Ascension (In the Worst Way Possible)

by Paranoixa

"In D.C., crowds take to the streets, dancing and setting off fireworks in solace of a 'long overdue victory'. In the backseat of a '67 Impala barreling down the backroads of Nevada, Sam draws his legs into his chest and dreams of silver whips and exploding stars." Sam's a mutant. Needless to say, finding acceptance is about as easy as he predicted it'd be.

His mutation first manifests in the form of toxic skin; initially, there's hope that the blossoming spots are nothing more than an allergic reaction. It's a hope that yields little foundation, cemented only by Dean and John's overt aversion to mutants. During those days, when the definition of his existence dangled between two species, Sam convinces himself that his fear is merely a case of paranoia.

Said reasoning loses what little validity it had when a guy at school breaks Sam's nose and lands himself in the local hospital before Dean has the chance to even get involved. When he does eventually learn of the altercation, John has just pulled up to the school and revealed he needs his help on a witch hunt in Tuskegee; neither have the chance to wonder why the guy wound up dying of alkaloid poisoning. And when they finally return two weeks later, they're worn out and too busy tending to one another's injuries to further question the incident.

There's no forgetting for Sam, though. And with the rising acceptance of anti-mutant sentiments, there's little left to do but don several layers of clothing and isolate himself from others. Life would have been somewhat manageable had the mutation ended there. But it doesn't, and he awakes one night to a fierce rash on his hands. He rolls out of bed, careful not to disturb his resting brother and father, and stumbles into the small bathroom.

Locking the door behind him, he slides his hand over the wall to flick on the lights. Upon looking down, his attention is immediately drawn to his hands; there is no more white, only blue and a backdrop of black. His skin is covered in thick, defined scales.

He walks to the mirror and leans over the sink. His reflection is haunted in the mirror's surface, his gaunt frame and trembling arms only magnifying the horror behind his eyes; eyes that, upon a second glance, have taken on a hue of orange, the irises blistering and furious like an untamed wildfire. Sam lowers his gaze to his mouth and startles at the sight of undeveloped fangs protruding from his gums. He pulls up his lower lip and watches in fascinated horror as he ghosts his tongue over the tips of his canines. Tightly gripping the stained porcelain sink, he raises a hand to twist a clump of hair into an unsteady hand. Talons prick his scalp, insistent and menacing. Sam drops his hands to his sides, backs away from the mirror, out of the bathroom, and crashes onto his bed. Curling into fetal position, he covers his mouth with his hand and shivers.

It's raining.

. . .

He leaves shortly afterwards to buy a pack of contact lenses and some gloves from a nearby Shell. The material inflames his already sensitive scales, and the presence of plastic against his eyes is mildly alarming. There is, of course, little to be done about the fangs, so Sam resolves to stop speaking.

It's not as difficult as he thought it'd be. As John and Dean rush off to "handle" a hunt a few towns over, he discovers he doesn't have much to say anyway.

. . .

The Registration Act is implemented into the U.S. Constitution eleven months after Sam's mutation emerges.

It's a Saturday night, and Dean and John have taken Sam to a street race. The cars are still getting ready, so the trio's made their way over to a karaoke lounge for dinner. The lights are dim, and the air's lively with chatter, erratic strobe lights, and soft music pouring from the speakers surrounding them.

Sam wraps his arms around himself, sinking further into the khaki jacket threatening to swallow him whole. Public places are unnerving, particularly ones that encourage social interaction. But his protests against the outing had been half-hearted at best, with his ensuing argument with John barely lasting a minute. In hindsight, it probably made them want to attend the race even more; their hushed conversations when they think Sam's asleep haven't escaped him. He knows they're worried, knows they notice every time he flinches from a gentle clap on the back.

"You don't talk anymore, Sammy", Dean noted one morning as they loaded up the Impala. "What's eating you?"

Sam shrugged off the concern, murmuring about not getting enough sleep and having nothing to talk about.

Dean, of course, leaves it at that. But not for long because three days have passed, and he's pushing Sam to talk to a girl in a pleated skirt.

"Come on, dude. This place is a fucking gold mine. Food, chicks, beer, the whole shebang."

Sam looks up from his tray and raises an eyebrow.

Dean smirks and tosses a French Fry into his mouth. "I know, I know. But I have my ways. Well, dad does; there's a case of Shiner in the Impala, and he says both of us can have a bottle." He stretches his legs out underneath their table and drops his hands on either side of his tray. "So, how about we have at 'em? Maybe it'll, uh, loosen you up, you know, get your damn head out of the clouds."

Sam shakes his head. He reaches for his burger, takes a bite, and turns to the T.V. screen above them.

"Okay, then." Dean's smile wavers, but his expression remains determined. "No beer but, come on, at least go talk to the girl. She seems nice. I saw her reading her menu earlier, and she seemed pretty into it. You like reading; she likes reading. Sounds like Cupid's getting a little too interested in Sammy Winchester."

"Yeah, if Cupid's a doof in a leather jacket", Sam says with an eye roll. "Reading a restaurant menu doesn't count as actual reading, Dean."

Dean chuckles, his tone coated in disbelief as he grabs another fry. "It's got words, don't it? What's got you so cynical?"

Sam tugs the sleeve of his jacket down further and shrugs.

A news segment has just begun, bold white letters shouting, "The Registration Dilemma." The idle chatter from before dissipates slightly; a few guys from the bar walk towards the TV set. Upon seeing badges with a red AM pinned to their persons, Sam ducks his head and turns to look out the window. Dean revolves towards the group, then, catching their line of sight, tilts his head up. His face falls flat at the headline.

"Are they really still going on about that mess", he asks as he leans his chin into the palm of his hand.

Sam keeps his attention on the crowded parking lot, inattentively noting a developing fight. Beneath his jacket, his scales fret, a fierce, red-hot sensation that begs to be scratched. He gulps, presses the cloth against his scales, and presses his head against the moist windowpane. Across from him, Dean sighs, pushes his tray away from him, and joins Sam in his brooding.

As they leave, a boisterous cheer arises from the group of guys; the newscaster has just announced the approval of the Registration Act. In D.C., crowds take to the streets, dancing and setting off fireworks in solace of a "long overdue victory."

In the backseat of a '67 Impala barreling down the backroads of Nevada, Sam draws his legs into his chest and dreams of silver whips and exploding stars.

. . .

Finding the chat room is a mistake. A glorious, life-altering mistake but a mistake nonetheless.

He's studying for a biology midterm at the library when he suddenly catches a glimpse of scales peeking out from the cuff of his sleeve. There's no erasing what he is, but every so often, he'll get too comfortable and forget his ability to shield himself from the world is less of a yearning and more of a necessity.

Sam tugs down his sleeve, the beating of his heart insistent and thunderous in his ears. His fingers tremble over his computer's keyboard, causing him to severely misspell several sentences. He drops his head onto his desk, shoves his hands into his armpits, and expels a tremulous breath.

A few tables to the left, a girl looks up from her Webster's Dictionary and frowns, craning her neck backwards. Sam considers reassuring her with a benevolent smile, but his fangs are poking against the insides of his lips, threatening to poke through and reveal themselves. He lifts his head off the desk, blocks the girl by placing his hand against his left eye, and stares at the bright white screen of the computer.

Of their own accord, his fingers lower to the keyboard once more and dance over the keys. When Sam looks up, he finds the word "mutant" typed into the search engine; a simple word composed of simple letters coming together to form a simple concept but, at the same time, carrying a weight capable of crushing those the word belongs to. The abrupt flood of vertigo almost incapacitates Sam, but something keeps him upright and clicking through the numerous searches that pop online. Sorting through them is no easy feat, as most of them are either federal reports denouncing the mutant population or the invalid opinions of a clan of meatheads.

He spends hours sifting through the white noise, growing despondent as he's further exposed to the spiteful words of people who've likely never even met a mutant. Sam's just about given up when he finds a link to a chat room. It has a name, but Sam is only a guest and therefore refused the privilege of knowing it. There are eight people currently online, each having an ardent discussion with the deep recesses of cyberspace. Among these, one in particular stands out, and Sam can't help but lean closer to take in the weight of their words:

"My parents want me to get registered. They say it's for my own good, that being in the system protects me from fanatics. But it's all bullshit. On paper, it's supposed to work like that. But in reality, all registration does is tattoo a target on my face for the government to piss all over me. My mom says it's the lesser of two evils, but does that really make it any less worse?"

