original by wastetheyears
Remix Title: Four Strong Winds
Remix Author: dreamlittleyo
Original Story: Care Package
Original Author: wastetheyears
Rating: G
Summary: Sam wants to go to college. He doesn't want it to be goodbye.
He slams the door shut behind him, and his hand is knuckle-white on the knob. John's voice still echoes in his head, and Sam feels finality in the fight he just walked out of.
The numb veneer of shock shields him for a moment, but it bleeds away too fast. Clears a path for an impotent rage that edges in on him by degrees.
"He kicked me out," Sam says. Even though his room is tiny and empty, and there's no one to hear the shell-shocked proclamation.
"So I heard." Dean's voice, and Sam jumps about a mile into the air. Didn't see his brother sitting there.
Sam doesn't like the detached air behind Dean's words.
"You really going?" Dean asks him. Stands. "Gonna take off? Just like that?"
"What choice do I have?" Sam asks, and if his voice rises it's not his fault. "You were listening just now, you tell me what else I'm supposed to do!"
"He didn't mean it, man," says Dean, and his tone is still distant. Dean is still the ever-present peacemaker, and Sam suddenly wants to hit him in the face. For being Dad's perfect little soldier. For taking the goddamn middle ground and arguing in Dad's defense.
"You heard the man, Dean. He meant every word."
"He was freaked." Warmth finally creeps into Dean's voice. "Not to mention totally blindsided! You can't just up and tell us you found a different life while we weren't looking. I'm sorry we're not good enough for you, Sammy, but that's not fucking fair."
"Dean, no," Sam says, and crumbles. Because that's not what this was supposed to be. He never meant to make it Either/Or, and suddenly the decision is being jammed down his throat. Graduation is three months behind him, and of course he kept Stanford to himself until the last possible second. His dad was going to freak out no matter when he brought it up.
But it wasn't supposed to go like this.
Somewhere between heartbeats Sam realizes Dean has turned his back. His brother faces the window, a thin pretense at looking outside, and Sam feels all the air drain out of the room. His brother is just going to stand there and let him go, and Sam can't do anything but walk away.
His brain kicks into crisis mode, and he's already planning strategy. The bus station doesn't open until five a.m., but he's already packed what little he needs. Derek might let him crash until morning.
"You need a ride?" Dean asks, and Sam's train of thought screeches to a startled pileup.
"Huh?"
"A ride. You know. Put gas in car. Drive to New York. Embarrass you in front of your new classmates."
"Stanford is in California, Dean," says Sam, but his spirits lighten by a sliver.
"Fine. Whatever. When do you need to be on campus?"
"This weekend," he says, and suddenly he feels like an ass for not telling Dean sooner. It's Friday night now, and that seems like barely enough time for goodbye. "Classes start Tuesday."
"Okay," says Dean, and finally-finally-looks Sam in the eyes. "Get some sleep, jerkface. We'll leave in the morning."
"What about Dad?"
"Just... give him time."
Sam can already tell time won't help, but Dean doesn't need to hear it.
xxxxxxxxxx
In the whole of his life, Sam has never felt awkward around his brother. Even at thirteen, all gangly limbs and tripping feet, Sam never felt the least bit out of place when it was just him and Dean. At fourteen Sam started asking about girls, and Dean didn't make fun of him once. At fifteen Dean tackled the messy process of teaching Sam to drive, and even though it left the Impala needing a desperate tune-up and a permanent cringe on John's face, Dean never let Sam feel like he'd done wrong.
Sam feels out of place now. The horizon isn't nearly distraction enough, and Sam feels the silence like his own off-kilter heartbeat. They have a couple false starts at conversation, both of them trying to fill the empty air with something. Anything to make this unfamiliar pile of awkward go away.
Dean finally surrenders and puts a tape in.
Sam can't help feeling betrayed.
