Title: In Case of Emergency 1/3
Summary: Sam's away at college and both boys learn to cope without the other, but nothing is easy for a Winchester.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even for Christmas.
A/N: This fic is written for ObuletShadowStalker in the SFTCOL(AR)S Secret Santa Fic Exchange. The other two parts should be up before Christmas--I'm doing my very best! The prompt was a lot of fun to work with, so I hope she enjoys :)
-o-
Sam never realized how much he liked normal until he didn't have it anymore, until he wasn't allowed to have it anymore. When it was out of his reach, there was nothing he wanted more. He missed being allowed to have friends, being allowed to play, being allowed to be a kid. Now, everything was about training, training and hunting and keeping secrets. Sam hated it.
True, he wanted to be like his dad, strong and gruff and brilliant. And he wanted to be like Dean, fearless and quick and apt.
But he was only Sam, and Sam also wanted to do well in school, wanted to make friends, wanted to play sports.
Fortunately, school came easily to him, so that wasn't a problem. Friends were hard to make and harder to keep with the rate at which they moved and the fact that Sam wasn't allowed to have people over, nor was he often allowed to visit them. That left school and other school-sponsored activities for socialization.
Activities like sports.
Not only could sports help him make friends, but they were fun. They required skill and stamina, just like hunting, but without the danger, without the constant fear. That was what he wanted.
It seemed perfectly reasonable in his mind, but the minute he asked his dad if he could join the baseball league, he knew the answer wouldn't be positive.
"Sports are dangerous," his dad replied gruffly.
Sam's jaw dropped. He'd foreseen many objections from his father, but danger hadn't been one of them. "Dangerous? Sports are dangerous?"
His father eyed him blandly over the top of the paper. "You heard me."
"Dad, hunting is dangerous. Monsters and spirits are dangerous. Sports are just fun. They can even help me keep in shape."
John took a drink from his coffee mug. "A training regimen is better for that."
Sam rolled his eyes. "But not nearly as much fun."
"Believe it or not, Samuel, training isn't about having fun."
The sigh that escaped Sam's lips was petulant and frustrated. "Trust me, I'm getting that."
"You're too old for this, anyway," John told him simply. "I let you play your silly little games when you were a kid. But you're a teenager now. When Dean was your age, he was already out in the field, helping me out. It's time for you to start pulling your weight around here."
"You never let me go with you," Sam protested.
"Because you never train," his dad countered emphatically.
Logic was getting him nowhere. Sam felt defeat looming in front of him. His father would not be swayed by attempts at reason. Sam employed the last thing he had: eliciting sympathy.
Eyes wide, sad, and desperate, he beseeched his father's face. "Please, Dad," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I really want to play."
John looked up, meeting his imploring gaze over the paper. Then his eyes dropped. "No," he said shortly. "Now go get ready for some target practice. Have Dean take you out. When you've hit fifteen, you can come in."
Sam swallowed his cry of protest before he let it escape. It wouldn't do any good. He wasn't ready for a yelling match--not now, not over this. Shoulders sagging, he fought the stinging in his eyes. Gulping in a shaky breath, he managed a tremulous "Yes, sir."
-o-
The music was loud and the day was hot for mid-October. The windows were open, but no breeze graced the room, which was nothing more than a 12 by 12 oven, in Sam's estimation. It was barren and dingy; the smell never seemed to leave. Sam was pretty sure there was something growing in his roommate's dirty dishes, still piled in the lone sink they shared.
The dorm floor was noisy and the building itself was old. To keep things ventilated, Sam found that an open door usually did the trick, though that usually invited raucous visitors and allowed all the noise from the hall direct access to his room. There were times when it seems like a 24-hour party, and Sam had to remind himself that this was Stanford.
It wasn't all bad, despite appearances. Having lived there for nearly two months now, it felt more like home than any other placed he'd ever lived. The communal bathrooms were a pain, but at least he didn't fear retribution from his big brother. He guarded his bottle of shampoo, though, regardless.
He had a bed and he had a desk, which was really all he'd ever needed. With his student ID, he had access to all the books in the world, free of charge. His full ride covered housing expenses, (though it had never specified the quality of the housing). But it was close to campus, and it was his.
His and his roommate's and the two dozen other guys who occupied the floor, that is. But this was Stanford, Sam's shot at freedom, his shot at life, and he couldn't let himself regret that.