There's no astonishing sense of relief, no divine presence swooping down to lift a significant weight of his shoulders. Regardless of the possibility of finding a community of people like himself, Sam's still himself; the scales, which have become increasingly difficult to hide, are still there. A never-ceasing chill has latched onto him, only comforted when he takes scalding showers or cocoons himself into a nest of blankets.

And yet...he can't help but delve further into the chatroom. It's of little help to him, both because the discussions will never be material and because Sam, as a guest, only has limited access. But there's comfort to be found in the fact that there are more like him. And, more importantly, that they're not bloodthirsty beasts with a grudge against civility and humanity.

Five minutes before closing, he prints out a copy of a chain of comments and shoves them into his Chemistry textbook. He expects the indignation and frustration of frightened, shunned voices to laden his backpack. But it doesn't feel heavier, and he isn't spiralling into another panic attack. If anything, he feels lighter than he has in months, as if the weight of these ostracized souls has revealed to him, not strength, but the ability to endure.

Weeks pass, and Sam continues his visits to the chatroom. It's nearing a month since he first discovered the safe haven when, in a brief moment of courage and lunacy, he signs up for membership. Before being allowed admittance, he's asked a series of extensive questions by the same person he'd grown to admire. Sam is honest in his answers, though vague when they asks for specifics. Their frustration is evident, and Sam dreads the likely possibility that he'll be rejected.

But he returns to the library after their fifth day of interviewing and finds a new item in his email. It directs him to the chatroom, now revealing its title as Eden. Sam's screen name, per his request, is Fáfnir. Only two members are online: Sam and his new friend, TakeTheseBrokenWings. A single message shoots into the chatroom, filling Sam with both alarm and accomplishment.

"Hello, Fáfnir."

. . .

Dean knows.

What he knows, Sam isn't sure, but there's no doubting the growing suspicious air about him: when he has the Impala, he offers to give Sam a ride to the library; then there's the blatant attempts to get Sam to shed his layers, arguing that he's bound to catch a heatstroke. It's obvious that he's clueless about Sam's secret, but he's begun to notice small yet salient things that Sam had taken extra precautions to hide. All things considered, Dean's not at all close to a conclusion. But he's taken interest, and he won't fall back until he's unearthed Sam's skeletons.

In response, Sam takes to further secluding himself, refusing to leave the motel unless they're moving to the next or assisting John on a hunt. Admittedly, it's not the wisest choice; if anything, Dean becomes more resolute, turning to their father to force him to go outside. Sam never argues (having lost the zeal to do so since obtaining his mutation), but those days are tough for even Dean because they're when Sam is most closed off, paralyzed with the fear that a patch of scales is showing or that he's purchased a defective pair of contacts. Thankfully, John rarely ever concedes, saying, "it's a phase; best not to try rushing these type of things." So they leave Sam to himself. Alone and unscrutinized, he burrows himself into a pile of clothes reeking of his father and brother and sleeps for hours on end.

It's on a day such as these that Dean discovers the secret.

Sam's curled up in his nest, his upper body peeking out from the clothes, when he awakes to Dean's eerily placid expression. Sluggish from his nap, he rubs his knuckles against the corners of his eyes and yawns. Dean takes a swift step back, pulls a knife from his pocket, and points it at Sam. It takes a moment for him to catch up, for him to remember he's all scales from the neck down. When he does, he scrambles off the bed and onto the floor. Dean's knife is still pointed at him, and he's reaching for his back pocket.

"Dean, wait, I can explain."

"Explain what, you fucker", Dean spits. He stalks over to Sam, yanking him off the floor by his hair, and turns his nose up in disgust. "What are you? Who are you? And where is my brother?"

"Dean, it's me, it's me! I'm not a monster", Sam cries out. He swats at Dean's hands but stops when the barrel of a .38 touches the tip of his nose. "Dean", he says, his voice wavering. "Come on, dude. Look at me. It's me."

"Really? Then what's with the snakeskin?"

"It's-it's hard to explain."

"Well, that's too bad for you, ain't it?" The sound of the safety being removed echoes in Sam's ears, and he leans further back as Dean's finger inches closer to the trigger.

"I'm a mutant! I'm a mutant, okay! It's why I'm always dressed so heavily. And why I don't go outside anymore. All right? You happy?" He raises his eyes and looks up through the breaks in his hair. "I'm a mutant."

Dean stares back at Sam, his grip on the gun firm yet uncertain. "A mutant", he eventually scoffs. "Mutants. Monsters. As if there's a difference."

"There is, there totally is. I'm still me, man. Inside, it's all me. You've gotta trust me."

"Trust you?" The hand holding the gun falls to his side, but the other extends to gesture at Sam in incredulity. "Even if what you're saying is true, that you're somehow my brother, then that means you've been lying to me. And my brother'd never lie to me about something like this."

Sam floors Dean with an unamused glare. "First of all, mutant or monster, I would totally lie to you about something like this."

Dean raises an eyebrow and starts to speak when Sam continues.

"And secondly, how the hell could I not lie about this? I know what you and dad think of people like me. What was I supposed to do, smile and say, 'Guys, guess what, I'm a mutant'? Dad'd put me down in a second." His attention drops to the gun. "And so would you", Sam says with a low sigh. "You know what? Whatever. Just get it over with. This was getting to be too much anyway." He wraps his arms around his knees and stares at his scaley feet. "It's a miracle I even made it this long."

"Shut up. Just-Just shut up." Dean gulps, dropping his gun to the floor, and wipes his hand over his mouth. "I believe you."

Sam's head jerks up. Eyes like two unruly suns settle upon the now discarded gun. He's heavily tempted to kick it underneath the bed, but his limbs are numb from terror; just breathing is a taxing effort. "You do", he asks when he regains his voice. "Why?"

"I don't know anyone else who bitches like you, Sam."

Sam lets out an airy huff and gives Dean a wobbly smile. "Don't be a jerk. I'm kind of in the middle of a crisis over here."

"Yeah, you and me both." Dean approaches Sam apprehensively, his movements slow and controlled, before taking a seat before him. Resting his palms over his knees, he stares at Sam, his expression curious yet sad. "How long?"

Sam flexes his fingers out in front of him. "Little over two years now." He scratches the back of his head as he looks out the window and asks, "Are you gonna tell dad?"

"...Not yet."

"Dean-"

"Be realistic, Sammy. I know there are mutants that can hide what they are, but you're not one of them." Gesturing to Sam's neck, Dean says, "You don't have much longer before this really becomes a problem. Dad's gonna find out regardless, and you know he won't take the time to ask questions."

"And exactly what is me telling him gonna do?" Sam's fangs drop, and undeveloped talons shoot from his fingertips. "He hates mutants. He's not gonna care that I'm his son; all he's gonna see is the same freak that killed mom!"

Dean shakes his head in protest. "You don't know that. Dude, listen, I know it sucks, but we've gotta tell him."

"No, we don't. I've been figuring my way around this for years now, and I'll keep figuring it out."

"You can't hide your fucking face."

"I am not telling him."

"Sam-"

Sam crawls to his feet and runs for the door. Behind him, Dean scrambles off the floor and rushes after him. Sam slams the door behind him, shoots through the corridor of rooms, and crashes through the waiting room. By the time Dean reaches the door, Sam's already stormed across the asphalt pavement of the parking lot, leaving a trail of steaming footsteps for him to track.

"What the hell was that", asks the man behind the desk. He's cowering behind the counter, his hand hovering over the wall-phone.

Dean presses his head against the doorframe and groans. "My brother." Turning around, he starts for the counter. "Can I use your phone? I need to make a call."

. . .

The sun is warm on his scales.

Predictable, of course, because they are rather sensitive, and the sun is a burning sphere of plasma. Nevertheless, it sends a jolt up his spine and makes the dash through town all the more fulfilling. He's inclined to pause and turn around. It's half past noon, and the town they're visiting is nowhere near deserted. Taking a sharp left at the corner, he rushes past dozens of faces; some astounded, some befuddled, but most appalled. Should any decide to inform Mutant Resources, little time would be wasted tracking Sam down and shoving a PIT into his neck.

And there's no avoiding it. Even as maroon spirals tease his periphery, threatening to leak into his immediate field of vision, he's aware of the risk. He's aware that he's revealed himself as a target and that anyone, hunter or civilian, could be watching. The fear is there; always present, like a third layer of skin, like a parasitic twin that bullies him into living beneath a bridge for the rest of his life. But it's dimmed somehow. Embracing and revealing his mutation will no doubt have consequences. But for the moment, there is only solace in the sensation of lukewarm rainwater against the bottoms of his feet. It's been so long since Sam has exposed himself.