He also can't quiet the anxious hum of impending change, as it echoes in his ears and simmers beneath his skin. All he can do is settle into the corner by the door and wait for the drive to be over.
xxxxxxxxxx
They arrive in the middle of a sparkling afternoon. Campus is a mess of cars, roads blocked up, four way flashers and illegal parking in every direction.
Dean's eyes are as wide as Sam's, and he asks, "Which of these buildings is your dorm?"'
"Branner."
"Awesome. Which one is that?"
"I have no idea," says Sam, and he feels completely helpless. "I'm... supposed to find the check-in table." He's not even sure where that is, too busy taking in everything at once. It's a completely different world, and his head is already spinning as the car creeps slowly down the block.
There are people everywhere, but mostly lining up under big, white tents. Card tables and clipboards, and on the curbs Sam can see piles upon piles of more stuff than he can imagine owning. Apparently all the necessities of dorm life.
One tent is bigger than the rest, and Sam points it out.
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Looks like a check-in line to me."
There's nowhere to park, and after a third loop of the block they have to concede defeat. Dean stops in the middle of the road and throws Sam an expectant look.
Sam's heart twitches uncomfortably, and a hard knot settles into the pit of his stomach at the realization that this is it. Dean isn't even saying goodbye. He's just watching with an almost impatient expression. Waiting for his reluctant passenger to get out of the car so they can stop blocking traffic.
Sam complies, all in a rush, taking his three duffels with him; one in each hand and the third slung over his shoulder. He watches with edgy disbelief as the Impala disappears around the corner.
It's a full two minutes before he can move his feet, one in front of the other, step by step until he reaches the tent. He wades through the mess of people, bumped and jostled on every side, and feels completely insignificant. Feels like goddamn crying, but he holds his breath until the urge abates.
There are tables. Row upon row of them, and boxes full of paper all along the top. People sit behind the tables as endless lines of students wait impatiently for the huge, brown envelopes that come out of the boxes.
A girl with a clipboard stands in the shade of a giant oak next to the tent. She's blonde. Pretty. Wears a bright red nametag that reads 'Hi, my name is JESS.' She looks tired, her whole face set in a low scowl, and he almost doesn't approach her.
But she's easy on the eyes, even with the scowl factored in, and she's a hell of a lot more appealing than any of the enormous lines.
"Name and housing assignment?" she asks without looking up.
"Winchester. Sam Winchester. I think I'm in Branner?"
She flips through the top three sheets of her clipboard and marks something off in green pen.
"Get in the line on the right. They'll give you your key and check-in papers."
He waits for a moment, just to see if she'll actually look up. When she doesn't, he says, "Thanks."
"No problem," she says, and finally meets his eyes. "My name's Jessica Moore. If you need anything? Ask someone else."
As fast as that she's on to the next person, checking name and residence, and Sam wanders away to the back of the appropriate line. He wonders who she is beyond the cranky move-in chaos and clipboard. He's got a feeling she's smart. A science major, maybe. No, a double science major. Sam's not sure why, but he's certain of it.
Fortunately, Sam's already pretty sure he's going the pre-law route. Their paths aren't likely to cross again.
xxxxxxxxxx
Forty minutes later the sidewalk, lawn, parking lot are all still packed full. But Sam stands frozen on the curb. His room key is in hand, his duffels at his feet, and he can't stop staring.
The dorm is beautiful. Huge and old, light stone and pretentious architecture that sprawls the length of the block. He's never set foot in a building so nice, let alone lived in one, and he can't quite wrap his brain around the fact that, for the next two semesters, this is home.
A low whistle from off to his left draws his attention, and when he turns to meet it his jaw goes slack with surprise.
"Holy hell, that's a dorm?" Dean's eyes are wide, eyebrows humorously high. "You didn't tell me the school was setting you up in a palace, dude."
"Dean," says Sam. His mouth goes dry, and the name sounds wrong on his tongue.
"Can you believe some of these people?" Dean asks, not quite under his breath. "Who owns this much stuff, let alone takes it with them to college?" Sam laughs at the mirror of his own thoughts. He still can't find his voice.
