Warnings: Language, Angst, Sexual situations, maybe triggering from a little abusive language that is presented in a very negative light toward the speakers. For more on this, see a note at the end of the story. Spoilers: Part One is set in Season 5 near the beginning of "Free to Be You and Me" when Sam is on his own but before the main action of that episode happens. Part Two is pre-series. Disclaimer: Well, other people made these people and these situations up first, and there's not a thing I can do about it, especially not profit from it in any tangible way. (Keepin' the intangibles though, heh heh.) Notes: AU with specific grounding in canon story. Title and lyrical excerpts are from the song "Sweet Illusions" by Adams, Bowersock, Cashdollar, Pemberton, and Popper from Cold Roses (Ryan Adams & The Cardinals), 2005.

(Part One)

If we were nothing and we're only the past
Then I'm just living in a dream I guess
A long black dream that takes me down the river to you

He hadn't been having a bad dream just before he woke up, and he did know where he was, not that it mattered because it was just another anonymous motel room like so many others. This one didn't even have any mildly-entertaining regional flavor to its décor. It was as generic as could be and could be anywhere, but it was specifically right off state highway 74 in Garber, Oklahoma adjacent to a truck stop. It had seemed like as good a place as any to stop for a while, and Sam planned on going into town in a day or maybe two to look for a low-key job to pick up a little legit cash before choosing whether or not to move on.

The location close to the truck stop had two things in its favor: it would be an easy place to hitch a ride if he couldn't find a job, and the store there was bound to have a better beverage selection than the motel vending machine because what had awakened him was a headache most likely brought on by dehydration, which seemed reasonably confirmed by the fact that his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Sam had passed out on the bed only a few minutes after he walked into the room and cranked up the AC, his exhaustion winning out over the road grit that had made the idea of a shower appealing for about ten seconds before he'd decided to lie down on the bed while he thought about it.

So, that meant he was still fully clothed, including his boots, which further meant that all he had to do was grab the room key before he made for the door without bothering to so much as glance in the mirror. After all, it was two in the morning in freakin' Garber, Oklahoma , and he was headed to a truck stop, not an ice cream social. Once he closed the door behind him, Sam stopped and took a deep breath, hoping to clear his groggy head, but the September air was thick and smelled like truck exhaust, the warm damp weight of it making him wish he'd managed the shower before falling asleep or had at least splashed some cold water on his face just now, so he ran his fingers back through his hair as he started walking, tucking the lank strands that were long enough to stay there behind his ears, if only to stop it sticking and tickling uncomfortably against his skin.

His route took him from the asphalt of the motel parking lot, transitioned briefly to a strip of dirt no-man's land, and then concluded with the concrete paving of the truck stop itself, which was almost as colorfully and brightly lit in neon as some mobile home back off the side of the road all decorated for Christmas in every unnatural garish shade imaginable, was equally in the middle of nowhere, but the gleam here was entirely mercantile with no sign of any comparable noble sentiment. Sam spotted all of three or four customers in the restaurant and out by the gas and diesel pumps, but there was nobody else in the store section when he strolled in. The girl behind the counter stared at him without replying when he mumbled, "Hey" as he passed her on the way to the wall of drink coolers, and he could feel her eyes on him still as he checked over the selection.

Sam immediately felt every inch of his height as he wondered idly if being alone in the place with a man his size in the middle of the night was making her nervous, a thought that would normally be neutral and logical but which at the moment was vaguely depressing. Bypassing all the fancy vitamin waters and even the blandly healthy fruit juices, he chose a 16-oz. bottle of Mountain Dew, hesitating over getting the decaf version but then deciding that the caffeine might help his headache once he washed some aspirin down with it.

Crossing over to the section with pain relievers and other medicinal goods, he picked up a bottle of the aspirin before heading back over to the juices to get some OJ for the morning after all, all the while sensing the girl continuing to follow his every move, which was starting to annoy him in the way it set off a mildly defensive protest in his mind very similar to having a cop car pull in behind when he knew he wasn't doing anything wrong, not right then anyway, but he still couldn't stop himself from checking the speedometer just to be sure.

In this case, Sam knew he had every intention of paying and with cash too, but it didn't take much to amp up the flow rate on the steady rolling undercurrent of guilt and remorse that was his constant companion these days, although it had been there as long as he could remember if he let himself admit it, with only the particular reasons shuffling around and re-ranking themselves depending on circumstances. As he approached the cash register, Sam raised his eyes for a brief glance back before dropping them again as he set the items on the counter.

"Is that all?"

Sam finally looked directly at her as he answered, "Yeah, thanks."

Up close she was even younger than he'd thought, her skin pale and smooth under the fluorescent light, dark blonde hair cut so that it just reached the nape of her neck in the back but angled longer in the front, a style he knew there was probably a name for but that no doubt Sam wouldn't even recognize if he heard somebody else say it out loud.

"No problem," she said quietly as her large eyes peered back at him.

Then, when she almost immediately couldn't maintain the eye contact, he noticed that in contrast to the general impression of softness she gave off, her lashes were spiky and stiff-looking from being coated in too much stark black mascara, a girly product even he could give the proper name. She was pretending that she had to carefully examine each item as she rang it up, color briefly suffusing her face and then fading like the fleeting rose of sunrise giving way to a white winter sky.

"That'll be $11.28 with tax," she recited, a shy smile playing across her lips as she gazed up at him again.

"Okay," and the twenty he fished from his pocket was worn smooth like it'd been through the wash quite a few times with some fabric softener in the rinse.

She was painfully cute, maybe the barest hint of the pink in her cheeks lingering, and so painfully young too, too young to be checking him out this way, despite her blushes, as her eyes swept over him and kept dropping lower and lower with an intensity that said she wished she could see through his clothing, and Sam belatedly finally realized that all along she hadn't been afraid of him or worried that he was going to shoplift.

"You stayin' at the Redbud?" she asked as her fingers worked deftly in the cash drawer, back to not looking at him again.

"Yeah," and he hoped the monosyllable would satisfy her curiosity and that she'd let it drop right there.