As he dives into a constrictive alleyway and takes shelter in an abandoned barber shop, he thinks of Dean. He wonders how long he has before he's eventually found and taken to an MR office. He thinks of Wings, curious as to how his parents reacted to his mutation. And he thinks of the coming months and how much peril he'll endure in them.

. . .

Sure enough, a Mutant Collection Vehicle arrives half an hour after Sam settles into his hideout. A woman and a man in hazmat suits spring from the MCV and march towards the door, tasers and fishnets at the ready.

"Come on out now", one calls, crouching beneath a shattered window as her partner scurries towards the back entrance. "You know how this works."

And he does. Sam's seen enough broadcasted mutant collections to know that this can either be the end or the beginning of a mutant's life. Neither presents itself in a desirable light. Survival's always had a pleasing reputation, but not quite as much if it means he'll be stripped of all liberties. Even as the partners storm the room, cuff him, and lead him to the van, Sam knows that his struggles of past years won't even compare to the journey ahead. No mutant ever truly escapes the system, but no mutant really survives either. One can only hope they can slip between the cracks, unnoticed and invisible to all those lurking above.

But he's thinking ahead. The bitter sensation of metal against his scales isn't dimming, and, knowing what he knows about MR, it's gonna be a few hours before he can regain some semblance of control over his life.

. . .

When John and Dean arrive at the MR office and find Sam adorned with a newly mandated shock collar, they don't say anything. But there's no mistaking the unabashed animosity behind John's eyes and the barely concealed disappointment in Dean's. The drive to the motel is mostly silent, the air thick with loss, trepidation, and reopened wounds. Sam can feel their eyes on his scales, but he, too, holds his silence.

Not much has changed; the only difference now is that he's got a hunk of metal strangling him and that there's one less secret between the three Winchesters.

The latter, of course, isn't nearly as comforting as it should be, but it's a welcomed break from the crushing thought of what the coming days will entail.

. . .

The changes are immediate. Changes he'd heard so much of on Eden yet had always written off as rarities. John can't hold Sam's eye for more than a few seconds. His attention always seems to be preoccupied, as if settling upon a specific point will cause him great harm. Dean isn't much better; choosing his words and movements with apt discretion, he treats Sam as a frail, volatile creature that needs little fuel for combustion to set the world aflame. At the same time, Sam is mindful of his own actions. He takes care to manage his temper. Following a highly regarded study on mutant psychology, this becomes yet another aspect of himself facing expungement. But even with the added effort, Dean and John are to Sam like a pair of moons to a sun: calm, collected beings set about orbiting another being that, if not approached with care, could destroy them all.

"It'll fade", Wings says late one Friday night. "The paranoia will probably always be there, and things will never be the same again, but these are the early months. They won't be nearly as bad come winter."

Sam's response is quick, his fingers barely touching the keys as he types, "How can you, of all people, say that? Your brother tried to clip your wings when he found out about them. And that was before you told him about the ice."

"Fair enough. But it's still worth giving 'em a chance. Your dad might be a piece of work, but Dean seems approachable. You said he's fussing more than anything else. My other brothers are kind of like that. They're the type that need reminders that we're not monsters every once in a while. It sucks, but it's the world we live in."

Sam smiles, the pull of his lip miniscule and bitter, and lets his head rest against the back of his chair before replying: "I know. I just wish he didn't need reminding. For the most part, I'm still me. And I try to make up for all the ways that I'm not. But it's like it doesn't even matter cause every time he sees me, it's like he's looking at something that's crawled out of the sewer. I don't expect him to pretend that I'm not what I am, but I do wish he'd still see my for who I am. I don't know. Sometimes, I just wish I could leave. Make my own little Eden, you know?"

"Yeah, I hear you. And who knows? If this Mutant Sentiment shit picks up enough steam, maybe it'll actually happen."

"That's the dream. I just gotta keep it alive. I haven't got too many left."

By now, Sam's mutation has entered the later stages of development. As he walks into a gas station on a brisk Monday to buy a two liter of coke, he catches the hateful eye of the man working the counter; there's no helping the abrupt yearning for an "invisible" mutation as he slides a few crumpled bills to the man and in return is told, "We're closing up. Sorry, kid." Never mind the fact that the sun has yet to set; never mind the fact that the man would go on to ring up two rolls of toilet paper for the woman standing behind Sam. The altercation encourages talons to peak from the tips of his fingers, prompting Sam to shove his hands into his pockets and dart out the door. Dean is sitting against the hood of the Impala, staring at his busted sneakers. When he sees Sam exiting the store, he sits up straighter and smiles.

"Heya, Sammy." He notes his empty hands and frowns. "Wait, where's the soda?"

"They were out", Sam murmurs as he tosses open the door and crawls into the backseat.

Dean follows suit, taking a seat up front, and looks back at Sam with an eyebrow raised in disbelief. "A gas station was out of coke? Come on, man, what happened?"

Sam shrugs and lies against the cool leather seats. "Guy said they were closing early."

"Early? Sam, it's not even five o'clock."

"Mm hm."

Dean reminds silent for a moment and turns back forward. He glares upon seeing the woman from before placing her purse into her passenger seat and turning to the gas nozzle. "Early, my ass." He drops his head against his headrest and sighs. "It's cause of your...you know...isn't it?"

"Wow, what gave it away?"

"Don't be a dick. I just wanna make sure I got this straight before I go in there and start swinging."

"Leave it alone, Dean. We've been dealing with this for months now; it's nothing I'm not already used to."

Dean huffs angrily. "Just cause you're used to it don't make it right."

Sam shifts his weight to his left shoulder and looks up at Dean. His eyes burning fierce, he inhales sharply and asks, "So what? You're just gonna kick the world's ass until they change their minds about me?"

"If I have to, yeah."

"How can you do that if you haven't even made up your mind about me?"

"Dude, not this shit again."

Sam shoots up and leans against the back of Dean's seat. "I hear what you and dad say about me", he says, the s's taking on a distinct hissing sound. "You guys think I'm a freak."

"Hey, hey, hey", Dean protests. "We've never said anything like that."

"You didn't have to. It's in everything you haven't said."

"Sammy-"

"You guys don't even trust me to go the fucking gas station without a chaperon. Not too long ago, you guys were perfectly fine with leaving me on my own for weeks at a time."

"Things are different now, and it's not cause we're worried that you're gonna eat somebody."

Sam's taut shoulders fall, but he doesn't relent with his displeased expression.

"Ok", Dean admits, the hint of a smile emerging on his face. "We kind of are. But give us a break, man, you tried to eat a pitbull last week."

"You said we were never gonna talk about it again."

He rolls his eyes. "All right, starting now, we'll never talk about it again."

Sam shakes his head and drops his head into his palm. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

Dean snickers, tilting his head in admission. "Yeah. But I'm serious. Okay, so we're a little worried. And, yeah, some of it is because of your, uh, mutation. But it's mostly cause of other people. You know how people are about mutants. And that's not even including hunters."

"Yeah", Sam acknowledges with a subtle wince. "I guess it's a good idea dad's benched me then, huh?" Then, catching the light-hearted jingles of bells, he turns and finds the man from the counter walking towards the woman's car. Dean follows his line of sight, takes in the scene, then moves to block the window with his body. Sam counters the movement by stretching his neck upward, only to be shoved into the backseat with a light chuckle from Dean.

"Quit torturing yourself", Dean says as he crawls over the shift console and settles into the driver's seat. The Impala roars to life, eliciting a gleeful smile from Dean. Tossing his arm over the headrest, he pulls the car out of the gas station and onto the highway. As they come to a stop at rush hour traffic, he looks into the rearview mirror. Sam meets his eye and offers a hesitant smile. His fangs are showing, and he's tempted to tuck them in, let his hair fall in his face, and turn away. But Dean just smiles back.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

Dean blinks. His hands adjust on the steering wheel, circling about until resting at ten and two, and tightens their grip against the leather cover. "You, uh, you know you're still one of us. Right?"

Sam's fangs drop lower. He looks away from the mirror and stares at his hand. "Scales and all?"

Dean inches the car forward. One hand eases up on the wheel and drops to rest near his thigh. "Scales and all."

. . .

School is about as nightmarish as it's always been, only Sam's more of a vagabond than usual. Transferring into a school three quarters into his junior year, it's to be expected. Bearing the striking resemblance to Godzilla certainly doesn't help matters. On the rare occasion where he does try talking to someone, they either snicker, run away, or threaten to stomp his face in. The latter of three is attempted quite a few times, always accompanied with the explanation that, "Someone needs to put your kind in its place". All he has to do is flash his eyes and bear his fangs, and they retreat without further encouragement.