"Come on," says Dean, hoisting one of Sam's bags onto his shoulder. "Let's check out your new digs."
It's three stories up a brightly lit staircase, and even the continuing swarm of other students isn't enough to distract Sam from the fact that it's beautiful. The banister beneath his hand is warm with sun, and he leads the way up the steps, down the hall to room 312.
After the grandeur of the hallways and main stair, the room itself is anticlimactic. Sparse. The furniture is understated wood. A tall, plain set of drawers. Two desks, each with a blocky lamp on the corner. Two chairs, and a drab wardrobe in the corner. There's a bunk bed along one wall, no sheets on either mattress. Sam wonders how the hell he's supposed to fit on it, let alone sleep there.
It's still nicer than any other place he can remember living.
Sam takes a moment to wander around the room touching everything. He opens every drawer he finds, and apparently his roommate hasn't moved in yet. They're all empty.
There's no reason to rearrange the furniture, but Sam does it anyway, just so he can demand Dean's help. Just to delay the inevitable for an extra twenty minutes, until there's nothing left to do but say goodbye.
It's awkward all over again, and Sam hates it. He can see the dark shadowing under Dean's eyes this time, and he's got no idea what to say besides, "Thanks."
"Yeah. See you around, man," says Dean, and for some reason Sam doesn't believe him.
Dean hesitates at the door, a strange look over his shoulder. Like maybe he's thinking about turning around and hugging Sam a proper goodbye.
He walks out the door instead.
xxxxxxxxxx
By the time the sun sets, Sam figures it's a safe bet his roommate won't arrive until tomorrow. No reason for him to get up from where he sprawls on the bottom bunk, except his joints are stiff and his stomach growls threateningly.
He'll have to dig through his stuff if he wants food; there's a stash of money in the side pocket of one duffel. Everything is by the door, right where he and Dean dumped all three bags on the way in.
But as he tries to remember which one holds the cash, Sam realizes there are four duffels at his feet. He turns on the light, and there are still four. His hand feels less than steady when he picks up the odd one out-the one he doesn't remember packing-and carries it to the bed.
It's stuffed almost to bursting, and his eyes sting as he starts pulling things out of the bag.
First it's M&Ms. Two jumbo bags, one peanut and one regular. The bag of peanut M&Ms is half empty. The regular M&Ms are pristine. There are also a handful of ramen packets and some popcorn, though a quick glance reminds him that heating them without a microwave will be tricky.
Under the food, he finds sheets and a pillow, a godsend all their own, and Sam can barely believe his brother's foresight. He never thought to need a pillow. It's small and squashed, but Sam doesn't care. It's perfect.
There are bent posters further down, three of his brother's favorite bands. Worn and sun-faded, and Sam instantly recognizes them. He's seen them hanging on dozens of walls, all the corners torn ragged from being repeatedly taken down and rehung.
And loose at the bottom of the bag is a single photo. The worse for wear from its travels. It's bent at one corner, warped concave, but the picture is clear. Him and Dean, smiling and laughing. It's Sam's graduation photo, and the pride in Dean's eyes is enough to make the breath lodge low in Sam's throat.
He stands and sets it aside, vowing to find a frame. It belongs on the corner of his desk.
The last thing in the bag is a messy note, and he almost misses it.
It's not like he needs a note to tell him who the care package is from. Every item feels just like Dean, and says 'take care, little brother.' Loud and clear. Mostly Sam can't quite believe his brother pulled it off without letting on. Every single thing must have come from their apartment, scrounged together in a rush before departing.
Sam feels like an unmitigated ass for doubting that his brother would say goodbye.
The note falls from the bag when he stands to make the bed, and the handwriting is so familiar it hurts.
'Hey, nerd. You forgot some stuff. Lucky for you I'm totally awesome. This should do you for a little while. Hope your roommate doesn't suck.'
On the back there's just one sentence.
'Take care, little brother.'
Sam is suddenly and blindingly grateful he's alone in this room tonight, as he crumples the note in his hand and cries.