That didn't mean it wasn't lonely. He'd walked out so fast that it'd never occurred to him just what he was leaving. Part of him had always thought it would never come to this, that his father would understand, that he could have both his family and his dreams.
But it hadn't worked out that way. And, in the end, he hadn't had a choice. He just wanted both, he needed both, and his father had backed him into a corner one too many times. He was suffocating there. Now he was flailing apart from them. Cut off from his father, from Dean, from everything he'd ever known--it was a high price, one he didn't know if he'd make again, but one he tried to keep convincing himself was worth it.
Sighing, he let the thought escape him, trying to focus again on his textbook. The one thing he could do, the thing he could control, was studying. His grades had gotten him this far; they were all he had to keep him going.
His grades didn't help him make friends, though, and he found that his roommate was gone more often than he was around. Eric Monroe was from San Francisco--a party boy, from everything Sam saw of him, and probably an inherent genius if Sam could guess from the grades he saw scrawled across his papers on his desk. Eric was friendly and had invited Sam on more than one partying binge, despite Sam's repeated refusals. Clearly, he found Sam to be a stiff, though he never said so, and Sam couldn't help but wish for the quiet and solitude he had so often found in the motel rooms his father dragged him to.
The other kids on the floor were equally friendly, though more focused on playing games and performing pranks than studying. In all of Sam's extensive training, in all of his yearning for normalcy, he'd never known the first thing about living like a normal kid. Goofing around didn't come naturally, and social situations made him feel awkward and glaringly out of place. Which, really, seemed about right--to finally have what he wanted and to not know how to enjoy it.
A series of whoops erupted in the hallway, and Sam forced himself to focus. The only thing he could do was study. It was his only outlet. The only thing he knew.
With a resolved furrow of his brow, Sam started to read again, forcing his mind to take in the details of the French Revolution.
Before he got very far, laughter sounded again from the hall, closer now, and Sam contemplated shutting the door. He might have done it, despite how antisocial it would seem and how easily the small room would become a sauna, but the chatter from his floormates grew closer until Eric was flying through the door and flopping on the bed.
"Dude, we've been thinking," he said.
Sam looked up, his eyebrows raised. Eric was lounging on his bed, looking at Sam. Other boys were framed in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Well, see there's an intramural league," Eric explained. "For football. And the guys on our floor are pretty short."
Sam eyed the crowd again. Eric stood only to a meager 5'10'' and the other boys seemed to top off around 6 feet flat. "Yeah?"
"Well, we're going to need someone bigger," another kid chimed in, Adam from across the hall.
"And the only tall guy on our floor is you," Eric concluded.
That sunk in and Sam's face stayed blank.
Eric contnued. "We need you, Winchester. Be on the team with us."
They were inviting him to play on the team. They wanted him to participate. No matter what their reasons, Sam couldn't deny how good it felt to be wanted, to be needed. He opened his mouth to reply, but Eric cut him off.
"I know you're worried about school," his roommate said. "But it's not that big of a commitment. Just a few nights a week."
He closed his mouth, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks. They were inviting him to play on a team, to be part of the group. It was something he'd longed for, dreamed about, and he'd been so lonely. "I haven't played much football," he admitted sheepishly.
"Doesn't matter," Eric assured him quickly. "It's easy enough. And I've seen you, Winchester. You pick things up fast."
The flattery was shallow, and Sam recognized it for what it was: an attempt to sway him. It had no real basis.
It didn't matter.
The ache in Sam's soul, the yearning for companionship, to be part of something--he hadn't realized how strong it was until it was being offered to him. He'd be an idiot to say no. "Sure," he said, a smile spread across his face. "Why not?"
There was a small eruption of clapping, and Eric grinned widely at him. "Great," he said. "We're going to practice on the quad in a few hours. You'll be ready to go then?"
"Yeah," Sam said with an emphatic nod. "Yeah."
Eric stood, slapping Sam on the shoulder. "Great," he said. "Good to have you on board, Winchester."
As the guys exited the room, Sam's smile flickered. It wasn't family, not even close, but it was the closest thing he'd had in months.
-o-
When Sam got to the quad, the guys were already there. They were a motley group, unshaven and wearing baggy shorts and grungy t-shirts. Some were standing around talking, while others tossed footballs back and forth, trying to imitate moves they'd seen from Sunday afternoon pro games.