Instead, she lifted his hand off the counter top and cradled it in her much smaller one as she went to place his change in it with the other. Sam's discomfort with the whole situation caused him to pull away with only the folding money securely deposited, so the coins splattered on the hard surface underneath, jangling loudly in contrast to the stillness of the empty store before rolling away to disappear.

"Oh, sorry," she called out.

Sam glanced automatically at the floor but didn't see any of them, not that he really cared.

"That's all right," he protested when she started punching buttons on the register to open it up again for replacement change.

"Okay, then," came the too-quick answer, and the tension kept on building while she was clearly trying to think of something else to say.

When she didn't actually speak, Sam broke the awkward silence, "Thanks then, bye, " the words all clipped staccato as he picked up the plastic bag containing his purchases and turned away.

At the last possible second after he'd already taken a couple of steps, she let fly with a Hail Mary, "Wait."

Against his better judgment, Sam froze and slowly faced her again, "Uh huh?" he asked warily.

"I'm Amy," she said. "Hey, so you wanna hang out awhile? It's so dead this time of night. Death by boredom. "

It was a transparent ploy, and it made him simultaneously and uncomfortably aware of both the really bad idea aspect of it as well as the budding flower appeal of her standing there looking at him with the invitation to do more than look back written all over her face. Sam didn't want to, but some feral animalistic part of him insisted he fully take in the picture she made, such vulnerable prey with her soft, poreless skin, her mouth slightly open, the high round curves of her breasts, and he further couldn't help seeing that her nipples were hard underneath her thin t-shirt, although she probably didn't even know it herself.

Jess had explained to him once that women couldn't necessarily always feel that when it happened randomly, not unless something else called attention to it, and the back-half of that memory along with the mere thought of Jess snapped Sam out of it, his inner voice vaguely self-accusatory even though he'd never for a minute considered letting anything happen anyway. On the contrary, he felt a wave of protectiveness break over him as he resolutely walked back over.

"Hey, Amy. I'm, uh, Keith. It's not exactly safe to talk too much to customers this time of night, ya know, men especially? I'm sure it really is boring too, and, believe me, I've had my share of boring jobs myself, but you should probably be more careful. Besides, I'm kinda too old for you anyway," he finished gently.

Although he hadn't thought through exactly what he'd expected her reaction to be, it wasn't the angry huff of her breath as the impetus for the color in her cheeks changed abruptly like the flick of a cat's tail.

"Yeah, thanks, Keith. But you don't know shit cause I make more money peddlin' my ass, or mostly my mouth, to the truckers on a good weekend than you probably clear in a month. But I still wasn't gonna charge you anything 'cause I thought you were hot."

"I'm sorry. I just−"

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Just leave already."

She didn't need to tell him twice, and he nearly stumbled when his boot heel caught on the concrete edge as it gave onto the dirt track in his haste to get back inside the solitude of the hotel room. Sam stood with his back against the door and banged his head against it a couple of times. What would it take for the instinct to help people to leave him alone, to leave him in peace, especially now that he wasn't hunting and would instead be trying to keep an even lower profile than usual?

He would just have to take this as another rude wake-up call to try that much harder to blend into the woodwork, although he couldn't think of anything he'd done or said to call attention to himself just now. Well, he would have to be even more on his guard then, must have eased up some from being tired and not used to not looking at every encounter from a hunter's perspective. On the other hand, maybe he needed to hold on to that perspective even tighter when he wasn't hunting because it wasn't like he'd actually forgotten he wasn't one of them, wasn't a civilian and never would be.

The unexpected detour things had taken back at the store had made him forget temporarily how thirsty he was, but the sudden throb behind his eyes reminded him again. Sam fished the aspirin bottle from the bag and tossed a few into his hand. Twisting off the cap of the soda and dropping it on the bed, he threw the pills into his mouth, turned up the bottle, and gulped until it collapsed inward from the suction. He yanked the bottle away from his mouth impatiently to release the pressure and then resumed drinking until it was half-empty, but the whole time his brain conjured up the image of another kind of suction, of Amy looking up at him from down on her knees where she was getting ready to take him into that disconcertingly-experienced mouth of hers.

Shaking his head violently, Sam tried to push the image away because it shouldn't ever have turned out that way for such a young girl. She was eighteen or nineteen at the most, and the idea of her doing that for money for a bunch of men old enough to be her father or maybe even her grandfather made him sick to his stomach. So why did the fleeting thought of her doing it to him make his dick twitch in his jeans, that little twitch promising to turn into a full-fledged boner? And it was too late to think it down now. He could tell that already as he fumbled on the bed for the bottle cap before twisting it firmly back on.

The unlikelihood of putting the genie of his hardening cock back in the bottle as easily forced a bitter eye roll as he pulled his shirt over his head and made for the shower that might itself seem like a symbolic attempt at a ritual cleansing too if it didn't actually mean instead that the temptation to jack off was only going to escalate once the warm water started running down his body. Traveling with Dean all this time ensured he'd almost always had to do it in the shower, and the only thing more unsettling than the unwanted flashes of Amy continuing to intrude into his head was the prospect of lying there in the dark for hours waiting for the sleep that would be difficult enough to come by after his unplanned nap earlier in the evening and all while also waiting for a hard-on to go away unassisted.

The empty futility and loneliness of that scenario matched up too well with constantly fighting against other things happening to him that he didn't want either but couldn't seem to stop any more than he could stop his dick from getting hard at any damn random daydream of a pretty girl offering to suck it. And it was no more than he could stop thinking about her doing it either after she'd blurted it all out back there even if she'd only said it because he'd unintentionally pissed her off and hurt her feelings from just wanting to keep something bad from happening to her some other time when it was somebody worse than him standing there who actually was burning to get his hands on her. Naturally, she didn't have any way of knowing that there might not be anybody worse than Sam alive on the face of the planet tonight all the same, except that it was for a completely unrelated reason.

Only it wasn't completely unrelated if he considered that sucking the wrong thing from the wrong person had been a big part of what got him where he was right now, alone in a skeevy motel room in Bumfuck, Oklahoma when he should have been in Bumfuck, whatever state Dean was in helping him fight. Since this was right where the vicious circle always started repeating its revolutions, Sam stepped out of his jeans and underwear and left them huddled together on the floor as he took in the familiar sight of his cock looking back up at him just as he'd expected, and with the usual expectant one-eyed salute, while he reached into the shower to adjust the water temperature a little hotter.