On one such instance, a boy, Ricardio from Calculus, has Sam's collar twisted in his fist and is pulling Sam close to his face. In return, Sam grabs his arm, making sure to tap his talons against his skin, and smiles.

"Try it, freak."

"Oh, trust me." Sam's chest burns hot, and something threatens to rise from his stomach and expel itself "I will. Just give me a reason."

Ricardio glares, snatches his hand back, and prepares to launch it at Sam when a voice calls out to the both of them, halting each in their movements. Mrs. Hertz, an assistant teacher during Sam's Honors Global Studies class, marches towards them.

"Now, look what you did", Ricardio groans. "We're gonna get it."

Sam rolls his eyes, folds his arms, and watches as Mrs. Hertz stops before them.

"Herman. Winchester", she says, turning her nose up as Sam's last name passes her lips. "Can either of you explain to me why I just saw the beginnings of a fight?"

Ricardio scratches the back of his neck and smirks. "Cause you was looking in our direction?"

Mrs. Hertz points a wrinkly finger at him and glares. "I suggest you remain quiet and get to your next class before I call your parents as well."

Sam rears backward and gestures to Ricardio. "Wait, what about him? I wasn't about to fight myself. And it's not like I went after him. He came for me!"

"Right. A human tried to fight a mutant?"

Sam clenches his fists at his sides and hisses, "The same fucking thing is happening right now!"

"Yelling at your teacher? Oh, I'm sure your father's going to love hearing about this." She nods to Ricardio. "Go to your class, son. I'll handle this."

Ricardio chuckles. As he turns to join the tide of students rushing to make the next bell, he elbows Sam in his stomach and whispers ,"Guess I won't be seeing you in Calc, mutie."

Mrs. Hertz grabs Sam by the shoulder and steers him to her office. Along the way, two girls from Psychology pass by; one dips her mouth into her shoulder. Her friend bursts into squeals, and they both hurry away, looking over their shoulders every few seconds until they reach the edge of the hall.

"This is the third incident this week", Mrs. Hertz says, pushing open the door to her office. Sam is immediately welcomed by the scent of pine cones and ginger. The aroma irritates his nose, but, knowing her reaction will be anything but pleasant, he withholds the comment.

He crashes into the chair before the wooden desk in the center of the room and drops his elbows onto his knees. Mrs. Hertz scowls as she sits in her own chair, straightening her spine and looking down at Sam with disdain.

"This is a school Mr. Winchester", she begins, reaching for the phone amidst the cluttered mess of papers and folders between them. "You'll never achieve anything with a posture like that." Raising the phone to her mouth, she adds, "Course, that's probably the least of your worries. Hi? Yes, this is Mrs. Hertz. Yes, I'm calling about Sam again. He initiated another altercation today."

Sam sits up to object, but Mrs. Hertz raises a finger and shakes her head. "As you know, we just cannot accept this kind of behavior. I was wondering if you could step in to further discuss his future at Daler Prep. Well, my superiors, as well a few parents, are concerned, and we just need to clear a few things up is all." She reaches for a pencil on her desk and twirls it between her fingers, her eyes crinkling. "Uh huh. I understand. Is there anyone else who could come speak with me? Per national guidelines, he's prohibited from resuming schooling until I've received updated and completed documentation of registration. Oh, I suppose that's a bit presumptuous of me. Er." She chuckles and rolls her eyes. You have gotten him registered, haven't you?"

John's voice jumps from the phone as he yells, "Do you or do you not see the goddamn collar around his neck?"

Mrs. Hertz blushes and stills her pencil between her ring and fore fingers. "Yes."

John's voice levels, but Sam can still hear his annoyed mumbling from across the desk. Hertz catches his smirk and narrows her eyes. Sam clears his throat and averts his attention to the ceramic apple in the window behind her.

"Yes. Regardless, we're still awaiting documents and require a meeting concerning Sam's behavior. I understand an immediate meeting isn't feasible, but we're required by the law to suspend him from school in the meantime. Sir, I..." She lowers the phone, still spewing a hostile tirade, and watches Sam for a moment. Then, placing the phone back in its cradle, she leans forward and, with disgruntled eyes, says, "Get out of my school."

. . .

Hertz and John agree to a two weeks' suspension. By the time those two weeks come to an end, they'll have already moved onto the next town, of course, but Sam doubts Hertz will be too torn up over the deception.

At first, having two weeks off from school sounds amazing; only five months at a school where the teachers are no better than the students, and Sam's almost lost the desire to finish his schooling. Yet after five hours of lounging around the motel room, he finds himself missing the structured nature of the hellish place. At school, Sam's subject to the ire of anyone who happens to catch a glance of him, and any sign of accomplishment is usually denounced as pure luck or cheating. But at least there he has something to do and isn't as compelled to find a mirror and do their jobs for them. The temptation to stay is just as strong as the temptation to leave. After hours of contemplating what to do, Sam springs from his nest and heads into town, desperate to find something to occupy his time.

He doesn't spend long deciding. The community pool is open and, thankfully, not as crowded as he expected it to be. There's enough loathing eyes to make him feel like he's back in school, but he slips into the pool before they can get in a word, and what little significance they yielded all but evaporates.

The gentle push and pull of water over his scales is mesmerizing, a well-deserved respite from the unrelenting pulses of the sun. Dipping his head beneath the chaos, the wailing children, and the venomous eyes of their mother, nullifies the yearning to take a pair of wire cutters to his veins and just disappear. The white noise has dimmed to a gentle humming, and as Sam sinks further, the clamor fades. If he wants, all he has to do is concentrate, and the noise would return. But he's content to let the world go for just a few minutes, comforted both by his liquid surroundings and his thoughts.

When his ass collides with the prickly floor of the pool, he allows his arms to float beside him and tilts his head back. Dozens of feet of varying shades thrash furiously as their upper bodies guide them towards the left end of the pool. Lying on his back, Sam watches in mild dejection as a mother scrambles for her children and tosses them out of the pool. He turns onto his stomach, away from the distraught crowd, and swims towards the ladder lining the concrete siding. He clings to the rungs, the metal long since deteriorated and coming off in flakes of rust.

The calming effect of these waters, though, is only momentary. Something flutters in his deltoids, and as he rotates his neck, his muscles jolt and push him forward, propelling him into the side of the pool. Sam pushes his hands out to minimize the force of impact, but the sudden readjustment of his humerus is a painful enough substitute. His muscles join in, interwoven symphonies distinguished by fractured bones and torn ligaments. He cranes his neck over his shoulder and watches with blossoming horror as something opaque and viscid pokes through the taut skin of his back.

Sam's heard people compare pain to being blinded. And, in a sense, they're not wrong. As the appendages push through his skin, his eyes clench shut, and the world morphs into a canvas of black. But the splintering pain from within almost serves as a second vision, one that is of white hot and blood red. Emerging from the fetal position and thrusting upwards is a gruelling effort, so much that when he breaks through the surface, he only has the strength to cling to the railing.

The pool's completely deserted by now, so there's no one to gawk at the slimey wings Sam has just sprouted. Jolting sporadically, they fall over his shoulders and give feeble flaps, attempting, he assumes, to launch into flight. Sam groans, pushes his wet hair out of his face, and squeezes the bridge of his nose.

"Of course", he mumbles as he crawls to his feet. "Because why half-ass being a freak when you could go for the whole package?"

. . .

There's no exact moment when he decides to leave, but the idea begins to ferment in the fall of his senior year at Black Leaves High School. It's when his guidance counselor accuses him of robbing non-mutants the title of salutatorian that college becomes a viable future; prone to fail, possibly, but viable. The concept further ferments when he brings it up with TakeTheseBrokenWings during a late night discussion.

"People want you to think that mutants never amount to anything. But you'd be surprised by the amount that gets accepted to and graduates from college. Hell, I'm in my second year, and there's a group of us that get together a few times a week to keep each other from dropping out. You wouldn't be believe how etheral college is, but it doesn't come without its pitfalls. Around here, visible mutants can't go two days without being harrassed to hide their traits."

Sam is both comforted and discouraged by the message. Until now, the possibility of college had been an abstract dream at best. With Wings' words, though, he could not only apply to college but also have the opportunity to make something of himself. But if he's right about that, then Wings is also right about the animosity, which is only likely to get worse if the Deportation Declaration gains political footing.