The sight almost made Sam pause, almost made him want to turn around and never come back. He's yearned for this so long, to be a part of it--now that he was so close, he was almost afraid to touch it. His childhood had been a long lesson in not forming attachment, in separating himself for his own safety, and old habits died hard, even when he had sacrificed everything to get away from them. His father's hold on him wasn't severed just because he'd walked out of the house.
"Hey, Winchester!" a voice called, and Sam's attention shifted back to the moment. Eric was calling to him. "You ready to play?"
Sam grinned, a little nervously, and jogged toward his roommate.
Eric tossed the ball in a smooth rotating arc, and Sam moved to catch it. It was high, and he was headed in the wrong direction. He reversed, altering his trajectory, then pushed up into the air, nabbing the ball easily.
Pulling it down, he cradled it to his body, resuming his jog toward Eric.
"Not bad," Eric said, his eyebrows raised. "You sure you never played before?"
Sam shrugged. "I didn't have much time for sports."
"Always the studier, I take it," Eric said.
Sam tossed the ball back at him with a forced smile. "Something like that."
"You know the rules, right?"
"Of course," Sam said. Down time was rare in the Winchester household, but even the great John Winchester couldn't resist a Sunday afternoon of football. With only one TV in the sparse motel rooms they shared, it often became a family viewing.
"We'll be playing two-hand touch," Eric said. "Some contact is inevitable, but we're can't tackle, because we'll be going without pads. Our floor has a history of getting killed in these things. We're hoping to reverse the trend this year."
Sam nodded seriously. "So what should I do?"
"We're just warming up," Eric explained. "Then we'll scrimmage and figure out our positions. Our first game is next week, and we'd kind of like to make a good showing."
Sam merely nodded, not sure what else was expected of him.
"Go long," Eric said, nodding out toward the open yard.
That was an easy order to follow, and Sam set out in a straight path, turning his head back occasionally as he did. When the ball was thrown, Sam was ready, and he compensated, shifting his pace and his path, dodging the other boys practicing.
Then the ball was there, and his hands circled around it. His momentum propelled him forward, and he pulled the ball snuggly to his torso as he finished off his run.
He was so focused that he barely heard the clapping and cheers until he was walking back.
The other boys from his floor were watching him, clearly impressed. "Nice catch, Winchester."
"Impressive."
As he made his way back toward Eric, he could see the look of pleasant surprise on his roommate's face. "Well," Eric said. "Looks like we found our wide receiver."
Pride swelled in Sam, flushing his cheeks with embarrassment. Praise wasn't something he was used to, feeling useful wasn't something he often experienced. He'd spent so much time being afraid, being not good enough, being a disappointment. It was the story of his life, a long and hard story that he didn't like to retell and that he'd been trying hard to forget.
It hadn't been all bad, Sam knew that much. But it had been more bad than good, and Sam needed more.
Sam needed this.
The shy smile on his face was real for the first time in months, maybe years. He flipped the ball back toward Eric, and said, "So, what next?"
-o-
They practiced every night. Nothing strenuous or stressful, just mostly good natured competition. Sam retired to his room each night sweaty and tired, which reminded him strangely of home.
He had to stay up later to compensate, using the later hours of the night to finish his coursework, and he discovered the beauty of Eric's coffee machine. It made crappy coffee, but the caffeine was the point, and that was all Sam needed.
Despite his newfound tiredness, Sam couldn't help but think how much better the world seemed. The campus seemed friendly, more open. His classmates seemed more inviting, less mysterious. He learned to laugh at the jokes of the guys on the floor, and even joined in their antics, pulling pranks on the girls' floor right above them.
It was college life, Sam realized: typical, American college life. There was no fear of evil, no persistent training, just having a good time, doing his best. It was being a part of something, it was being appreciated and appreciating others.
In short, it was everything Sam had ever dreamed about.
Still, he missed his family. He wished Dean was here, to be on the team, too. He didn't doubt that, together, they'd be unstoppable. And no matter how good it felt to be one of the guys, none of it was quite the same as being Dean's brother. As good as the compliments felt, he couldn't help but wish he could hear them coming out of his dad's mouth.
