Sam stuffed the last of his notebooks into his backpack, zipping it up with some difficulty and hefting it onto one shoulder.
The senior hallway had long since cleared out after the final bell of their high school lives, and Sam had spent the past half hour meticulously going through the junk in his locker, sorting it into a pile he would keep, and a pile of things to throw away. He could hardly believe how much shit he'd managed to collect after spending only three months in the last high school he would ever attend.
Only one item remained untouched within the steel confines of the locker. A crumpled letter on the upper shelf—folded and wrinkled after so many readings of its contents.
Sam grabbed the Stanford acceptance letter and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, slamming his locker door and walking down the empty hall for the last time.
Sam didn't expect to find the Impala parked in the small lot in front of the school. He usually had to walk a mile to the bus stop and ride it across town to the apartment he currently shared with his brother, and occasionally their father.
John hadn't been around as much since Dean had turned eighteen. He would go off on his own hunts sometimes during the week, and collected his boys to participate in others on the weekends. Dean worked full-time so they could legitimately pay rent—and most nights Sam found himself alone in the apartment, watching TV and doing homework, waiting for his brother to drag his ass home from the bars where he'd spend after-hours with his work buddies.
Sam hated the fact that he actually missed his big brother's company when Dean would spend the night with some girl instead of coming home. Every time that happened, Sam went two whole days without any human contact, unless their father happened to be home. He couldn't help but wonder if it was his fault. If his constant questioning, nagging, attention seeking attitude stood as the looming cause of his exclusion from the world inhabited by the other two men in his family.
Being the youngest of the Winchester trio was a lonely, miserable existence—but it seemed pointless to try making friends. Sam had done that many times before, and it always hurt like hell when he had to leave. With school ending their family would probably hit the road again. Sam hadn't even bothered buying a cap and gown for graduation, knowing there was no way Dean would want to stick around long enough for the ceremony--and if Dean wouldn't, their father sure as hell wouldn't.
Ever since Sam had received his acceptance letter, the arguments between him and John had increased ten-fold. John gave an order, and Sam immediately questioned it, vying for his independence. He hadn't told anyone about Stanford—too fearful of the explosion sure to come. Dean had barely gotten his GED, and their father was barely tolerant of allowing his boys to remain only-just stationary enough for Sam to go to school and actually graduate. The three of them moved their base of operations at least four times a year. School breaks meant packing up the truck and Impala and living out of them until school started again. Sometimes Sam got to return to the same school he'd been attending, but usually not.
Dean and John hated staying in one place. They enjoyed the life of demon hunters, and loved nothing more than wandering around the country, killing unnatural things.
Sam just felt tired of it all—the bullshit, the fights, the constant moving around.
Upon approaching the Impala, he found Dean sitting in the driver's seat, his jaw resting on his fist, eyes closed.
Sam opened the passenger side door and got in, scoffing when his brother didn't even twitch.
"What happened?" Sam asked. "You hit Jack, Jim, and Jose too many times last night, so they started hitting you back?"
"Dude, where the fuck have you been?" Dean asked, finally opening his eyes and blinking a couple times. He looked terrible. As bad as Sam had ever seen him. Grey skin, dark circles under his eyes. Dean wore a black sweat suit, and it appeared to hang loose on him. Without his regular egocentric attitude, the twenty-one year old seemed oddly frail.
Sam felt the urge to say something encouraging. Dean always took such good care of him when he was sick, and Sam felt he should return the favor in kind. "You look like shit," he said, imitating his older brother right down to the deadpan tone that clearly stated 'Don't fucking expect me to do anything about it unless you're about to die,' and translated to the brother-speak of 'But if you are about to die, now would be a good time to tell me so I can save your ass.'
"Thanks," Dean replied, turning the key in the ignition and putting the car in reverse to back out of the parking space.
Sam's eyes narrowed when he couldn't tell for sure if his brother was conceding the quip, or T-ing him up to take a hit on a snappy comeback.
"Are we going on a hunt?" Sam blurted after several blocks of driving in silence.
Dean cleared his throat before reaching over to turn on the cassette player. Metallica blasted from the Impala's speakers, and Sam took his brother's response as an 'I don't want to have another fight about this today, because I'm hung over.'
Sam's mouth thinned to a line. "You know, this is exactly what's wrong with this family," he informed Dean. "Anytime you or dad hear something you don't want to, the Metallica turns on, and everyone's just supposed to shut up!"
Dean reached over and turned up the music so loud Sam couldn't even shout over it, completely blowing off his little brother.
Finally accepting that he couldn't possibly make himself heard, Sam slouched down in his seat, wishing for the billionth time the car had headrests. Ever since he'd topped a height of about 5'5" it'd become impossible for him to find a position on the bench seat that wouldn't give him a killer neck cramp if he dozed off. Still, considering he'd basically grown up in the Impala, it didn't take long before the hum of the engine began to lull him toward sleep. Sam closed his eyes, hoping they were headed somewhere semi-local. He hated it when he didn't get a chance to pack his own bag. Considering how terrible Dean looked, there was a good chance there were no clothes waiting for him in the trunk at all. If they had to spend the night somewhere, Sam would probably have to hit Wal-Mart in the early hours before dawn to buy clean clothes.
When the car stopped ten minutes later and the engine's rumble ceased, Sam opened his eyes, looking around.
"Dean, what're we doing in a hospital parking lot?" he asked, gazing out the windshield at the building rising ominously above them. "What're we dealing with? A vengeful spirit?"
"That's not why we're here, Sam," Dean replied, his voice gruff, but weak.
Like, scary weak.
Sam turned to look at his brother, feeling the bottom fall out of his stomach when he realized just how pasty and ill Dean actually looked. When Dean glanced away to avoid meeting his eye, whispering a request that their father not know about this, Sam knew; he knew there was something seriously wrong with his big brother.