"But it's worth it, right", Sam quickly types, a sweeping warmth emerging beneath his scales. "The freedom, the work, knowing that you're going somewhere instead of letting the system define and oppress you? Is it worth it?"

He doesn't reply for a few minutes. All the while, Sam sits in his chair, ignoring the glares of some classmates a few tables beside him, and awaits his message. When Wings says "yes", Sam opens another window and proceeds to spend the next hour pouring researching potential colleges.

. . .

In the following months, Sam abandons his nest and goes out in pursuit of a future. John remains oblivious, pouring himself into destroying every monster within a twenty-five mile radius of their motel. Dean accompanies him on most of these hunts, though he has taken notice of how busy Sam's been; he calls whenever he can, always reminding his younger brother to keep his head down and to stay out of trouble. Sam dismisses the concern each time, and when Dean's suspicion is gently caressed into submission, Sam shoves the phone back into its cradle and rushes to the nearest library.

He doesn't get much farther than the parking lot, though, when he's suddenly cut off by the Impala. Expecting Dean to launch into a bitter rant about lies and secrecy, Sam drops his backpack on the ground and begins to explain himself. Before he can, though, the window rolls down and reveals John. Beside him sits Dean, wearing a guilty expression and pressed as far back into his seat as possible.

"Get in", John says curtly. "We need to talk."

Biting his lip, Sam picks up his bag and pulls open the door of the car. An empty, greasy McDonald's bag rests in the seat closest to the window, so he crawls over it and settles in the seat behind Dean. Dean's eyes meet Sam's in the rearview mirror. Beneath the guilt lies an unconcealed hurt and barely retained anger that has Sam reaching for the door handle. His hand stops upon the locking of said door, and his eyes flick to the mirror once more, this time to glare at John. John returns the glare and presses harder on the gas pedal as he drives them out of town. Dean jams a cassette into the radio, transforming seconds later into a Queen song through the speakers. John grits his teeth and reaches for the radio knob, twisting it until the sound waves are practically slamming against them.

When they pull over at the edge of town, their surroundings composed of desert and long since vacated buildings, John tosses open his door and jumps out. His back to the car, he says, "Dean, take the car back into town. Sam, you come with me."

Sam looks to Dean. "Dee-"

"It's fine, Sammy", Dean assures. "He just wants to talk. And when you get back, you and me are talking, too."

"But-"

"Sam, get out here. Now!"

"You're gonna be all right. Just go. I'll see you in a few hours, okay? Okay?"

"Okay", Sam says, his voice meek and uncertain. He brushes the McDonald's bag to the floor and steps out the car to stand beside John. Dean gives Sam a wave and a supportive smile before pulling off, the wheels of the Impala kicking up a thick cloud of dust as they disappear down the road.

His scales hot and crawling, Sam keeps his eyes on the arid desert floor. Beside him, John draws in a deep breath and wipes his hands over his face.

"You know about me going to college", Sam says in a quiet rush.

John doesn't look at him. "Yeah."

"And you're pissed."

"Yeah."

"And you're gonna kill me."

He turns to face him. His expression is indecipherable, but the hitch in his breathing and twitching of his fingers gives Sam pause.

"I'm not gonna kill you, son."

"You took me to a desert. And you sent Dean away." Crossing his arms, Sam scoffs and raises his eyebrows in challenge. "And you're not gonna kill me?"

"No. Think I've got the right mind to beat the hell out of you. But I ain't gonna kill you." He looks away. Then, without another word or jerk of the head, he starts walking. Sam observes the area once more. He considers tearing after Dean down the dirt road. Even if Dean's upset about his deception, there's no doubt that he's parked the Impala behind one of the buildings and is waiting for Sam to take off. He's tempted to, but John's still walking. And if he's taking them this far from civilization, there must have been a reason for it.

So he follows him.

. . .

They come upon a dilapidated hotel. It's a quaint little thing; more of a taller-than-average motel but a hotel nonetheless. John pushes open the glass doors and leads Sam to the main counter. No one's there, of course, but John still studies it as if a clerkman will emerge from behind the desk and ask him about his day.

"Uh, dad?"

Shaking his head, John averts his eyes and starts walking towards the hallway extending to the south wall. "Grab key 15."

Sam frowns and watches his retreating figure. Confusion clouding his vision, he walks behind the desk and scans the key rack. Most of the keys have fallen to the floor beneath them, but a handful remain on their hooks. Key 15 is amongst the latter, and, after snatching it off the wall, he hurries to meet his father at the door he's stopped in front of.

"Okay, I got the key", he says, passing it to John and shoving his hands into his back pockets. "Now what?" Noticing the frantic tremble of his hands, Sam looks up at him and sucks in his lower lip. "Dad-"

"I got it", John snaps, fumbling with the key. Sam takes note of the struggle, scowls, and looks up at John. "You've been drinking."

"And you're trying to run off."

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna get all three of us killed for it", Sam retorts. He watches John for a moment, then, exasperated, takes the key and slides it into the lock. He pushes the door open, then storms in and looks around them in frustration. "What are we even doing here", he asks, unable to take the hiss out of his voice.

John broadens his shoulders and takes a firm step forward. Sam's wings flex beneath his clothes, and his eyes bleed red. A growl rumbles in his chest, increasing in volume until it reaches the back of his throat. A puff of smoke escapes his nostrils, and he stalks closer to John.

"Why the hell did you bring me here?"

John holds his stare and his ground. "Sam. I know you can't control this sometimes. And I don't expect you to. But I am still your father. And you will not talk to me like this." Seeing Sam's fangs descend, he continues. "I didn't bring you hear to fight. I brought you here to talk. What actually happens depends on you... Stand down, son."

Sam shakes his head and turns away. Fists bawling at his sides, he lets out a hot breath of air and takes in the room around him: tables are overturned, their cloths stained with red wine and strewn about the room; there's shattered glass everywhere, and someone's discarded menu has attached itself to the bottom of Sam's shoe; and across the room, sitting on a mantlepiece, sits several pictures of radiant newlyweds, holding onto each other as if they're the only thing grounding them to the earth. One such picture, coated with dust from decades of neglect, shows John and Mary, clad in simple jeans and t-shirts; Mary's arms are wrapped around John's neck and John's around her waist. Her face is tucked into the crook of his neck, but her eyes are still visible and full of so much adoration that it's no wonder this John's own eyes have tears accumulating in them.

The fire in Sam settles. He takes a step back and looks at the present John. He's almost brought to tears himself when he sees the archaic anguish upon his father's face.

"We eloped here", John begins in a resigned voice. "It was fall, and neither of us knew what the hell what we were doing." He smiled, mirroring his younger counterpart as his eyes took on a glassy appearance. "But we were happy." Reaching forward, he takes their picture off the fireplace mantle and thumbs the corner of the golden frame.

Sam shuffles his feet and tugs on the sleeve of his sweater. "I never knew that", he eventually says. He takes another look around the room. "Were you guys on your own or..."

John's attention remains on the picture. "No, it was just us. Her, uh, her family didn't approve of us."

He knows about their lack of extended family; John never had much of a family, and the little he had disowned him after he married Mary. And Mary's side, according to John, were adamant in driving the Winchesters out of town. But he'd never questioned it before. Looking up at John, he asks, "Why?"

He falls silent. Tilting his head to the side, he removes the photograph from its frame and slips it into his pocket. Then he turns back to Sam. "Because I was a mechanic. Didn't have much schooling and barely enough money to provide for myself."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I know that part. There's something you're not telling me." When he gets no response, he says, "And it's why you brought me out here. Well, we're here now, dad. Might as well tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it. Trust me."

John sighs. He pulls up a chair from behind him and takes a seat, rubbing some of the crust out of his eyes. "Your mother was a mutant."

Sam blinks softly. His eyes travel back to where the frame had been, then back to John.

John folds his hands together and averts his gaze. "Mary was an empath; the 'invisible' type. She kept it from her folks for the longest time." He chuckles at that. "Must be in the blood."

"Yeah. I guess it is."

John smiles, his lips taut and tired. "We were gonna tell you someday, you and Dean both. Sit y'all down, teach ya to ignore that nonsense the Antis spew, and explain what your mother was. And what y'all might be. But she never got the chance to. And when Dean reached age and didn't manifest, I guess I just assumed...or hoped...that you wouldn't either."

Sam takes a handful of hair into his fists and inhales. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because if you're planning to leave, you need to know this." John sits up straighter and centers his attention on Sam. "I know you're hoping to find others like yourself, but you have to be careful about this. Mary tried the same, and it put her in the ground."