Remix Author: dreamlittleyo
Original Story: Care Package
Original Author: wastetheyears
Rating: G
Summary: Sam wants to go to college. He doesn't want it to be goodbye.
He slams the door shut behind him, and his hand is knuckle-white on the knob. John's voice still echoes in his head, and Sam feels finality in the fight he just walked out of.
The numb veneer of shock shields him for a moment, but it bleeds away too fast. Clears a path for an impotent rage that edges in on him by degrees.
"He kicked me out," Sam says. Even though his room is tiny and empty, and there's no one to hear the shell-shocked proclamation.
"So I heard." Dean's voice, and Sam jumps about a mile into the air. Didn't see his brother sitting there.
Sam doesn't like the detached air behind Dean's words.
"You really going?" Dean asks him. Stands. "Gonna take off? Just like that?"
"What choice do I have?" Sam asks, and if his voice rises it's not his fault. "You were listening just now, you tell me what else I'm supposed to do!"
"He didn't mean it, man," says Dean, and his tone is still distant. Dean is still the ever-present peacemaker, and Sam suddenly wants to hit him in the face. For being Dad's perfect little soldier. For taking the goddamn middle ground and arguing in Dad's defense.
"You heard the man, Dean. He meant every word."
"He was freaked." Warmth finally creeps into Dean's voice. "Not to mention totally blindsided! You can't just up and tell us you found a different life while we weren't looking. I'm sorry we're not good enough for you, Sammy, but that's not fucking fair."
"Dean, no," Sam says, and crumbles. Because that's not what this was supposed to be. He never meant to make it Either/Or, and suddenly the decision is being jammed down his throat. Graduation is three months behind him, and of course he kept Stanford to himself until the last possible second. His dad was going to freak out no matter when he brought it up.
But it wasn't supposed to go like this.
Somewhere between heartbeats Sam realizes Dean has turned his back. His brother faces the window, a thin pretense at looking outside, and Sam feels all the air drain out of the room. His brother is just going to stand there and let him go, and Sam can't do anything but walk away.
His brain kicks into crisis mode, and he's already planning strategy. The bus station doesn't open until five a.m., but he's already packed what little he needs. Derek might let him crash until morning.
"You need a ride?" Dean asks, and Sam's train of thought screeches to a startled pileup.
"Huh?"
"A ride. You know. Put gas in car. Drive to New York. Embarrass you in front of your new classmates."
"Stanford is in California, Dean," says Sam, but his spirits lighten by a sliver.
"Fine. Whatever. When do you need to be on campus?"
"This weekend," he says, and suddenly he feels like an ass for not telling Dean sooner. It's Friday night now, and that seems like barely enough time for goodbye. "Classes start Tuesday."
"Okay," says Dean, and finally-finally-looks Sam in the eyes. "Get some sleep, jerkface. We'll leave in the morning."
"What about Dad?"
"Just... give him time."
Sam can already tell time won't help, but Dean doesn't need to hear it.
xxxxxxxxxx
In the whole of his life, Sam has never felt awkward around his brother. Even at thirteen, all gangly limbs and tripping feet, Sam never felt the least bit out of place when it was just him and Dean. At fourteen Sam started asking about girls, and Dean didn't make fun of him once. At fifteen Dean tackled the messy process of teaching Sam to drive, and even though it left the Impala needing a desperate tune-up and a permanent cringe on John's face, Dean never let Sam feel like he'd done wrong.
Sam feels out of place now. The horizon isn't nearly distraction enough, and Sam feels the silence like his own off-kilter heartbeat. They have a couple false starts at conversation, both of them trying to fill the empty air with something. Anything to make this unfamiliar pile of awkward go away.
Dean finally surrenders and puts a tape in.
Sam can't help feeling betrayed.
He also can't quiet the anxious hum of impending change, as it echoes in his ears and simmers beneath his skin. All he can do is settle into the corner by the door and wait for the drive to be over.
xxxxxxxxxx
They arrive in the middle of a sparkling afternoon. Campus is a mess of cars, roads blocked up, four way flashers and illegal parking in every direction.
