Chapter 1: Not You, Not Us, Not Our Family
Sam sets the two identical duffle bags down heavily on one of the motel beds, the ancient mattress squeaking in protest under the weight of the left duffle which held a small arsenal of weapons. He lays down on the bed, resting his weary body after a non-stop eight hour drive, stretching and placing his hands behind his head, staring up at the flaking and mildew encrusted ceiling, lost in thought.
Sam's eyes are just beginning to close for a quick nap when Dean kicks open the door with all the finesse of a drunk elephant, balancing three more duffles in his arms, no doubt full of more weapons than clothes from the way he's hefting them.
"Dude!" Dean demands in outrage. "You could have helped me out for the last few bags, or maybe left the door open."
Sam rolls over on his stomach, giving Dean a half-hearted glare for startling him, and drawls, "I was just helping you affirm your masculinity to that girl across the street at the bar you were eyeing. No doubt seeing you lift three bags and stagger your way to the room, has her very interested in what else you can do."
Dean drops the bags on the other bed. "You're just jealous that I'm getting some tonight."
Sam wrinkles his nose is disgust, not at all interested in random stranger sex that's more likely to give him an S.T.D. than a good time. Instead of voicing his opinion, that has been noted and disregarded numerous times over the years, he says, "Whatever," and rolls onto his back, letting his eyes slide heavily shut.
Time passes fluidly as Sam dozes off. Dean putters productively about, showering and changing, and before Sam realizes it, it's no longer a dusky twilight and instead pitch black outside. The bar across the street has began to get into the swing of things, and Dean declares he's heading out and that Dad wants Sam to have all the weapons cleaned tonight.
Sam yawns in response, idly waving his hand in confirmation. He's been on unofficial weapons care duty since he was fourteen when he wasn't fast enough to keep up with Dean and John as they ran ahead to trap a Black Dog, by the time he'd arrived the thing was dead and Dean had a deep gash on his side. John had blamed him for the injury since Sam hadn't been fast enough to back up Dean like he ordered, thus the weapons cleaning and extra runs for a few weeks, that turned into years, on and off in cycles, as John realized Sam couldn't do anything he ordered correctly.
"I'm gonna take a shower first. Where's Dad?" Sam asks levering himself into a sitting position, swaying slightly and blinking sluggishly to ward the sleepy haze away.
"He went to the bar a couple hours ago to question the town people." Dean says absentmindedly as he pulls on his leather jacket; Dad's old one that was well-worn and still a bit too big for him.
"More like interrogate," Sam mutters under his breath, "Well, I'll see you later. Hopefully not with a girl on your arm, and expecting me to scram for a few hours."
Dean snorts, he had done that a few times, until Sam had been startled awake and pulled a knife on the poor girl. Dean had never seen a drunk woman run so fast in high heels before. "Bye, Bitch."
"Jerk." The door closes with an odd sense of finality.
Sam wanders over to his still unpacked bag to grab his shampoo and other toiletries. After a moment of consideration, Sam starts to zip the bag closed, he didn't want to wear his sleeping clothes or clean ones while cleaning the guns of dirt and grease, when a flash of red catches his attention.
He reaches down the side of his bag and pulls out the letter that could change the course of his life, the way he perceives his life. An acceptance letter to Stanford University. A full ride scholarship to their medical program, with a side note that he could take theology and mythology courses over the summer and when he has open periods.
Sam had gotten the letter a few days after he'd graduated high school, neither Dad nor Dean were there, they were hunting a poltergeist a few towns over instead. He had sent his application off to a few colleges to see if one will accept him into their exclusive programs, mainly inquiring about their mythology programs with Pre-Med as a side-note, and gift him with a full ride; he had no money to even begin to pay for higher education, and he can only imagine the reaction John would have if he sprung the letter on him, then had the gull to ask for money. All of the Universities replied with an acceptance letter and partial scholarship, but Stanford was the only one that offered everything, including room and board, completely paid for; even though he'll have to consider mythology and folklore as a side note, it's the best option available to him.
He reverently sets the open letter back in his bag, placing it on top of his clothes and personal weapons. Sam makes his way to the shower, idly stripping down and turning on the water.
It will not be a pretty conversation when I bring up the idea of going to college to Dad. Dean would probably be more receptive and supportive, if I told him all my reasons. Maybe if I tell him first, I might have him on my side for the conversation with Dad... or he'll be so angry that he won't talk to me.
Sam cringes at his morbid and slightly conniving train of thought, it's not manipulative, it's planning in advance, and washing his hair with mechanical movements. Worst case scenario, Dad and Dean cut me off completely and never contact me again.
He shakes he head, trying to banish the thought, trying not to contemplate that road, a road without Dean there for him every step of the way.
They will understand... Or at least Dean will. We're family after all, and Winchesters stick together.
He steps out of the shower, drying himself and putting his somewhat grubby clothes back on, although just sitting in the car all day did nothing to get them the least bit dirty. Sam is still drying his hair when he walks back into the motel room and his whole world shatters to pieces before him.