Sam considers this. A piece of glass shatters beneath his foot, and he looks down to stare at it. His reflection looks back at him, tormented and confused and twisted beyond recognition. Bending to pick up a shard, he then asks, "That's another thing I don't get." He presses the shard against his left thumb and watches as blood begins to bubble up from the wound. Second later, his scales thicken and grow over the cut, the injury disappearing before the pain could register. "You said mom was killed by a mutant. Some pyromaniac broke into the house, killed her, and destroyed everything. But why would a mutant kill another mutant?"

John's expression hardens. He raises his hand to cough into his fist. He shakes his head, a mirthless smile donning his face, and says, "For the same reasons humans kill other humans. And monsters kill other monsters. And hunters kill other hunters."

Sam lets his hand fall to his side, using the other to brush some hair out of his eyes. "She had something it wanted", he asks.

"Exactly."

"But what was it?"

"I have no idea. But I know that Mary met the freak, er, jerk at an MS meeting. Later that night, he came for us."

"And we've been chasing him ever since."

"Registration wasn't mandatory back then", John explains, the words strained and tired. He stands from his chair, crosses his arms, and sighs. "And he's been dodging Mutant Collection Vans since the act's been passed. He's totally off the grid. Aside from when he's slaughtering mutants." Hesitation clings to his voice as he proceeds; patting the pocket with the picture, he closes his eyes. "A couple months ago, I caught wind of a pattern. The children of the mutants he killed? They've all been registered but have tried to break the mold: joining the Mutant Sentiments movement, applying for managerial positions, getting into college."

"And?"

"And they've all been killed, Sam. Just like their parents, just like your mother. I keep trying to get to 'em in time, but he's always a step ahead of me. If you leave, Sam, you're not coming back."

Sam scowls. The spark within him reignites, a flurry of mild annoyances and grievances courting until their gradual merging in his center. "I have to take that chance, dad."

"Why?" Fury and dolor transparent in his features, he marches back over to Sam and returns his scowl with a desolate glower of his own. "So you can get yourself killed? Is that what you want, Sam? Cause that's all that's gonna happen."

"I'll be careful."

"Yeah, I bet that's what those other kids told their parents."

"Those kids weren't raised hunters. And I bet they didn't know a damn thing about other mutants either. I do. I know what to look out for. Mutants, monsters, hunters, people, whatever it is, I can handle them!"

"Not all at once", John insists. "You've never had to deal with them all at once. The moment you get accepted into a college, you are going to be on everyone's radar."

"I guess you would know about that, huh?"

"Sam-"

"No, dad, if you're coming clean, you might as well put it all out there. And how about we start with those hunts you refuse to take Dean on?" Sam starts circling the room, tossing his arms up and letting them fall in thinly-veiled frustration. "You hunt mutants, too, don't you?"

"That's besides the fucking point, Sam", he shouts.

"Then what is the point? Cause I sure as hell can't figure it out." Years of withheld misery explode from Sam like a long since dormant volcano awakening and defiling the world with its devastating elements. "You're worried about me getting hurt", he chokes. "And yet you can still go out and kill people that are just like me. Even though you know that most of the shit they're accused of had nothing to do with them."

"I know a case when I see one. I only hunt the ones that deserve hunting", John argues. His face remains an obstinate reflection of his words, but his shoulders have lost their tension, and looking Sam in the eye's become a struggle. "I wouldn't hunt an innocent."

"And what if you decide I'm not an innocent?"

John covers his eyes with his hands and draws in a ragged breath.

"What was it you used to say", Sam continues brokenly. "'The only difference between a mutant and a monster is the muties don't know they ain't monsters'."

"Stop it."

"It's not our fault that mom's gone. It's on that fucker who torched her."

"Sam!"

"We're barely surviving on our own", Sam cries, gesturing in a circle, a ring of fire kindling around his feet. "Don't make it easier for the rest of 'em to drive us extinct."

"I'm doing this for your mother!"

"My mother wouldn't want you killing the same people she died trying to help!" The fire extends into a wall of vicious flames, and Sam pauses, taking a step back to watch the destructive heat licking the ceiling. Behind the roar of the fire, he hears John frantically yelling for him. If he peers close, he can even see his outline through the dancing tendrils of red and orange.

"Dad?"

"I'm right here, son. I'm not going anywhere."

The fire doesn't subside, even with Sam's efforts to dampen it, but it doesn't grow either. It just breathes, welcoming its owner with scorching hands and crisp air. John's silhouette only moves to crouch and sit before Sam. But it, like the fire, makes little other movement, instead waiting for Sam to return himself and put the fire out. Sam mimics the shadow's movements and sits on the floorboards beneath his feet, dropping his hands beside him as he stares at his sneakers.

"I can't stay, dad."

John remains silent. For a moment, Sam thinks the fire has drowned out his response. Then, above the whistling wind and cackling flames, he hears a faint, "I know."

"Wherever I end up, I promise I'm gonna be careful. I won't hide who I am or what I believe in, but I will be careful."

"I know."

"But you gotta promise me something."

"Anything." John raises his head and leans closer; close enough to ensure he catches Sam's every word but also far enough to ensure he doesn't get burned.

"Stop hunting mutants."

"..."

"I want revenge for mom just as much as you. But this isn't the way to get it." The howling in his ears calms, and the fire begins to recede from the ceiling. "You don't have to kill us, dad. You don't have to let one bad guy ruin it for the rest of us."

"It's the only way I can get his attention", John replies. He watches the fire with acute eyes and meets Sam's stare through the dying wall. "Whenever a mutant gets it, he follows and takes a few for himself."

"And completely disappears, right? You can't catch him like this, and you know it."

"Then what do you suggest I do?"

"Let us help."

"You're not hunting, Sam. If your cover ever gets blown, there won't be much we can do to save you."

"Okay, then let Dean help. You've taught him almost everything you know, and you know it's always better to have someone at your back."

A gust of wind blows in from the shattered windows behind them, causing the wall to stretch to the right. Before the flames return to their former height, John catches a brief glimpse of Sam and gives him a small smile. "And you?"

"I'll be gone, but I'll stay in touch. And I can get you guys some intel on him."

"He's crafty, Sam. He's not gonna let us find him."

The wall crashes to the floor with a thick cloud of smoke. John waves his hand in front of his face, coughing, and watches as Sam steps across the charred circle on the floorboards.

His eyes are feral and orange. Sam brushes some ash off his cheek. "I know. And that's just gonna make it all the more satisfying when we finally do catch him."

John chuckles in relief. "Well. Glad to know we're on the same page. Even if we have different ways of reading it."

"Yeah, but we can cross that bridge when we get to it." He walks towards the door and starts down the hallway. "For now", he calls back. "I think we'd better head back before Dean's head explodes."

. . .

Dean takes the two home with his head intact but his face drenched in sweat and tinted a feverish red. John reveals the truth about Mary to his eldest, then, with his youngest, explains the course of the road ahead. Dean's reaction is similar to Sam's. Furious and betrayed, he pulls the car over in the middle of the conversation and has to be talked down by Sam to listen to the rest. By the time they arrive back at their motel, Dean's as silent and grim as Sam in his early years as a mutant. But he respects Sam's decision to leave and, when John later crashes for the night, agrees to keep an eye on their father while they're gone.

"Just don't do anything stupid while you're gone", Dean murmurs as he pulls his shoes off his feet. "And don't grow up too much, okay?"

"So do the opposite of what you've been doing for the past twenty-two years? Should be easy." Dean's shoe soars across the room and crashes into the wall beside Sam's head.

"Bitch."

Sam smiles. "Jerk."

. . .

Of the thirteen schools he applies to, Sam only gets accepted into five. He omits that particular detail in favor of showing Dean and John his acceptance letter to Stanford University. Dean gives him a rather obnoxious noogie, then sits on him until Sam knees him in the balls. John doesn't say much, but he looks up from his journal, stares at his two sons on the floor, and gives the two a smile so full of fondness it prevents Sam from noticing Dean's foot shooting out to kick him in the stomach.

A few days later, Sam tells the news to Wings. As it turns out, Wings majors in Religious Studies at Stanford and has been working to get Mutant History integrated into the curriculum.

During spring break, Sam receives an award letter covering all expenses to attend the university.

Needless to say, there's very little debate on which school to attend.

. . .

"Alrighty, Sammy." Dean leans against Impala and whistles. Bumping his shoulder against Sam's, he looks at the Los Angeles skyline stretching out before them. The whole city's lit up like an electric chair; cars zip along the highways like polychromatic bugs, and above them, airplanes streak across the sky, neutralizing the noise of the population below. "Finally made it to the big city, huh? Any superstars you've got your eye out for?"