The other good thing about Sam's newfound social life, was that it kept him busy enough so that he didn't have enough time to dwell. There was always someone to talk to, something to do, and that was enough to keep him from missing home too much--most of the time. But he couldn't have both--his dad had made that abundantly clear, and Dean certainly wasn't ready to take Sam's side.
He'd just have to prosper in the only chance at happiness he had left.
-o-
"Hey, Winchester!"
Sam twitched, grumbling a little. He was too tired for this.
"Sam!" the voice called again, shaking him this time.
Startling awake, Sam looked up, blinking blearily up at his roommate.
Eric grinned. "You know, if you drool in the books, they don't usually buy them back from you," he said.
Sam scowled a little, dabbing absently at his chin. "You need something?"
"It's four o'clock, man," Eric said.
Sam looked at him, trying to remember why that was important.
"Our first game," Eric said, rolling his eyes.
Blinking once, Sam's memory came back to him and he shook his head clear of sleep. "I knew that," he said. "We need to be down there in, what--?"
"Thirty minutes," Eric reminded him.
Sam nodded absently, shuffling his books together. "I was just trying to study for my biology exam."
"Yeah, I can see that."
Shooting him a glare, Sam rummaged for his shoes. "We're whites today, right?"
Eric glanced down at his own white t-shirt. "Last time I checked."
Fumbling through his clothes, Sam extracted his shoes and pulled a white t-shirt from the pile. It occurred to him then that his room was a mess. Usually, he preferred things neat and orderly, but there wasn't time for that these days. And for the first time in his life, no one was looking over his shoulder to tell him otherwise. Not to mention the fact that he'd been in this dorm at Stanford about as long as he'd lived anywhere.
He was settling down, growing roots. He was being normal.
That thought alone was enough to make him smile even as Eric egged him on to get his butt in gear for the game.
-o-
The first game was a success.
All of Sam's training had paid off in one respect: he was there to win, at almost any cost. His concentration was paramount. He didn't know all the moves and the guys still had to explain some of the plays to him, but Sam hoped his work ethic made up for his lack of knowledge.
By the end of the game, he was sweaty and winded, and the other team was giving him meaningful glares as his teammates high fived him in victory.
Their jubilance surprised Sam. Victory was to be enjoyed, that much Sam knew, but the exuberance, the outward display of it was something Sam was unaccustomed to. His father had never been one for displays of emotion in any form. His gloating was steady and often silent; Dean was often smug and condescending.
The guys, though—the guys whooped and leaped on one another, emptying bottles of water on each other's heads.
When Eric slugged him in the arm, Sam realized that he'd been staring. "Come on, Winchester," he cajoled. "You're part of this, too. We won thanks to you."
"I didn't do much," Sam said with a sheepish shake of his head.
"Didn't do much?" Eric asked, incredulous. "What you wanted to score six touchdowns instead of five? We killed them, Sam. Don't you know how to celebrate?"
Celebrating was nothing more than understated smiles and the clank of beer glasses. It was quietly smug jokes and a ruffle of hair.
"No," he said softly. "I'm not sure I do."
"Well, then," Eric said with a knowing glint in his eye. "Let us show you how it's done."
-o-
The next morning, Sam had a pounding headache, and he couldn't remember how he got back to his room. He woke up with the taste of vomit in his mouth and it hurt to move.
"Who would have guessed you're such a lightweight?" Eric asked, putting a cup of coffee on the floor next to his bed.
Sam just groaned.
"Welcome to the real world, Winchester," Eric crooned.
Sam would have thrown a pillow at him, but his head hurt too much.
-o-
"You never talk about your family," Eric said one night.
Sam tensed, but didn't look up from his book. "Not much to tell."
"Why not?" he asked. "You don't even say where you're from."
"We moved around a lot," Sam said simply, his voice tight.
"You going home for Thanksgiving?"
Sam just shook his head, keeping his eyes trained downward.
"Why not?"
Taking a shaky breath, Sam forced out the words. "My dad and I--we had a falling out. I'm not exactly welcome back home."
"You? You're kidding?" Eric's voice sounded truly surprised.
Sam shrugged.
"You're like the All-American boy. How any family could not be proud of a kid like you..."
"It's complicated," Sam said shortly with a rough edge of finality that came out harsher than he intended.
Eric got the hint. "Sorry, man," he said softly.
Silence lapsed and Sam's eyes burned until he finally heard Eric roll over in his bed.