What the fuck was the point of taking a cold shower now anyway, what with the AC working pretty damn well in this place for cooling him back off after a hot one instead and for the fact that the frigid water only made things worse usually when he was already this far gone? And why exactly was he fighting so hard against picturing Amy going down on him for that matter? It wasn't like he could save her from whoring herself out or even go back in time to before he knew that she'd wanted to give him a freebie. He couldn't unknow it now, not any of it.

Sam stuck his head under the shower stream and let it soak his hair before stepping back to let the heated water flow directly over his erection. It felt so good that he stopped trying to resist and took his rigid length into his right hand instead and started jerking it in hard, angry strokes, bracing himself with the other hand against the wall of the shower, as merciless with his cock as his mind so often was with him, giving it up there too as he imagined Amy letting out muffled moans as he fucked against her mouth, imagined treating her and himself like the whores they both were because they didn't think they deserved any better. Well, she did, but it was too late for that, and he sure didn't, not any more. This wasn't going to take long, Sam stroking faster and faster and groaning out, "Fuck, fuck, fuck . . ." under his breath until the release hit him and then rinsed down the drain almost as quickly as it shot, him wishing the ache from having handled himself so roughly didn't feel so fucking good while he was coming even if it would leave him a little cock-sore afterward, and yet the thing would be just as hard and eager as usual whenever he woke up tomorrow morning, or this morning actually, considering what time it was.

Sam sighed and reached for the shampoo bottle, letting the foam do double duty as bath soap too because the post-orgasm drowsiness was rolling in, and he was hoping it would last long enough for him to make it back to the bed so he could possibly get some more sleep instead of taking a few thousand more laps around the track of guilt and recriminations and what-if's that never got him anywhere but only dug him deeper into the hole he was already in where he wasn't any good to himself or, more importantly, to anybody else either, which had to be the point of this whole sojourn anyway, the trying to get himself to where he could help again, not that it would undo anything that was already done, but that it was what he owed now, doing anything he could to help save whoever could be saved. Earning back Dean's trust and respect might be a byproduct of all that, but Sam wasn't counting on it.

Hurrying through the rest of his shower and collapsing into bed didn't stop him from worrying almost the second his head hit the pillow about the way he'd let himself fantasize about Amy just then. It still seemed wrong instead of just appropriately dirty even though it was true enough that he didn't exactly ever think about lollipops and candy canes at such times anyway, which only proved that he was no different than any other guy generally speaking. Earlier it had been a memory of Jess that had both helped him disengage from the purely physical appeal of an Amy that still had its effect separate from the fact that Sam had never considered so much as touching her and had then led him to muddle into making things worse with his misguided concern that she'd clearly interpreted as rejection and insult and probably even the coup de grâce of condescension. A pang of pure misery hit Sam, a fist of clenching, bruising tightness across his chest. God, he missed Jess, and the good memories were so much worse than just the abstract finality of her absence that was such a part of him now.

Somehow, over the course of their too-brief time together Jess had been able to maintain that indefinable female mystique that used to send him into a frenzy of needing to touch her, of trying to penetrate its core when he was inside her, but she'd also made him so comfortable in the sheltering embrace of her love and approval that they could talk about things like women's random nipple sensations being different than men's dicks getting hard because they didn't necessarily signal arousal or even get interpreted that way like a morning boner could for a guy. Sam had always figured that at least part of his fascination with that kind of revelation came from growing up in such a masculine world, and Jess had mixed a matter-of-fact bluntness with playfully teasing him for how eagerly he absorbed any little tidbits of entree she offered into the secret sisterhood of femininity. He'd loved it, basked in the privilege as tangible proof of their connection, and losing all of that too as part of losing her hurt unbearably every time it blindsided him with the betrayal of his own brain accessing such treasures without his consent.

Sam couldn't help wondering how much of himself, of the man he'd wanted to be with Jess, had been lost along with her. It almost didn't matter that Dean was right when he'd said that Jess wouldn't want him to mourn her for the rest of his life and never have contact with another woman again because the way Sam's life had unfolded and also unraveled since limited his options so severely that a fear had started to grow, despite the dark barren place he tried to push it to in his head, that even just the unavoidable fact of physical desire was steadily twisting and perverting within him through exposure to the same tangle of resentment and self-loathing and despair that the rest of his motivations had gotten knotted up with and that Ruby had been so successful at twining her fingers through and pretending to soothe.

Just when Sam had given up on trying to pimp out his apparently-worthless soul in exchange for Dean's, when he couldn't get so much as a kiss from any crossroads demon, Ruby had come along and spread her legs because she was willing to make him an even worse offer. She'd taunted him into whoring himself for the emotional equivalent of a few rocks of crack, into offering the slow death of what was left of his self-respect in return for the brief jags of brutal pleasure that could be had from surrendering to the poison vengeance that were all he had left to look forward to, and he'd fucked her with every last drop of the impotent rage and futility that was swirling around with the liquor and doing its own fair share of rotting his guts.

Then, he'd fucked Cara, and that wasn't him being deliberately coarse because it was only using the right term for it. In her case he'd done it partly because she was smart and funny and had made sure he could see quite a bit of that sexy sheer bra she was wearing from leaving at least two extra buttons undone on her shirt while she ever-so-bluntly breathed her intentions right in his ear, but mainly because she only wanted what he had to give. It hadn't seemed his place to tell her that the heavy partying and the fleeting thrills of exhibitionistic stranger-fucking might very well turn her cleverly-phrased wryness into a slow-settling bitterness as it led her down a different route that still ended up right where he was now, which was asking himself if the person he used to want to be was gone forever or if there was some feeble shred of hope left that he could get that Sam back someday, the one who'd wanted to marry Jess and let her squeeze his hand as hard as she needed to while she gave birth to their babies.