Sam pretends like he's thinking and says, "Mickey Mouse counts as a superstar, right?"

Dean pushes Sam's head down and snickers.

"Knock it off." John emerges from the bushes and pauses before the two. Sam and Dean exchange a glance, then stand straighter, both adopting somber expressions. "All right. Now, Sam. You've got your walkie-talkie?"

"Yep." Sam reaches into the lower zipper of his backpack and inspects its contents. "And my back-up. And the back-up for my back-up."

"And you got all our numbers? Me, Dean, Pastor Jim...Bobby?"

"Yeah. Business and personal."

"And your knife?"

"In my back pocket. And, before you ask, I'll buy a gun the first chance I get." Sam shrugs his backpack back over his shoulders, hooking his fingers in the straps, and exhales. He gives them an expectant look and takes a shy step closer. Dean pulls him in for a strong hug, arms reaching above and around his neck. Sam wraps his own arms around Dean's back and buries his face into the crook of his neck.

"Please", Dean whispers. "Please, be safe."

"I will", Sam returns. "I promise. And stay out of trouble."

They pull away, and Dean steps back to linger beside the car. John and Sam stand apart, the few feet separating them as expansive as a yet to be discovered galaxy. He extends his hand and nods at his father. John nods back and firmly grasps his hand. His skin feels odd rubbing against Sam's scales, and Sam knows it's taking his entire being not to recoil at the contrast. A conflicting sense of appreciation and shame emerges within him; he pushes it down, though, instead focusing on the unceasing pride that's been clinging to him for months.

"I, uh, I guess this is it then", Sam says, tightening his grip on his shoulder straps.

Dean smiles. "Yeah. For now, at least. But the moment you check into your dorm, you call me", he says, his tone playful yet brittle. "You got me?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yes, sir." He looks between the two of them, then takes a deep breath. "See you later, guys."

John starts to respond, the beginnings of a smile emerging, when he suddenly jerks his head back and stumbles to the ground. Dean's eyes widen, and his hand reaches behind him for his gun before he doubles over and falls to his knees. He looks up at Sam to say something, blood spilling from his lips, but stops on account of the bullet striking and tunneling through his cranium. Seconds later, something explodes in Sam's stomach.

Collapsing beside his brother, he bites his lip, his fangs drawing a steady current of blood, and crawls towards the Impala. Bullets ricochet off the doors, then shatter through the windows and lodge in the tree behind Sam. He gasps, pulls his pack off his shoulders, and tosses it onto the grass. Rummaging through it is a struggle both because of the dim lighting of the moon and the fact that his talons keep tearing the fabric. When his fingers brush up against a metal can, he lets out a relieved sob and places them on the button along the top.

A deafening, jarring cry shoots from the air horn and pierces the night air. The bullets come to a stop, followed by the rustling of trees and something crashing against the ground.

"I know who you are", Sam calls as thudding footsteps disappear down the fork leading to the main road. "You better take the first plane out of Cali, and then the continent, cause we're coming for your ass!" The porch lights on the cabin a few yards down the road flicker on, and a man steps onto the porch. He says something that reaches Sam's ears as muffled syllables. By the time the man has rushed down the stairs and crouched beside Sam, he's already succumbed to the gunshot wound coaxing him into unconsciousness.

. . .

He awakes in a hospital room. Aside from Sam and a few medical instruments, the room is bare and devoid of life. Sitting up in his bed is a struggle, as the movement pulls on his stitches and reminds him why he's been hospitalized. His breathing coming to a halt, Sam recalls watching his father and brother's lifeless bodies crashing to the ground. He tosses his legs over the edge of his bed and stands, ignoring the ensuing vertigo and pain in his abdomen.

"Please be alive", Sam hisses as he starts for the door. Just as he reaches the threshold, though, a nurse walks past, stopping once he sees Sam.

"Sir", the man begins, reaching to turn Sam around and guide him back to bed. "You really shouldn't be out of bed. You could rip your stitches."

"I have to-" Sam winces, his hand flying to his stomach. "I have to find my brother and my dad." He looks up at the man and says, "John and Dean, one's an older fella and the other's close to my age. They, ugh, they would've been brought in with me."

The man helps Sam ease back into bed. His eyebrows lower, and his chest thickens as he gathers in a deep breath.

Sam rests his head against his pillow and stares at the ceiling. "They're dead, aren't they?"

The man remains quiet, his expression ambivalent. "Yes. Their wounds were too severe. By the time we got them here, they were already gone."

Sam closes his eyes. Behind his eyelids, a wall of water gathers; he brings up one hand to ensure that even if the lids fail, his tears won't travel far. "Do they know who did it?"

"I'm afraid not. The authorities are awaiting your statement; they're hoping you can give them a lead."

"I know. I just-I can't. Not now."

He nods. "I understand. In the meantime, is there anything I can do?"

"...My brother's car. It's a '67 Chevy Impala. Is it okay?"

"It's fine. A man by the name of Bobby Singer, listed as your next of kin, was contacted after your arrival. He asked a friend to hold it for him. Said he should be here in a day or three and that he wants you to call him when you're feeling up to it."

"Right."

The man turns away and starts for the door. "I have to check in on another patient", he explains. "If you need anything, just press your nurse call button. Someone will be here soon."

Sam presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes, blinks, and turns to stare out the wall-length window beside him.

It's raining.

. . .

Sure enough, Bobby arrives a couple of days later. They give Dean and John a proper hunter's funeral in a barren field just outside of San Jose. There are few words and even fewer ceremonies, but Bobby stands behind Sam, hand taut on his shoulder and face full of enough sorrow to drown a person.

Not yet ready to die, Sam turns back to the pyre, watching with glacial eyes as the logs crackle and split; beneath the pyre, the bodies catch fire and begin to disintegrate.

If not for Bobby's hand, Sam's certain he'd lose what little humanity he still had upon catching the scent of burning, decaying flesh.

. . .

Bobby doesn't hesitate handing the keys over to him, though he doesn't release his grip on them until Sam agrees to frequently check in on him.

"Don't make me come down here", he says, dropping Sam off in a White Castle parking lot. "You know I'll do it."

Sam's fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jacket. Nodding, he musters a feeble smile and drags his feet through the sifting gravel of the lot. "Yeah, yeah, of course." He clears his throat and takes a step back as Bobby begins pulling his car into reverse. "We'll talk."

"Yeah, we better", Bobby grumbles. He reaches out and pats Sam's shoulder. "Be seeing you."

The Impala's parked in the back of the lot. Locating it is no more difficult than finding a case. Before, he'd had the hope that California was a state of little supernatural activity. It's been two weeks since they've crossed the state line, though, and he's already caught wind of a dozen possible cases. None of which he's attempted pursuing, but he stays tuned into the police channel anyway; he's taken to investigating his own case, but it doesn't hurt to have external sources.

"All right", Sam groans as he ducks into the front seat. The keys, to his discontent, dangle from their slot in the ignition, prime for the taking. He twists them to the right, chuckling as the zealous growl of the engine meets his ears and draws the attention of several customers exiting the White Castle. "Okay, girl", he whispers to the wheel. "Let's get out of here."

. . .

Another three weeks pass before classes start.

There's a part of him that wants to abandon the idea of college and focus on his case. But there's another part that's adamant he stay, reasoning that it's the reason the case exists and that he owes it to Dean and John to see his dream through.

Sam's teachers aren't as lenient as he'd hoped they'd be. When he forgoes completing an essay in his Physics 101 class, his teacher drops his grade from an A to a D- without explanation. Sam stays behind class after receiving the graded paper, though his efforts accomplish little.

"The syllabus said the assignment was only worth ten percent of our grade", he explains when Mr. Hughes fails to understand Sam's distress. "It shouldn't have dropped so dramatically."

Mr. Hughes raises his eyebrows. "And you know this how?"

"Because I know what ten percent of ninety eight is, and I know how to read a syllabus."

"No need to get fussy, Mr. Winchester", Mr. Hughes retorts. "You should be happy I was so generous with your grading. If I were a lesser man, I'd have failed you."

Sam taps his talons against the edge of his desk. He leans back in his seat and takes a moment to compose himself; dragging his talons beneath the desk and scratching into the steel, he relents, "Yes, sir. I didn't mean any harm. I just don't understand how such a relatively light-weighted assignment tanked my grade."

Hughes drops his elbows on his desk and sneers. "Of course you don't understand", he taunts. "It's well-known that your kind struggles comprehending simple concepts."

