are you mad at me? I mean-" He looks down. "I don't really remember last night and what I was thinking-I'm kind of surprised you're here."
Dean chews and swallows a bite of his salami and doesn't know how to answer.
Sam left. He left and made it clear who, what, and why he was leaving. Dean is still mad about it-all the time. On every single hunt, on every stupid holiday, with every goddamn routine and tradition he and Sam used to share that he can't do by himself because it's too painful.
Dean is fucking furious. And heartsick. And probably a little depressed, if he and Dad stopped long enough to think about it.
But none of that means he wouldn't drop everything if Sam needed him. He can't say that, though-would never say that. Says instead, "Was givin' you your space, Sammy. Thought that's what you wanted."
Sam shakes his cup, the ice making a hollow sound inside. "It is," he mumbles. "But I... didn't want us to be like this. Almost like strangers."
Dean feels his anger burn in him like indigestion, a hard clamping fist just under his ribs. He has to keep himself from shouting. "What the fuck did you think would happen?" he bites out, voice carefully pitched to carry just to Sam. "You ditched us. You ditched me. You can't have it both ways-you can't walk out on your family and then bitch about the lack of care packages in the mail."
Sam nods jerkily. "I know. I know, I just thought maybe we'd-I thought it might be different with you and me. I thought you might understand why I had to get out."
And just like that Dean loses the high ground, slips down so fast his head spins.
"It's not like it's been easy," Sam continues. "Sometimes I feel like this-this freak sitting there with these kids, pretending I understand their problems, wishing I could just tell them something that's actually true about myself, wishing I could tell them about you. And then I called you at Christmas and you were-it was so obvious you didn't want to talk to me. And you didn't call on my birthday."
He looks so miserable - hungover as shit, beat to hell, and just lonely - that Dean can't figure out which instinct to follow. He hears their father barking at Sam to man up, quit moping around like a lovesick girl, and live with the consequences of his actions. And he feels eighteen years of muscle memory kicking in, demanding that he fix this. He sits frozen while his brother flounders across the table from him, has the desire to not follow either, to work out a new one.
"So just-did you just come because I needed help? Because of some pathetic message I left? I don't need-I can do this, Dean. I swear I can. And I don't need your guilt trip, all right? I almost called you to come get me, like, twenty times this year, but I didn't. And I won't. I'm where I should be right now."
The moment for Dean to offer any kind of reassurance passes and he doesn't try to get it back. Sam watches him and makes a valiant effort to cover up all the emotional crap he's just aired out. They finish their lunch in silence and Dean takes Sam's garbage to throw out with his own.
He holds the door open for Sam as they leave for their second apartment viewing. His brother watches him sidelong as he passes through, like he's unsure what Dean might do, but Dean just follows him outside.
~*~
He'd only been in California a year, and he didn't have a car. He stayed on campus most of the time and only went off with friends with cars who already knew where they were going.
He didn't know where he was and he didn't know how to get back.
Dean and Dad would both be livid, would both tell him that he needed to know his surroundings at all times, know the exits as well as safe places to hole up in a pinch. Sam knew the bus route between campus and the grocery store.
His vision swam as the alcohol in his system dragged him toward unconsciousness. The third time he nearly ran off the road, a pedestrian saw him do it and, heart thundering in his ears, he pulled over. The equilibrium in his body abruptly shifted and his stomach heaved. Barely managing to get the door open in time, he leaned out and threw up in the street. It smelled like bourbon - that's always what Dean drank - and the stink was bad enough that he vomited again, completely emptying his stomach.
Dimly, he was aware of the pedestrian yelling at him from across the street-something about how she should call the police. Sam took a few deep breaths and leaned back against the seat. The upholstery stunk of cigarettes and chemical air freshener, a combination that wasn't helping his stomach at all. Knowing he needed to ditch the car before the cops came, Sam gave the steering wheel, gear shift, and door handle a cursory wipe down with the hem of his t-shirt, just in case the police decided to be thorough. Then he lurched up out of the seat and made his way back in the direction he thought was downtown.
When he scrubbed his hands over his face, he felt wetness on his cheeks. Before he could stop himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through his contacts to his brother's number. He didn't know where he was but, somehow, Dean would.
It rang through to voicemail and Sam exhaled in disappointment. "Hey, Dean. It's, uh, it's Sam."
~*~
Sam whips out a wad of cash to pay the rest of May and June's rent up front and Dean has to hide a proud half smile behind his hand. He'd bet all the money in his pockets Sam won that hustling pool.
Glancing around the apartment one more time, he decides this one will definitely work. It's small and a little cave-like, but it feels safe-easy to salt the doors and windows when there are so few of them, very little glass so Sam isn't exposed. Dad will be glad to know Sam's set up for the summer in a place like this. Plus the kid who's leaving for an internship in L.A. isn't a total douche. So, bonus.
On the walk back to the dorm, Sam's shoulders finally relax-he always feels better after accomplishing something like that, proving to Dean that he's responsible and trustworthy. He probably feels like less of a screw-up after last night, too.
Their shoulders brush and Dean nudges him gently. "You can't do that shit with no one here to watch your back." Sam looks up at him, confused and instantly defensive, but Dean pushes on to clarify. "You wanna get loaded after finals, that's cool. I'm sure you earned it, how much you always put into your schoolwork." His brother hesitates, but then nods. "But you gotta be smart about gettin' stupid, okay?"
Sam huffs a brittle laugh but doesn't say anything.
"Anyway," Dean says, taking a deep breath. "You get all that green on your bar crawl last night? Didn't look like sweaty trucker money you were handing over, but-I don't imagine there're too many of those in this town."
Sam's laugh comes a little easier this time. "Yeah, that's crisp cocky rich kid money. I lost some when four guys jumped me, but I kept hold of the rest."
"Nice," Dean says with a wide grin. He wishes he could have seen that fight. Wishes he could have been there to even the odds.
"You know, you could stay the summer," Sam blurts, stopping on the sidewalk and squinting down at him. "It'd be like always-we always hang out in the summer. We can make some money, go to the beach-you can meet some college girls. Who knows, maybe you could read a book or something."
Dean shoves Sam's shoulder, but at Sam's wide hopeful eyes, he swallows the wiseass answer and considers his words carefully.
"Thought you didn't need me here."
"That's not what I said. I said I can do this-I can be here. Doesn't mean I don't-that I don't want-"
"I've gotta be in Idaho in a couple days," Dean interrupts. "I promised Dad."
"Okay, after?"
"...Yeah. We'll see, Sammy." He's almost viciously satisfied to see the doubt in Sam's eyes. He has a selfish, uncharitable moment when all he wants is for Sam to know what it feels like to be let down, left behind. No matter that Sam's already pretty intimately acquainted with that feeling-it's the reason he's out here.
"Well," Sam says finally, "if you're here for another day or two, I could show you around campus. We could go to the library and then there's this fish taco place that'll blow your mind. What do you think?"
Dean's throat kind of closes on him for a second, but he nods and swallows. "Yeah, Sammy. Give me the college-boy tour."