Shaking it off, he decided to give himself a break, for once anyway, because there weren't any answers to be had tonight and because his mind was such a minefield any more that he knew he really had lost all perspective on this subject and so many others too that he couldn't possibly figure out what his reaction to Amy meant. The fact that he felt so guilty suggested that it didn't mean his view of women as a species had radically changed from yesterday to today at least, so he took a deep breath and reflexively started to say a prayer for her when he stopped short.

Somewhere along the way, after everything that had gone wrong with the angels, he'd stopped praying altogether. Sam didn't remember deciding not to do it, just that a couple of times he'd started to and then felt weird about it and let it go. Still, it had to be God or someone else really powerful who thought he was worth the effort who pulled him along with Dean out of that church and into the airplane rather than just saving Dean and leaving him there to die instead, so maybe it wouldn't hurt to be just a little grateful for that even if he had no way of knowing who was responsible. He understood that the not knowing for sure was the whole point of faith, and while he didn't feel right considering this puny little impulse as worthy to be called that just yet, it was something anyway, so Sam prayed that Amy would be okay and that someday soon somebody who cared about her would be able to get her out of the life before it destroyed her completely, and then, at the end, when he whispered out loud, "Thank you," he meant it for himself too.

And I can feel the Sweet Illusion coming
Sweet Confusion, honey
Sweet Illusion coming down
And I ain't got nothing but love for you
Love for you I can't use
And lonely nights multiplied by the blues
That I can't resolve

(Part Two)

You and I used to shine like a jewel
But time's been nothing to us but cruel
So play it out and never played the fool
Cause you'll lose every time

"Trick or Treat, slut."

"Gotta be tricks, right? Like turning tricks, get it?"

Little more than a chuckle and some imbecilic smirks greeted this weak effort. So, why not fall back on a moldy classic when it was still just as ugly as the day the first Neanderthal grunted it?

"Who'd be stupid enough to pay for it when she gives it out for free, right Eddie?"

"Whatever. Let's just go, guys. We're gonna be late for practice."

Eddie Holtower cast a quick glance back over his shoulder as he followed his pack of wit-challenged friends in the direction of the football practice field. The dark-haired girl they'd subjected to their lame attempt at a seasonal version of what was most likely their usual brand of cruelty kept her gaze level, refusing to give them any outward sign that their barbs had held any sting for her. None of them noticed the new kid who'd been cutting across the tree-lined vacant lot that had given him an unsought front row seat for the whole revolting tableau.

Sam Winchester couldn't read the expression in the apparent pack leader's eyes when he'd looked back at the girl, but it wasn't an obvious sneer or typical jock bravado. Sam hadn't been around long enough yet to suss out the formal pecking order, but he did know that Eddie was the quarterback of the football team and a senior at that, which in Sam's experience was usually enough to put a guy at the top if he wanted it.

Allowing a few more seconds to be sure the guys were far enough away to make a return engagement unlikely in case they'd want to turn their attentions to a new target like his own skinny sophomore self for instance, Sam ran a hand through his hair to push the messiest strands back out of his eyes and stepped out of the trees and onto the sidewalk.

Normally, he'd be at least a little happy that a hunt had landed them for awhile somewhere with four seasons, so he'd have a chance to take in some late-October color like the range of muted red and burnt orange and smoky brown the trees around Brockton, VA were sporting today, but right now the unbroken line of trees was unkindly serving to turn this side street into a mini wind tunnel that chose this moment to prove it as a chilly gust tinged with chillier damp rolled over Sam and effortlessly conquered the hand-me-down sweat shirt and thin, faded army jacket that had both paid a few too many visits to the laundromat to offer him much protection.

Unable to repress a shiver, Sam walked faster, face averted as if it would help, and he was just deciding that fifteen was plenty old enough to say no to the haircut his dad was sure to be demanding any day now when he looked back up in time to see that his quickened pace, born of a growing desire to get inside out of the gray cold that was giving over from damp to actual mist, had almost caught him up to the fiercely striding boots of Dacey Henderson, the girl that collection of heartless jockstraps had just been hassling. She was in his ten o'clock study hall, which was the reason he knew her by name. Otherwise, there was no way he'd know even that much about a girl two grades ahead of him, no matter her reputation. Because that was the thing: Dacey did have a reputation that fell generally in line with the tenor of the insults from earlier.

Stifling the uncharitable twinge of annoyance that slowing his strides to avoid overtaking her had inspired because the rational part of his brain knew that it wasn't actually her fault or any grand conspiracy of the elements to freeze his insignificant-to-the-universe ass off, Sam wondered if there was any truth to the rumors. Before he'd had more than a moment to ponder, he got unmistakable confirmation that the universe assuredly had no ill intentions to spare for him this day because it had clearly decided to go for broke on Dacey instead. In her haste to quit the scene of one humiliation, she'd tripped somehow and quite literally landed face down in another as Sam watched her go sprawling into a heap on the sidewalk.

Stopped in his tracks by uncertainty, Sam's body decided on its own to start moving again when he saw that she wasn't. The chest-tightening ache of helplessness only expanded as he stood over her, now that he was struck silent by the unwelcome observation that she'd only seemed motionless from a distance. Instead, her shoulders were shaking slightly in a motion that he all-too-easily recognized from seeing it on various civilians they'd rescued from whatever variety of goblin or ghoul was on the rampage on a given day, occasions that always led the nearest Winchester to murmur incoherently that everything was going to be all right, punctuated with awkward pats or even hugs when the surviving victim was so inclined.

Thus, falling back on hunter instinct, Sam crouched next to Dacey, placed the fingertips of one hand lightly on her shoulder, and opened his mouth to ask," Are you –"

But he never got the rest of the question out because, with the speed and ferocity of a wounded animal, the girl scuttled out of his reach and into her own crouch, her eyes clouded by the expected unshed tears and the lingering daze of the unexpected fall, palms of both hands pressed against the concrete for balance as the weight of her book bag shifted heavily to one side, eliciting a pained wince as she spat at him, "Don't you touch me!"

Startled by this turn of events, Sam still found hunter mode the best option and so offered in his calmest, most carefully non-threatening tone, "I won't. I'm not movin' a muscle here. Just wondering if you can make it okay to get wherever you were going on your own."