Sam snarls and stands, his chair tumbling over in his wake.

"Calm yourself, mutie. You're not even supposed to be here." His hand hovers over a button beside the pile of books on his desk. He tilts his head in innocence and smirks. "We wouldn't want to jeopardize all the 'work' you've put in to get here."

Sam reaches across the desk to snatch the man by his collar but is stopped by another hand reaching out and pulling him away. When he turns to face the mediator, he's confronted by a boy with hair the color of soot and a ruffled, jet-black set of wings. Sam holds the boy's stare, marvelling at their twin shock collars; the boy's wings, two giant masses of frail, battered feathers, flutter beneath Sam's scrutinizing eye. Sam's scales pulse underneath the boy's own examinations. But he doesn't retreat, and he doesn't feel compelled to cover himself.

"Great, another one", Hughes says with a voice like serrated steel.

The boy releases Sam's arm and turns to Mr. Hughes. "I'm sorry, sir, I just needed to borrow..."

"Sam."

"Sam for a moment."

He makes a vague "go on" gesture with his hands and refocuses his attention on the pile of papers on his desk. "We weren't discussing anything of importance."

Sam makes to respond but yields when he sees the boy's suggestive eye. Sighing, he grumbles, "I'll be back later", then starts for the door. The boy follows after him, falling into step with him. Their footsteps echo off the walls of the empty hallway, resonant and demanding, a singular sound emitting from two beings of two different but ultimately similar worlds.

"You're Fáfnir", the boy says as they make a left and push through the doors of the Chemistry Lab. All heads revolve towards them as the squeaking door announces their arrival. Once they place Sam and the boy, they lose interest and turn back in their seats back to their beakers and test tubes.

"And you're TakeTheseBrokenWings", Sam returns. Brushing past a mop bucket, he smirks dryly and says, "Cheesy name by the way."

Fáfnir rolls his eyes. "This coming from the guy who named himself after a dragon." When Sam sends him an inquisitive glance, he chuckles and says, "I do my research."

"I thought that was the point of the third degree before I joined."

"It was", he admits. They come to the exit door of the lab, and he props it open with his hand. Sam ducks out first, then Fáfnir, and they continue forward. The door shuts behind them, the fetor of chemicals and rubber gloves meeting an abrupt end. "But it's more of a last minute precaution. You can tell a lot about a person based on the names they give themselves."

"Yeah, and yours tell me you that you have shitty taste in music." Sam sneaks a glance at his wings again. "And, uh, your real name?"

"Castiel. Castiel Novak." His wings curl around his waist, and he looks up at Sam with despondent eyes. "And you're Sam Winchester. I-I heard about the crash and...I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

He doesn't stop walking. If anything, he increases the length of his strides and starts walking faster. "Castiel-"

"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable", he continues. Despite the jarring height disparity, keeping up with Sam isn't difficult. He just angles his body on a slant, flaps his wings, and jumps to levitate beside Sam.

Drawn to Castiel's sudden flight, he slows his pace and watches as Castiel floats in tandem with his footsteps. "You never told me you could fly", Sam notes.

"Call it a recent development. I guess they're finally healing."

Pushing open the door before them welcomes them into the glaring sight of a mid-afternoon sun. Sam lifts his hand up to shield his eyes, quietly hissing at the sting the deceiving rays prompt. "That all you wanted to talk about?"

Castiel shrugs. He shifts so that his back's towards the ground and his eyes to the clouds. "Remember that mutant group on campus I was telling you about?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, sometimes, we bring in current events about mutants. Could be a poem, a wrongful conviction, a scientific study, whatever. Every once in a while, though, someone hears about a murder. Like I said, this is only my second year here, so I'm still figuring the place out."

Sam stops before the Impala, turns to face Castiel, and nods. "Right."

"But last year, for my Social Justice final, I wrote a paper on the discrimination mutants face. Specifically in the U.S." He groans and allows himself to fall back to the ground. His wings flex behind him, twitching and contorting until he sighs in relief and rolls back his shoulders. "Mm, that's enough flying for today."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm just still in recovery. I'll be fine. Anyway. So I wrote my paper. And while I'm looking over my research, I notice a pattern."

Sam kicks his foot up against the side of the Impala. He imagines Dean glaring down at him from above, his Colt in one hand and a knife in his other. Smiling at the thought, he leans further against the Impala and feels his chest rumble in curiosity. "What's the pattern?"

Castiel beams at that, as if he hadn't expected Sam to believe him. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a folded sheet of paper, then thrusts it in Sam's direction and leans against the car beside him.

It's a map.

"Ignore the blue dots", Castiel adds over his shoulder. "I think those are just dicks with a grudge against anyone that isn't 'normal'. The red ones are the ones that carry meaning."

Sam rakes his eyes over the paper, noting with an inexplicable delight that they mirror the pattern John had discovered. "And why's that?"

"Cause I think they were done by the same person. They were all killed the same way: immolation and guns. I-I haven't figured out why, and I don't know how they decide which mutants to strike. Their attacks seem so unsystematic and random at times."

"Like with my brother and dad", Sam muses to himself. "I think he was more aiming for me. When he realized I wasn't alone, I guess he just decided to take us all out. Only he didn't count on me surviving." He takes the paper from Castiel and points to a circled question mark in the center of San Francisco. "What's this?"

Castile scowls and crosses his arms. "I don't know. I've been looking at that area for months, and I can't figure it out. Whoever this guy is, he's spent the past twenty years tormenting mutants and their families throughout the country. But there's this one remote area in San Francisco that he's never hit."

Sam shakes his head. "Could just mean there aren't that many mutants there."

"I thought the same. But I check the National Registration Records, and San Francisco actually has the largest mutant population in the nation."

Sam stares at Castiel. His fingers go to the brass amulet around his beck and clasp around the horned beast resting against his chest. A peculiar calm settling over him, he passes the map back to his new friend and says, "I know this guy. I don't know who he is, but I know he tried to kill me. And I know he killed my brother and my dad. And mom, when I was a baby." He frowns and kicks at a rock in front of his shoe. It bounces across the asphalt before stopping a few feet away from them. "Why do you care so much about this?"

Castiel's face darkens. Looking away, he ducks his head and says, "My girlfriend, Hannah, died a couple of months back."

"Oh. Was she a mutant?"

"Yeah. An alchemist."

Sam hesitates before asking, "She fit his M.O."

"Yeah. House fire. There was nothing left. Everything was just...gone. And so was she."

Sam's grip on his necklace tightens. Worried he'll crush the pendant, he drops his hand to his side. "I'm going after him", he tells Castiel. He retrieves his car keys from his pocket and points them at the Impala. Looking back at Castiel, he adds, "I've got some friends keeping their eyes and ears out for him, but none of them are in the Bay. And none of 'em have got this type of information at their hands."

Castiel hooks his fingers into his pockets. "What are you saying", he asks, edging closer.

Sam starts up the Impala, then opens the passenger door. "I'm saying I've got work to do, Wings. And...I could use all the extra help available. Especially if it's from a friend."

He starts to say something, then stops, shifting his gaze to the restaurants across the street. There's a crowd of students milling about, and though they pretend not to, both he and Sam can hear their conversations: they're talking about them. Castiel brushes his hand through his hair and sighs. "I'm all for making the world a better place", he admits with some reluctance. "But what you're talking about? That's some dark shit, and we could stir up a hell of a lot of trouble going after this guy."

"Dude, we're mutants. We're always gonna be in trouble."

"That's not exactly comforting."

"Yeah, but it's the truth. It's the world we live in", Sam reminds him. He tilts his head to the seat beside him and tosses his arm around the headrest. "Besides. I know this life. And I know how to get this guy."

Castiel rolls his eyes but steps into the car, folding his wings under his arms as his back meets the leather seats. "Why do I get the feeling I'm gonna regret this?"

"Cause you probably are. But it's gonna be worth it."

"How do you know?"

Sam tosses his book bag into the back seat and sets his hands on the steering wheel. "Because it has to be." He turns to Castiel and raises his brows. "You in or not?"

Castiel drums his fingers against the dashboard. His attention on the windshield, he clucks his tongue against the bottom of his mouth. "I'm in."

"Good."

Their doors slam shut, a sound signaling both finality and genesis. Pulling onto the main road, Sam struggles deciding which one he'd prefer.

He rolls down the windows of the car, revelling in the cool breeze washing over his scales, and shoves a cassette into the radio. Beside him, Castiel rests his map against his thighs and glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

"So where we going?"