A/N: Yes, yes, I know you all hate me right now. I'm still working on all my stories (mostly just the Supernatural ones). I've temporarily lost interest in anything that doesn't involve Supernatural, and I know I should try to finish one of my other stories before I start a new one, but I just can't help it. I get these ideas and they're too good not to use.

I was a little inspired by Son-in-Law to write this, hence the name. But this story will most likely be nothing like that movie.

Don't forget, if you guys review this chapter, you'll be on the wall of fame for the next chapter.

As always, I do not share any views expressed by any characters in this story. And I own nothing in this story.

Please read, review, and enjoy.

Sam missed his mother almost every day. Any time he opened an old book, and smelled the ink and worn paper, it reminded him of her. He felt her embrace when he wrapped up in a blanket, and he felt her love when he curled up by a fire. The memories of her were dull pangs in the back of his mind, like the throbbing of a weak heartbeat.

Growing up, Sam had constantly been surrounded by books. His parents didn't own a television, because TV was poison, movies were trash, and the media was lies. Books were the only source of true pleasure, according to them. Sam's mother, Charlotte, worked in a library from dawn to dusk, every single day. She skipped church on Sundays; books were her religion. And Sam's father was a writer, not well-known to the rest of the world, but infamous in his hometown. George Milligan was known as the town crazy-man who stayed cooped up inside his house year round, publishing books about how cruel and cold the world outside was. In reality, he was very shy, and he would try to bond with Sam, but it was always difficult for him.

Sam was homeschooled, or rather, his mother was his teacher, and the library was his school. She would assign him large stacks of books to read, which thankfully always included fantasy books about magic and wonder. When he wasn't studying, Sam was helping his mother in the library. He would sort books back onto shelves (as long as those shelves weren't too high) and he would practice his reading by reciting children's books to small groups on Saturday mornings.

Sometimes, Charlotte worried about her precious, little Samuel, because he didn't have any friends. He only wanted to spend time in the library, and he even seemed disappointed to go home everyday, as if he'd rather live in the library. She knew that someday he would have to go to school with other children, but she wasn't ready to let go of him yet.

One night, when Sam was nine years old, Charlotte and Sam came home to the sight of George bent backwards over a chair, a bullet hole in his forehead. Charlotte had screamed, kneeling down with a hand over Sam's eyes, trying to pull him back outside. Sam's mouth hung open in horror, and once they were outside, he vomited.

Sam never knew why his father killed himself. It must've been the corruption he saw in the world, Sam wagered, judging from the subject matter of his books. George saw no hope in humanity, feeling that people had doomed themselves, and the world would never be as pure as it had been in the days where everyone read books and held intelligent conversations.

Charlotte's job working for the library proved not to be enough to support Sam, who was growing and needed clothes and who had a bigger appetite each day. And so, Sam went to live in California with his only remaining family outside his mother. He was so depressed about it all that he didn't speak for almost a year.

Sam's Aunt Ellen Harvelle was fairly nice, and incredibly wealthy. Her daughter Joanna was only three years younger than Sam, and she was quite friendly. Even so, Sam wouldn't speak. Not to her, or his new teachers, or his classmates. No one. Sam didn't like going to school with other children who didn't even care about their education. Everyone wanted to talk and squeal and no one every paid attention. It made it difficult for Sam to read.

Sam especially hated that his school had "reading levels." Children in each grade could only read books on a certain list assigned for their reading level, because they couldn't be reading anything too easy or too difficult for them. It was a major step back for Sam, who had started reading on a high school level when he was eight years old. Since he didn't talk, he couldn't tell anyone how idiotic he found the Magic Treehouse series to be, or how insulting it was that they didn't think he was old enough for Dickens.

Joanna was the first person to break through Sam's mile-wide wall he'd built around himself. She spent an entire hour attempting to get him to speak. She begged, saying, "Sammy, Sammy speak to me already. You've been here for the longest; you have to talk sometime!" He continued to read, ignoring her like he would a bothersome fly. Finally, she pondered aloud, "Maybe it's like with Snow White, and you'll snap outta it if I kiss you."

Sam's eyes widened in horror as his six year old cousin planted a kiss on his lips. He grunted, shoving her back, but she only giggled before pouncing on him and kissing him again. As he struggled to push her face away, he finally called out, "Joanna! Incest is a no no!"