Dean's eyes are as wide as Sam's, and he asks, "Which of these buildings is your dorm?"'
"Branner."
"Awesome. Which one is that?"
"I have no idea," says Sam, and he feels completely helpless. "I'm... supposed to find the check-in table." He's not even sure where that is, too busy taking in everything at once. It's a completely different world, and his head is already spinning as the car creeps slowly down the block.
There are people everywhere, but mostly lining up under big, white tents. Card tables and clipboards, and on the curbs Sam can see piles upon piles of more stuff than he can imagine owning. Apparently all the necessities of dorm life.
One tent is bigger than the rest, and Sam points it out.
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Looks like a check-in line to me."
There's nowhere to park, and after a third loop of the block they have to concede defeat. Dean stops in the middle of the road and throws Sam an expectant look.
Sam's heart twitches uncomfortably, and a hard knot settles into the pit of his stomach at the realization that this is it. Dean isn't even saying goodbye. He's just watching with an almost impatient expression. Waiting for his reluctant passenger to get out of the car so they can stop blocking traffic.
Sam complies, all in a rush, taking his three duffels with him; one in each hand and the third slung over his shoulder. He watches with edgy disbelief as the Impala disappears around the corner.
It's a full two minutes before he can move his feet, one in front of the other, step by step until he reaches the tent. He wades through the mess of people, bumped and jostled on every side, and feels completely insignificant. Feels like goddamn crying, but he holds his breath until the urge abates.
There are tables. Row upon row of them, and boxes full of paper all along the top. People sit behind the tables as endless lines of students wait impatiently for the huge, brown envelopes that come out of the boxes.
A girl with a clipboard stands in the shade of a giant oak next to the tent. She's blonde. Pretty. Wears a bright red nametag that reads 'Hi, my name is JESS.' She looks tired, her whole face set in a low scowl, and he almost doesn't approach her.
But she's easy on the eyes, even with the scowl factored in, and she's a hell of a lot more appealing than any of the enormous lines.
"Name and housing assignment?" she asks without looking up.
"Winchester. Sam Winchester. I think I'm in Branner?"
She flips through the top three sheets of her clipboard and marks something off in green pen.
"Get in the line on the right. They'll give you your key and check-in papers."
He waits for a moment, just to see if she'll actually look up. When she doesn't, he says, "Thanks."
"No problem," she says, and finally meets his eyes. "My name's Jessica Moore. If you need anything? Ask someone else."
As fast as that she's on to the next person, checking name and residence, and Sam wanders away to the back of the appropriate line. He wonders who she is beyond the cranky move-in chaos and clipboard. He's got a feeling she's smart. A science major, maybe. No, a double science major. Sam's not sure why, but he's certain of it.
Fortunately, Sam's already pretty sure he's going the pre-law route. Their paths aren't likely to cross again.
xxxxxxxxxx
Forty minutes later the sidewalk, lawn, parking lot are all still packed full. But Sam stands frozen on the curb. His room key is in hand, his duffels at his feet, and he can't stop staring.
The dorm is beautiful. Huge and old, light stone and pretentious architecture that sprawls the length of the block. He's never set foot in a building so nice, let alone lived in one, and he can't quite wrap his brain around the fact that, for the next two semesters, this is home.
A low whistle from off to his left draws his attention, and when he turns to meet it his jaw goes slack with surprise.
"Holy hell, that's a dorm?" Dean's eyes are wide, eyebrows humorously high. "You didn't tell me the school was setting you up in a palace, dude."
"Dean," says Sam. His mouth goes dry, and the name sounds wrong on his tongue.
"Can you believe some of these people?" Dean asks, not quite under his breath. "Who owns this much stuff, let alone takes it with them to college?" Sam laughs at the mirror of his own thoughts. He still can't find his voice.