John is standing by the end of the bed, Sam's open duffle bag beside him, gripping the letter in one hand and the envelope crushed in his other fist. Sam draws in a hissing breath through his teeth, not quite a gasp, his gut is busy tying itself into intricate knots as his skin becomes clammy.
No. It isn't the right time. I haven't talked to Dean yet.
He is swaying slightly on his feet, whether from emotion or the whiskey he favored, Sam doesn't know. Slowly, Sam's breath hitching in fear and the knots in his stomach viciously tightening like a hangman's noose, John turns his eyes on Sam, a fire smoldering sinisterly in their depths, callous promises of something unmentionable. His other hand suddenly crushes the letter that holds Sam's hope for a different life and a chance to be worthy, and drops it to the floor with the envelope.
Before John can open his mouth, Sam begins stammering, trying to do damage control and prevent the worst. "D-Dad, I-I just want to h-help you and Dean the best way I can. I can't hunt nearly as well as you two. I can't run as fast, or shoot as quickly, and you always tell me I'm not worth your time spent training me and I get in the way, b-but I am really good at research. Even you have to admit that, right?"
Sam's voice is steadily raising in pitch, until he takes a deep breath and tries to at least act calm. "Look, Dad. Stanford won't accept me with a scholarship for only a mythology and folklore degree like I planned, they said I would be wasted. So I was offered a full-ride if I go into the Pre-Med program, and make theology my minor... when I get back I can patch you guys up properly. I still want to hunt, and help people, Dad, I mean, it's what we do. But I can do that over the weekends, right? And over the breaks? We can work out something where I can hunt and go to college at the same time…" Sam trails off, letting his hands drift down to his sides as he sends John a pleading look, begging him to at least try to see his point.
"Hunting is not a part-time job." John's voice is quiet, barely containing the rage and need to shout. "People die from these creatures everyday, and you want to waste time going to college? You pathetic, selfish, little boy. After everything I taught you, trained into you, and raised you with, you want to just skip out on your family! You weren't even gonna anything, were you, just up and leave at night without a word." John sneers, his voice raising until he was outright shouting, the strong scent of gun powder and whiskey rolling over Sam in putrid waves.
Sam holds his hands up in a weak attempt to avert his Father's anger, he keeps his voice steady despite his own flash of anger at John's assumption, this was not the time to argue, this was disaster control. "No! Dad, I was going to tell you and Dean in a few days after I thought it over some more. I don't want to lose you guys over this, but this is a chance that I won't get again. To use the libraries to get more information and help you and other hunters. Dad, I-."
John laughs, harsh, cold and slightly slurred. He takes a step toward Sam, menacingly, more unstated promises for retribution. "Right, you want to leave to help us. You are abandoning your family, boy! You always wanted a damn 'normal' life. You whined constantly about the training and the hunting. I've tried to train you up to be a real man and a good soldier, like Dean, but your attitude and 'priorities' make you weak. You even complained when Dean and me couldn't come to your stupid graduation or little honors thing you got into to delude yourself that you could be 'normal.'"
Sam's vexation swells and a scowl finds a way to his face, completely disregarding any self preservation that had previously kept his temper in check, he shouts, "I was first in my class, Dad! Despite all the hunts, and the moving around a month before graduation. Any other Dad would be proud, and cheer their kid on. Any other Dad would be proud their kid was accepted to Stanford with a full-ride. Any other Dad would at least say, 'well done.' But not you, not us, not our family."
Sam's breathing came quick and heavy now, almost as if he was on one of John's punishment runs, all of the repressed resentment and disdain toward John that had accumulated over the course of Sam's life, bursting free of Sam's tight control.
This is it. This is the moment, where everything is going to be laid out on the table. No more lies, no more muttered insults, no more excuses. This is it. Dad and me. Make it or break it.
As Sam swallows heavily to catch his breath, John takes a few threatening steps forward, a warning if Sam has ever seen one. But instead of shutting up like every molecule of his being, his instinct, is telling him to, screaming him to, he stands his ground, shaking from emotion, and continues.
Make it or break it, Dad. Let's see.
"Instead you praise how well we can kill things, how well we can stay awake and alert for days, how well we can use a gun. I bring home an 'A,' all I get is a frown and an accusation that I was spending more time on school than I was reading up on lore. You get a call from my teacher about moving me up a grade, and I get a backhand and non-stop training, since apparently 'if I have enough time to spend on school that they want to move me up, I can spend more time on trying to be a decent hunter.' I bring home honors, and ask you be at my graduation, because it means something to me, and all I get is a 'we'll be back in a few days, there's a poltergeist a few towns over. Remember to do your training.'"
John is almost on top of Sam now, looming over him. Sam swallows nervously again, he's already neck deep, might as well go the whole nine yards, and lets the rest spill out.
"You keep chasing after this thing that took Mom, but you forget your kids in your hunt for vengeance, or retribution, whatever you call it to try and justify it. You took my childhood from me, forced me to mature faster than my peers and isolated me from anyone else. I knew how to use a knife, before I could write complete sentences. I knew how to clean and fire all types of guns before I could do algebra. When I was four, and told you about the monsters under the bed, you gave me a pistol and told me to take care of it myself. You gave a four year old a loaded gun! Is this what you think Mom would have wanted for us? Mom wouldn't-."