Without answering, Dacey rose slowly to her feet. Sam could see traces of blood oozing from her palms where she'd no doubt put her hands out to catch her fall. There were faint palm prints in red on the sidewalk where she'd just been steadying herself, and as his eyes moved upward he saw a patch of the same color soaking through the ripped denim of her jeans over one knee that must have taken the rest of the brunt of her landing. He saw no signs of injury, not physical anyway, to her face or head, which was good, but, just as he feared, when she went to put weight on the leg with the bloody knee, a gasp of pain escaped her lips, and a flash of fear crowded the anger in her eyes as she glared at him.

Well, at first he thought the expression was meant for him, and maybe a part of it was, but then the realization hit him that she was looking past him back in the direction that Eddie and the goons had headed, and, without further calculation, he offered, "They won't be back any time soon. I heard 'em say they were going to football practice, walking clichés that they are."

Though the wariness didn't leave her eyes, the corners of Dacey's mouth turned up a little, her lips cracking open enough to reveal a glimpse of white teeth and a hint of dimple in one cheek, not that Sam meant to notice it.

"You're the new kid, right?"

If only he had a dollar for every time he'd heard that one, but it was easier just to keep things simple, so he only replied, "Yeah, Sam Winchester."

"You're in Hodge's study hall, right?"

"Yeah."

"Dacey, Dacey Henderson ."

"I know."

The brief thaw almost as suddenly started to freeze over, "What do you mean,'I know?" sliced back at him, a blade coated in ice.

"Um, well, Hodge may be an ancient geezer, but he does call the roll before he nods off most days."

His quick thinking earned Sam the blush of color staining Dacey's pale cheeks just before another gust from the wind tunnel effect fanned a curtain of brown waves across them to briefly block her face from his view, and Sam hoped that meant that whatever goofy look might have just graced his own in response was also invisible to her because, reputation or not, true or not, she was still a pretty girl, and it didn't really even matter that she was pretty because nobody deserved to be taunted for whatever damn problem those morons had with whatever the hell they were so insecure about in themselves, the assholes. But, all the same, Sam did think she was awfully pretty, hence the goofiness that he hoped wouldn't linger and foil any chance he might have to at least make sure she got home okay.

Sam plunged both hands into the scalding dishwater, steam rising from the heated suds that instantly banished the lingering cold and stiffness from their bones, the effects of the drizzly autumn day increased by the extra distance he'd covered by walking Dacey to her door, and it was to her door and no further. He felt vaguely silly that his whole body had gone on high alert just from having her arm resting across his shoulders as he'd helped her try to balance her gait to protect her injured knee. She was a pretty tough girl though because they hadn't gotten too far before she was forcing herself to gradually increase the weight on the affected leg until she was barely limping by the time they got to her house. She hadn't moved her arm though, and Sam could somehow feel its absence now that he was alone again.

Her being that close had meant breathing in the leather scent of her jacket mixed with whatever was in her perfume that made Sam think of some exotic herbal tea, citrus maybe and spices, but sweet too. He didn't know why, but the mingled fragrances reminded him of those kids' cartoon TV specials they showed every year for fall holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving, like what the houses of normal families with apple pie lives must smell like this time of year.

"Winchester , like the rifle? I guess you catch some heat for that, huh? Those kinda guys don't have much imagination for sure."

"Yeah, sometimes, I guess. Mostly, I ignore it. Not usually around long enough to bother caring. Waste of time and energy."

"I get it. I was the new kid myself this past summer. It went okay at first, but then everything changed after school started."

Sam had for sure wanted to hear about what had happened to change Dacey's situation, but he hadn't dared ask. He was afraid he did already know, and he figured she wouldn't want to talk about it. Frowning, he scrubbed the frying pan in his hands a little harder. The non-stick coating was worn in places, and the scrambled eggs had left a sticky residue that hadn't soaked off. Dean's eggs were always softer and fluffier without being runny, but Sam always seemed to get distracted and over-cook them.

If Dean were here, he'd probably give him crap about letting the smell of a girl's perfume stir up all these conflicted emotions: the sense of shared loneliness, that he was maybe only imagining, of a couple of outcasts with secrets they didn't want to tell anyone, Sam's oft-buried but stubbornly lingering nostalgia for a mythical home he'd never known, but also the excitement that being touching-close to Dacey had awakened, thoughts of other kinds of touching, the dirty thrill of knowing, or at least supposing, that she had let somebody touch her and more, but then came the shame for feeding lust and longing on something that had ended up causing her pain. It was wrong and unworthy, but it was also mixed in there with the other feelings, and Sam wasn't quite ready to stop daydreaming about having his fingers in her silky hair and of holding her close to him because she wanted him to and with no banged-up knee as any part of the equation.

Despite his avid daydreaming the evening before, Sam didn't actually harbor any real -world expectations about himself and Dacey. He wasn't going to say or do anything to subject himself to that kind of abject humiliation. He got enough of that sort of thing from Dean's occasional teasing and just by comparison to his brother's easy prowess charming "the ladies" as Dean put it. Still, he'd thought he caught her staring at him a couple of times in study hall but had decided he either had a smudge on his face or that it didn't mean anything except that he happened to be in her line of sight to whatever she was looking at.

Instead, as he was getting the books for his homework assignments together at his locker, he discovered to his shock that he hadn't been imagining things after all.

"So, Winchester- "

"Sam."

"Okay, Sam. Advanced Calculus? You must be one of those mathletes, right?"

Advanced Calculus had been the subject he was working on in study hall, and that book was already in his bag now, so she had been watching him.

"Well, I don't know about that."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't being sarcastic. I was just wondering. . . . Oh, never mind. You're probably too busy."

"No, wait. What were you gonna ask me? It's fine. I have time."

"Great, Sam," he thought. "Why not just stick out your tongue and pant like a little puppy dog too, for crap's sake?"

"Okay, well, compared to you I'm like math illiterate. I'm more into English and History, but, anyway, I have to survive Algebra 2 to graduate, and the exam next Mon. counts for half our semester grade. To stay on Honor Roll I need to get at least a B on this test. I've been fine up until the stuff we started covering recently, but I was hoping maybe you could help me study, tutor me, you know. I can pay you, not much, but—"

"You don't have to pay me."