"Come on," says Dean, hoisting one of Sam's bags onto his shoulder. "Let's check out your new digs."
It's three stories up a brightly lit staircase, and even the continuing swarm of other students isn't enough to distract Sam from the fact that it's beautiful. The banister beneath his hand is warm with sun, and he leads the way up the steps, down the hall to room 312.
After the grandeur of the hallways and main stair, the room itself is anticlimactic. Sparse. The furniture is understated wood. A tall, plain set of drawers. Two desks, each with a blocky lamp on the corner. Two chairs, and a drab wardrobe in the corner. There's a bunk bed along one wall, no sheets on either mattress. Sam wonders how the hell he's supposed to fit on it, let alone sleep there.
It's still nicer than any other place he can remember living.
Sam takes a moment to wander around the room touching everything. He opens every drawer he finds, and apparently his roommate hasn't moved in yet. They're all empty.
There's no reason to rearrange the furniture, but Sam does it anyway, just so he can demand Dean's help. Just to delay the inevitable for an extra twenty minutes, until there's nothing left to do but say goodbye.
It's awkward all over again, and Sam hates it. He can see the dark shadowing under Dean's eyes this time, and he's got no idea what to say besides, "Thanks."
"Yeah. See you around, man," says Dean, and for some reason Sam doesn't believe him.
Dean hesitates at the door, a strange look over his shoulder. Like maybe he's thinking about turning around and hugging Sam a proper goodbye.
He walks out the door instead.
xxxxxxxxxx
By the time the sun sets, Sam figures it's a safe bet his roommate won't arrive until tomorrow. No reason for him to get up from where he sprawls on the bottom bunk, except his joints are stiff and his stomach growls threateningly.
He'll have to dig through his stuff if he wants food; there's a stash of money in the side pocket of one duffel. Everything is by the door, right where he and Dean dumped all three bags on the way in.
But as he tries to remember which one holds the cash, Sam realizes there are four duffels at his feet. He turns on the light, and there are still four. His hand feels less than steady when he picks up the odd one out-the one he doesn't remember packing-and carries it to the bed.
It's stuffed almost to bursting, and his eyes sting as he starts pulling things out of the bag.
First it's M&Ms. Two jumbo bags, one peanut and one regular. The bag of peanut M&Ms is half empty. The regular M&Ms are pristine. There are also a handful of ramen packets and some popcorn, though a quick glance reminds him that heating them without a microwave will be tricky.
Under the food, he finds sheets and a pillow, a godsend all their own, and Sam can barely believe his brother's foresight. He never thought to need a pillow. It's small and squashed, but Sam doesn't care. It's perfect.
There are bent posters further down, three of his brother's favorite bands. Worn and sun-faded, and Sam instantly recognizes them. He's seen them hanging on dozens of walls, all the corners torn ragged from being repeatedly taken down and rehung.
And loose at the bottom of the bag is a single photo. The worse for wear from its travels. It's bent at one corner, warped concave, but the picture is clear. Him and Dean, smiling and laughing. It's Sam's graduation photo, and the pride in Dean's eyes is enough to make the breath lodge low in Sam's throat.
He stands and sets it aside, vowing to find a frame. It belongs on the corner of his desk.
The last thing in the bag is a messy note, and he almost misses it.
It's not like he needs a note to tell him who the care package is from. Every item feels just like Dean, and says 'take care, little brother.' Loud and clear. Mostly Sam can't quite believe his brother pulled it off without letting on. Every single thing must have come from their apartment, scrounged together in a rush before departing.
Sam feels like an unmitigated ass for doubting that his brother would say goodbye.
The note falls from the bag when he stands to make the bed, and the handwriting is so familiar it hurts.
'Hey, nerd. You forgot some stuff. Lucky for you I'm totally awesome. This should do you for a little while. Hope your roommate doesn't suck.'
On the back there's just one sentence.
'Take care, little brother.'
Sam is suddenly and blindingly grateful he's alone in this room tonight, as he crumples the note in his hand and cries.