Sam tirade is cut off when John cocks back is fist and lets it fly. It lands squarely on Sam's jaw, knocking his head back into the wall from surprise; it hurts like a bitch, and Sam raises his hand to his already swelling jaw, checking if it was broken. He should've been more prepared for a physical response, he knows how Dad gets whenever Mom is mentioned, that's why he stopped asking about her when he was six.
John's eyes are dark in blind anger and hooded under the haze of alcohol. Sam can smell the overwhelming scent of whiskey on his breath, not that he's surprised, he'd be more shocked if he didn't perpetually reek of that mind numbing paint thinner.
"How would you know what Mary would've wanted!" John demands, fists clenched and slowly rising in the air, threatening more promises he may keep. "You never knew her, never loved her. You're the reason she was killed in the first place! You took my Mary from me. You took Dean's mother from him. If anything she would be thanking me for trying to raising you boys right, and punishing your mistakes. I tried to get your head on straight, and get you to stop being so selfish, God knows I tried, but you never change! A's don't matter when you're trying to trap a werewolf, honors don't matter when you're killing a vampire, and graduation doesn't matter when you're trying to save a family from a poltergeist."
John breaths and levels a look of pure disgust and disappointment at Sam, "You're leaving, because you can't handle this life, just like I knew from day one. Don't even try to sugar-coat it as, 'helping your family,' or whatever you were trying to twist your words into. You've always been too soft, with your self-centered priority on being 'normal' and 'safe' instead of saving people, and you've always been a disappointment to me, never doing what I ordered. If you were never born, Mary would still be alive and I wouldn't have to deal with you. If you had died with Mary, Dean and I wouldn't be held back by your pathetic ideas of what a family should be, what 'normal' should be. You're pathetic, and, God help me, I wish everyday you had never been born."
Tears are streaming down Sam's cheeks, shiny rivulets contrasting sharply to his rapidly bruising cheek. He's heard bits and pieces before, mutterings in the corner when John was especially angry at Sam's recent disobedience or request, or the slurred declarations when he was so deep in the bottle he could barely remember the beginning of his sentence, but never as direct as this. Sam swallows, standing up straight and edging around his father, trying to cobble together his dignity and self-esteem in functioning order.
Truly, Sam only wants to impress John, make him proud, but he's given up making him proud the same way Dean does, in training or on hunts. Going to a college and doing extensive research for John was Sam's last resort at making him proud of who Sam is, instead of being consistently disappointed every moment Sam proves he isn't like him or Dean.
He's never been jealous of Dean, and isn't angry at constantly being compare to him. Dean is strong and quick, and shows that he cares about Sam and their broken little family, although Dean doesn't know just how shattered their family is; Sam is proud to have Dean as his big brother. Dean is Dean, and Sam is Sam, and Dean knows that, embraces it. Dean always supports their differences, even if Dad doesn't, and encourages Sam, generally acting like a proud father when Sam proves yet again that they are different.
Sam toes on his boots, and grabs his thin jacket, thinking only of getting some air, cooling down from the adrenaline high, and letting Dad sleep off his bender. In the morning, hopefully, he won't remember anything, or at least be more susceptible to talking without the accusations. He's about to walk out the door, but Dad's voice stops him.
"You walk out that door," John says with condemnation and disappointment (always disappointment) in his voice. "Don't you ever come back. You can either have your family, or you're precious normal life. You leave, and you're not a Winchester anymore."
Because Winchesters are strong. Because Winchesters stick together. Because Winchesters aren't pathetic.
I never wanted to be normal. I just wanted a Dad that cares. A Dad that could be proud of who I am, not who I can't be.
Sam doesn't turn around, his decision was made for him the moment John found the letter and set his hooded, angry eyes on Sam, the second he raised his hand, again, against Sam. He grabs his duffle, thankfully still packed, and snatches up the crumpled letter, his last ditch effort to make Dad proud, from the stained floor.
Without a further word between them, Sam unwaveringly opens the door, walks out, and shut it behind himself without a sound.
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-ooOoo-
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A/N: Heya bros. This will hopefully be my first long piece; I have the outline for half of the story, I really just need to plan where to end it.
I never really believed that Sam would completely cut himself off from his family, or at least Dean, when he left for Stanford, so here is my AU on what happened at Stanford, and why Sam wants to get away. There will be some mentions of emotional and physical abuse, but it won't be a major plot point. I made Sam go into the medical field, because his whole reasoning for going to Stanford is to eventually be useful to Dean and John, and law wouldn't be very useful to hunting. Sorry if you like John, he's has a drinking problem that leads to loose lips and unsavory situations in this fiction.
This will be a fic about Sam finding who he is, and being comfortable with his decisions. Throughout the series, I always felt like he got too defensive about wanting to go to Stanford, when he should have moved past it, despite Dean's needling, and just kept moving forward instead of second guessing all his choices. You know, the whole, 'live-life-with-no-regrets' sort of thing.
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Chapter 2: Where's Sammy?
-With the best regards, Rezz