"You'll do it? But you have to at least let me make you dinner."

"Oh, you want to do it at your house?"

"Why? Is that a problem?"

It was most definitely not a problem. The thought of spending several hours alone with Dacey and in her home at that, the intimacy of it, had Sam's heart knocking against his ribs and his "inner Dean" simultaneously mocking him heartlessly for it. And dinner too, apparently to be cooked by Dacey herself?

"No, not at all. "

"Good. I thought maybe your parents had some rule where they had to meet me first or something."

"No, nothing like that. My, uh, family is out of town anyway."

"Okay, that works out. My mom is visiting my Aunt Janie until Sun., so there won't be any hovering parental unit. How's tomorrow after school? I live walking distance."

"I know."

"Right. Of course you do. You were sweet enough to walk me home after I nearly bit your head off. Sorry about that."

"Understandable after those guys were such jerks to you. But that's fine. Tomorrow is fine."

Dacey's expression clouded briefly while he was speaking, so he was instantly sorry for even having mentioned the ugly scene he'd witnessed. Maybe she saw the flicker of regret on his face because her own registered what looked like cautious gratitude, and Sam made an extra effort to paste on a nonspecific expression now, so she wouldn't read there that he was seething on the inside, seething at Eddie and his idiot friends for all that they'd done to make her doubt that people could be kind and helpful without ulterior motives.

He might never find out the details of what exactly had happened and certainly wasn't going to ask her outright, but that didn't stop him from resenting the injustice of it all on her behalf and from wishing there was some way he could avenge her honor. And there was no doubt in his mind that she was the wronged party, if for no other reason than for his memory of Eddie's face as she'd been walking away. Whatever made Eddie look back at Dacey wasn't a clear conscience, that was for certain.

Since the role of avenging knight-errant wasn't available, then helping her pass a math test would have to do. The fact that there was nothing he'd rather do with his own time than spend it alone with her didn't qualify as an ulterior motive, did it? Well, at least not an intentional one because he couldn't figure out how he was supposed to keep from feeling that way about it.

"I really appreciate this, Sam."

"No problem."

"Meet here tomorrow then?"

"Sure, I'll be here."

"Bye."

"Bye, Dacey."

"Vegetarian lasagna okay, Sam? We eat dairy but not meat, my mom and me."

Dacey was wearing a soft-looking rose pink sweater that did magical things with her dark hair and eyes and lent some color to her complexion, although some of that may have been from peering into the oven to check on the food.

Realizing that it was past time that he answered such a simple question, Sam got his mouth open finally.

"Yeah, that's fine. It smells great."

"Good. I hope you don't think I cheated on the dinner promise because my Mom left this already cooked for me. I just had to thaw and heat."

Dacey's smile was mischievous, and Sam would have forgiven her for any number of things when she was looking at him like that, but he managed to keep his cool, or at least he hoped so.

"No, Mom-cooked is just as good. My brother does most of the cooking at our place."

"Really? What about your Mom?"

"She died when I was a baby."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sam. That's so sad."

"It's all right. Dean does all right."

Sam was grateful that Dacey proved insightful enough to get that he didn't want to talk about his family, especially not his mother's death, but even just thinking about it for the few seconds it took to answer her innocent inquiry opened up something that ached deep down, and the gratitude that followed bled over into the other warm feelings growing inside him for her, unbidden and getting very close to unwanted because they were "Unrequited feelings," he savagely reminded himself, hoping to sear the ache of vulnerability back shut again, like trying to cauterize a wound before it could fester and hurt him more from getting his hopes up.

"Well, it's carb-loading night at the Henderson's because we're having garlic bread too and salad. You like Ranch or Italian?"

"Both."

Sam had answered without filtering, forgetting that he didn't usually like to invite comment on this foody quirk, maybe because Dean used to give him crap about it.

"Me too!"

And Dacey's grin this time undid all Sam's earlier work hardening his heart against her.

Sam kept trying to turn his attention back to the math book and the notes he was making for her, but it was a struggle not taking advantage of the opportunity afforded by Dacey having conked out a couple of hours after dinner to drink his fill of gazing at her when she couldn't catch him at it.

Then, he'd decide it would be worse if she did wake up and catching him drooling over her, so he'd go back to note-making again.

"Vicious cycle," he almost giggled to himself.

Maybe he was getting pretty tired too. Earlier on he'd moved to the floor, so he could write easier with his notebook on the coffee table. Pausing first only to stretch his arms up and back along with the curve of his spine as it arched into the pleasure of the movement, Sam stood up and looked down at the sleeping form half-sprawled on the sofa. The view improved with proximity, so Sam framed the image of her hair scattered across a pillow and dark lashes and curving lips in his mind to take back to their short-term leased apartment with him. He wouldn't even let himself dignify the place as any kind of real home.

A fleeting sense of déjà vu passed over him as he reached out to touch Dacey's shoulder. He hoped this time would be different from the cornered animal reaction he'd gotten that first time they met.

"Hey, Dacey. You fell asleep."

Without opening her eyes, she treated him to a glimpse of the dimple in her left cheek, and how was he supposed to not have memorized by now which side that dimple was on?

"Carb-coma."

"Getcha every time."

Dacey draped the back of her hand in front of her eyes as she wobbled into an upright position, which Sam found ridiculously adorable.

"Sound sleeper, huh?"

"When I'm gorked out on lasagna and three pieces of garlic bread, yeah. Other times, not so much."

Maybe because he had lost the battle with himself over minutely observing every flicker of expression change on Dacey's face, Sam saw the troubled cloud that settled there for just a few seconds before she shook her head ever so slightly and looked straight into his soul with an almost-convincing smile superimposed over whatever nightmare or sorrow she had actually just been thinking about.

Then, she reached out and picked up his notebook from the coffee table.

"Oh, Sam. You didn't have to do this. It's already so nice of you to help me–"

"It's nothing. The examples in the textbook are worthless, so I just wrote down some better ones that are more helpful in understanding the mathematical principles involved."

"You are!" Dacey started laughing.

"What? I'm what?"