-o-
It got easier. The socializing, the balancing act, the celebrating. Sam never let himself get as out of control as the guys did--not after that first time--but the further along the season went, the more he felt like he really was part of the team, not just pretending. He stopped worrying that someday they'd point at him and laugh and tell him the jig was up.
Sam didn't feel whole, exactly—he was pretty sure he never would—but he felt good. He felt free. This was his life. This was what he had chosen and he was going to make it work. More than that, he could flourish.
He could also help his team win the championship. Sam wasn't sure why it mattered--it was nothing more than competitive intramurals--but to the guys, it did. It got them going, made them excited. It was an odd sensation--to care about something so passionately and to know it was so trivial. But Sam didn't hunt anymore. There were no more ghosts for him, no more monsters; just the every day ups and downs of normal life.
Which meant winning this game.
It was the biggest game of the season. They were undefeated so far, tied for first with the sixth floor of the dorm across the quad. Talk had buzzed for weeks about this match up, but it wasn't until Sam got to the game that day that he realized why.
For what Sam's team had in skill, these guys had in size.
So far, Sam had been one of the biggest guys around. True, his 6'4'' frame wasn't overly bulky, but his muscles were well-defined under all his layers. And he had trusted his agility and speed above anything his other opponents had had.
But this time was different. This was intramural football, but the other team looked the part of pros, easily matching Sam in height and outweighing him.
"You think these guys are for real?" Sam asked Eric before the game.
"Why do you think we wanted you to join our team?" Eric said back to him with a wry smile.
"They do know this is touch football, don't they?" Sam asked.
Eric nodded quickly. "Sure," he said. "I'm sure."
Sam's eyes darkened and his stomach flipped. It was an anticipation he recognized, a nervous, uncertain one. The kind he got before hunts and fights with his father.
Apparently, adrenaline was adrenaline, no matter what context it came in. Sam knew how to use that.
-o-
Sam had no idea two-hand touch could be so physical. These guys took touch to a whole new level. By the fourth quarter, Sam was sore and bruised, having been knocked to the ground more times than he could count. They weren't tackles--not exactly--but the hits weren't gentle by any means, and certainly not fun.
The score was tight, an even 14 on each side. Both teams were out to win, but looking over his teammates, Sam could see they were wearing down. They hadn't had a good drive since the first half, and Sam got the sense they were barely hanging on. They needed points--and fast--if they were going to stand a chance of holding out until the end.
It was nearly a fluke that they got good field position at all. A series of lucky plays and well-earned passes had got them within scoring distance. In the huddle, Eric was tense. They all knew the meaning of this play. It was third and inches and they were going to score. They had to if they were going to stay in it.
"I want you to run a slant," Eric said softly in hurried tones. "Get open, Winchester, it's coming to you. They'll expect that, but it's our best bet."
The team nodded in agreement before moving into position.
On the line, Sam eyed his path. The defense had shifted to cover him, that much was obvious. But if he cut hard across the middle, he might be able to outrun them to the end zone before they had a chance to block him.
Eric cried out hike and the play went into motion.
Sam's world quieted as he zeroed in on his target--the patch of green beyond the cones. He banked hard, pulling away from the defenders, zigging until he was clear. Then he looked up, eyes searching for Eric. He found his roommate as the ball was released, aimed straight at him.
The defenders were converging, and the pass was purposefully high. Sam didn't hesitate. Leaping into the air, his fingers felt leather, and he pulled the ball down close to him.
He saw the other player going up with him—a kid his height, a bit beefier—undoubtedly going for the interception. The guy wouldn't get the ball, but there was no way Sam would avoid contact.
It didn't matter. Sam could take the hit. All he had to do was hold onto the ball.
He was so intent on that mission, that he didn't see the guy coming at his legs until it was too late. They collided mid-air first, chest against chest, and as he tumbled backwards, Sam's feet were jarred, heightening the dizzying speed with which he was headed to the ground. His dad had lectured him on how to fall—on how to position himself, to protect his head at all costs.
There was no time for that, even if Sam had remembered it sooner. His father would be disappointed in him. Which was why Sam had to do one thing right. It didn't matter if it was nothing more than football, Sam was tired of failing, and this time, he was going to follow through.
This was going to hurt, Sam was sure of it, but his last thought was of the ball tucked securely in his arm.