"You are a mathlete! I knew it."

Sam didn't need a mirror to know that he was blushing profusely. A torrent of protest to the contrary would only make things worse. He knew that much from living with Dean, so he just smiled, weakly.

"No, no, Sam. I'm not laughing at you. You're the sweetest thing–"

There was no hiding the involuntary wince.

"Oh, I'm sorry," and Dacey succeeded admirably in stifling her laughter. "I know. I know. Guys hate to be called 'sweet' or 'pretty', even when they're both."

And the mischief was back lighting up her eyes and adding at least twenty beats per minute to Sam's racing heart at hearing her compliments, even if she was right that they were embarrassingly girly. Dean would have peed his pants with glee by now if he could have witnessed this conversation.

"Okay, I'll stop. But, seriously Sam, I owe you big-time for all your help, and I do really appreciate it."

"No big deal. I'm glad to help, really."

She was still smiling at him, but the smile had morphed into something entirely more difficult to withstand because it was tinged with sadness and gratitude, and all Sam had to do to figure out why was to remember the ugly scene he'd witnessed and to picture her making her way alone through the halls at school, much like himself, even if their reasons for being ignored were different. To tell the truth, Sam knew now for sure that being ignored must hurt less than what was really going on for Dacey. She wasn't just being ignored; she was being shunned. It was too much for his idiotically-smitten heart to bear even as he could feel the silence stretching on and on, yet he found himself tongue-tied until Dacey finally managed to speak.

"Well, uh, it's gettin' pretty late, I guess."

"Oh. Yeah, it is."

Sam welcomed the chance to look at something other than Dacey for once as he gathered up his things and stuffed them into his backpack.

"I'll walk you out."

"Okay."

Then, the door was open, and he was stepping out into the night, well technically the well-lit porch, and then it would be off to the darkness of that empty apartment.

"Good night, Dacey. Thanks so much for dinner. It was great."

Before she replied, she lightly grasped his arm, her fingers warm and soft like he'd known they'd be if she ever touched him, something he'd thought would never happen again unless by accident or unless she made a habit of falling over all the time, which seemed unlikely, and now he was babbling to himself, but at least it wasn't out loud.

"Wait, Sam. Tomorrow night's Halloween. We don't usually get a lot of kids trick-or-treating, but it's fun to hang out and watch Rocky Horror and take the excuse to pig out on candy and stuff. Anyway, do you already have plans?"

"No, I–"

"I mean, it's Sat. night too. Maybe we can study a little, but mainly watch scary movies, and I can make popcorn. Do you even like Halloween?"

Sam didn't like Halloween. How could he with the family business being what it was? But just this once maybe he could pretend it was all fake, so he could spend more time alone with this girl who was going to rip his heart into a thousand tiny pieces when she eventually made it so clear that he couldn't fail to accept it that she didn't remotely feel the same way about him that he already felt about her. She wanted to be his friend though, and, as much as it sucked that that was all, being her friend was something she needed from him, and he was powerless to resist.

"I've never seen Rocky Horror. Isn't there singing and dancing in it?"

Sam feigned skepticism, but he was going to say yes. Dacey deserved a little teasing though after calling him sweet and pretty. He was still pretending that the thought that she found him at least a little attractive wasn't the thrill of his lifetime so far.

"Well, it's sort of a parody musical. I mean, it's a parody of 1950's horror movies in musical form, but the subtext is more overt, the sexual subtext anyway. Hey, on the other hand, it's got gore and a motorcycle and some other guy stuff, like Susan Sarandon in her underwear, if you like that sort of thing."

"A motorcycle, huh? I can't picture a guy dressed up in a corset and fishnets riding a motorcycle."

Dacey smacked Sam lightly on the same arm she'd just been holding so gently, but he knew he'd asked for it. This was really fun.

"Sam Winchester, you sneaky thing. You have seen it."

Sam grinned. "Not the whole thing, just bits and pieces when my brother watches it. He's actually the sneaky one because he only does when he thinks nobody's noticing. I caught him mouthing the words to that "Time Warp' song once, but he mainly watches for the hot actress in her underwear. He has a thing for Susan Sarandon's um, assets, I guess you'd say."

"I think she's gorgeous too. So, does this mean you'll come over?"

"Sure, I was just messin' with ya. What time?"

"How about 8:00? You'll miss most of the trick-or-treaters that way."

"Okay. See you then."

And Sam knew he was crazy to be so excited, to be anticipating another night alone with Dacey like it was a real date or something, but he was tired of fighting it. If he didn't make a fool out of himself, she'd never know anyway. So, all he had to do was play it reasonably cool, and whatever pain he was in for later could stay his own little secret.

Well, so much for playing it cool, but it wasn't remotely his fault. Sam was a little out of his depth, okay a lot out of his depth. He felt like a creeper sitting there in the dark watching Dacey sleep, but he was afraid to leave her alone considering she'd been pretty wasted and had more or less passed out before he'd carried her to what he was reasonably sure was her bedroom.

Things had seemed fine when he first got there, but then he had to admit she'd seemed a little different than the night before, a little hyper, maybe, but he hadn't really caught on to it right away.

"How did you know?"

She was beaming at him like he'd done something really amazing and not just having had enough manners not to show up empty-handed.

"You got 'em out of the vending machine at school one time, so I figured you liked 'em," he shrugged.

"Skittles are my favorite. Thanks, Sam. Come on in."

Other than that easily-overlookable slight excess of politeness or whatever Sam had originally chalked it up to, things proceeded normally with Dacey waving him back to the couch when he'd offered to help as she set them up with popcorn and a bowl of the rainbow-colored candies along with another of assorted mini-sized chocolate bars. Right after that the first sign of trouble appeared, but Sam had easily stifled the slight twang of anxiety he felt, probably because it was no competition for how happy he was to be here again so soon with her.

He was using all his energy at that time to squelch instead the loopy grin that his face wanted to wear while he took in the over-sized t-shirt she was wearing emblazoned with an image of Charlie Brown from the Halloween show wearing the ghost costume with the multiple eyes cut out of a bed sheet due to the hapless cartoon boy having sadly failed at wielding scissors before the further humiliation of later being completely shut out of all the treat side of the trick-or-treating process, aptly summarized by the slogan on the t-shirt: "I got a rock." If the t-shirt hadn't been distraction enough, her lower half clad in black leggings that clung to every lovely curve would have been plenty.

So, he was cursing himself now for overlooking the warnings, both subtle and more obvious, that Dacey wasn't herself.

"We have soda, OJ, wine coolers, um, wild berry, and water, of course."

"Soda, please. I can get it."

"I'm already up, but you can get your own refills later, deal?"

"Sure."

Dacey had returned promptly with the soda for Sam, but he'd only noticed her half-empty wine cooler bottle when she set it down on a coaster on the coffee table next to the bowl of Skittles. He'd barely registered the fact that Dacey had started drinking alcohol some time before his arrival when the return of the teasing tone from last night completely captured his full attention.

"Okay, Sam. Since you're a Rocky Horror virgin, I'll teach you all the responses to yell at the TV, but I didn't do the props, mainly because I don't want to vacuum up rice or sit around in a damp shirt from water pistols. We'll do that next time, okay?"

Lost in the wave of giddy joy that the mention of a "next time" had swept over his entire body, he barely noticed that, no sooner than she'd started the movie playing, she'd raised the wine cooler bottle to her lips and knocked back several swallows in succession. Then, as the movie played out, he'd enjoyed it well enough, but mostly he thrilled at how much Dacey seemed to be enjoying it, the pleasure seemingly born in equal measure from both interacting with the film itself, one eyebrow arched wryly as she belted out, "Where's your neck?" each time the Criminologist appeared, one of many other and sundry call-backs to the oddly-paced dialogue, some of them pretty racy, as well as her frequent glances to catch his reactions, several of which elicited outright giggling on Dacey's part.

She seemed to get particular amusement from Sam's involuntary head tilt and grimace at the moment when Dr. Frank-n-furter threw off his shiny cape and first revealed his ensemble of corset and fishnet stockings and platform heels. Sam had neglected to mention the shoes when he'd joked around with Dacey the night before.

Now that he thought about it, he felt like the commercial for that vegetable juice where everybody smacked themselves in the forehead for forgetting to drink it instead of downing the actual vegetables themselves, vegetable also being an appropriate description of his state of mind over the course of the movie for not having noticed that Dacey was getting hammered on wine coolers. She had seemed fine when she got up and danced to the Time Warp song, not stumbling or wobbling at all, but then that scene occurred pretty early in the show.

Sam sighed. There was no point in second guessing it all now, but his face went red, one part embarrassment and one part shame, at remembering that before he'd caught on to Dacey's situation he'd been feeling a little aroused by all the sexual stuff in the movie, a little uncomfortable with the gay stuff, mostly from unfamiliarity, because he wasn't homophobic or anything; how could he be as an amateur scientist and mathlete, and here Sam allowed himself an eye roll. There was also the part where each time Dacey came back from the kitchen she seemed to sit a little closer to him on the sofa, finally leaning against his side with her head on his shoulder.

"Yeah, genius. Pay attention to that part about 'coming back from the kitchen' because it should have been 'coming back from the kitchen with another wine cooler.'"

He'd only noticed finally, just before the crucial moment, when he went to fetch himself another soda, his mouth dry from popcorn and sugar and possibly a little mouth breathing over the aforementioned sexy activities in the film. In his defense, there had been a freakin' orgy scene, for Pete's sake. When he tossed his soda can in the trash, it clinked off glass, and the sound caught his attention. He'd counted four wine cooler bottles right on top of the container, but there was no way to know how many Dacey had actually drunk.

Uneasy, Sam had sat down with a little distance between himself and Dacey and tried to be casual popping open the soda and setting it down because he was also trying to get a look at Dacey's face and body language without her noticing. Before he could formulate a clear hunter-in-training observation, she'd made her move. Sidling over closer to him, she'd taken his hand between both of hers and started petting it gently and muttering under her breath, her gaze downcast.

"Pretty fingers, pretty eyes. Such a nice Sam too."

"Hey, Dacey. You feelin' okay?"

Her eyes met his suddenly, and Sam was taken aback at the incongruity that they were both dulled by alcohol yet simultaneously burning into his own with an intensity that was overwhelming. This was starting to become a pattern, his being overcome with empathy or some such mush whenever Dacey revealed some measure of her hidden, vulnerable side to him.

"Fine. Such a sweet Sam. Soft…"

Here her fingers sought out his mouth, trailing lightly over his lips, tracing a vaguely circular path around them. The sensation was so overpowering in the gentleness of its transmission that he was paralyzed and silent, unable to open the orifice to any other purpose for the exact amount of time it took for her to read his inaction as consent, which was perfectly understandable because when she replaced her fingertips with her own lips, Sam let her do it, let her kiss him and kissed her back, his own fingers instinctively seeking the silky hair that, until that moment, had only inadvertently brushed against his jacketed arm with maybe a strand or two blowing against his cold-numbed cheek that first day he'd helped her home.

Sam was anything but cold or numb as the kiss progressed, transported and responsive as she pressed her wild-berry-and-Skittles-flavored tongue into his eagerly-opened mouth, some primitive part of his brain lulling him with chemical responses to the dart points of stimulation stabbing at multiple bodily sites in succession, the two sharpest of which were the throbbing pressure of his racing heart and an entirely different yet also a throbbing pressure just behind the zipper of his jeans.

It had only been when he felt Dacey's fingers traveling down his side and then across his hip bone honing in on that zipper herself that Sam recovered his sanity. He was certain that he'd never have let anything happen, the most convincing evidence of that the fact that he hadn't, but he also simply knew for sure that he wouldn't have done anything but the kissing. There was no way he would have taken advantage of her inebriated state, but Sam even felt guilty that things had gotten as far as they did.

Worse, there was no fixing it that their first kiss had been alcohol-inspired. Now he might never know if she really wanted to kiss him for him or not. Instead, she'd gone limp almost as soon as he'd stopped the forward progress of that seeking hand, and he'd carried her here where she was now, out like the proverbial light, having taken most of the joy of that first kiss with her.