She gasped, falling backwards off him, and he panted for breath, repeatedly wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Joanna laughed heartily as he glared at her, and she said, "Guess it worked! But, hey, Sammy? Call me Jo instead, okay?"

Ellen paid for Sam to go to college when the time came, not allowing him to apply for any scholarships. Apparently that would be insulting to the Harvelle name (even though Sam still considered himself a Milligan). Sam hadn't spoken to his mother since the Christmas after he left, and hadn't seen her since he walked down the terminal at the airport, glancing back at her as she waved. Charlotte Milligan didn't like using telephones, so contacting her over the years had been difficult. She never answered. Sam had tried to write her letters, but she never responded.

Sam became an English Literature professor after spending ten years in college, studying every corner of literature possible. You could take Sam away from the library, but ink still ran in his veins. He knew he was meant to help bring the world back to the way it had been, how his father had wanted to see it again. It was Sam's duty to teach young people that books were the only true way, and that television screens would only destroy them.

Excited to show his mother who'd he'd become over the past eighteen years, Sam moved back home. He knew that now he could take care of her, and she could just spend all of her time in the library, where she truly wanted to be. And he would spend his weekends there with her. Now he could reach the higher shelves – having grown to a towering 6'4" – and he could carry all the really heavy books.

Aunt Ellen had never told Sam that his mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She also had never mentioned that Charlotte died ten years ago. The old house had already been sold, the library where his mother used to work now also carried DVDs, and all his mother's belongings, all his father's books, it had all been auctioned off after someone bought the house.

Sam spiraled back down into depression again. He still spoke, but not as often – only when necessary. He cut off all contact with Ellen and Jo, hating them for keeping everything a secret from him. Sam didn't care if they had good intentions, that they didn't want him to get hurt. It was too late for apologies now. Sam had to live with the fact that he'd never hear his mother's voice reading to him again. He'd never get to see her registering someone for a library card and walk up and say, "I've got this one, Mom."

He now lived alone in a crummy apartment, and led a boring life. He had no friends, no love life whatsoever. When the fall would come, he'd be starting out as one of the new English Literature professors to the sophomores at a college two hours away. Sam refused to move closer, because the apartment he lived in was just across the street from the library. He needed to watch over it, for his mother's sake.

On Sam's first day, he showed up an hour early, just to make sure everything was in order. His classroom was larger than he'd been expecting, and he began to feel intimidated at the thought of speaking in front of so many people.

Students began coming in at a steady flow twenty minutes before class was scheduled to start. Sam stayed seated at his desk, pretending to be occupied. His heart was beating furiously, like an angry bull beat the dirt with its hooves. At least the students were fairly quiet, keeping their chatting to a minimum. Sam took deep breaths, rubbing his temples.

It was then that a particularly loud group of students came in. There were three boys and a girl, all laughing. The young man leading the pack looked like he might be trouble – wearing a black shirt and dark, skinny jeans, one black piercing in his left ear and two in his right, hair gelled up. He was the classic stereotype of the "bad boy."

Sam no longer felt threatened, though, when the young man stepped in front of the girl, blocking her path and saying, "But you really should do theatre with me. I promise, you can practice all your kissin' scenes with me. I won't let you get paired with any idiots." He had a bit of a southern drawl to his voice that made him more charming than anything.

The girl in front of him laughed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, but Dean, you forget that you are a huge idiot."

She laughed more when he just stared at her. "Is that supposed to be a fat joke?" he asked. When the girl shook his head, Dean puffed out his chest, saying, "Okay, you wanna see a huge idiot, I'll give you a huge idiot." He then proceeded to march in circles around her, moving his arms in weird ways, singing incredibly out of tune, "Overture, curtains, lights – this is it, we'll hit the heights – oh what heights we'll hit – on with the show, this is it!" He ended by smiling dementedly at her, flashing jazz hands. Almost everyone laughed, some clapped.

Sam didn't understand the reference.

As he stood, hands folded behind his back, Dean and his friends cursed, hurriedly finding their seats. Sam half smiled once his back was turned, satisfied to see that he could be an authoritative figure. He uncapped a dry erase marker, writing his name with perfect cursive on the board. He decided to write his name as Professor Samuel Milligan, thinking that if he included the first name, it would seem more casual. Behind him, Sam could hear his students whispering, but he swallowed, reminding himself that he was a wolf surrounded by sheep. They should fear him.

He turned to them all, clearing his throat. "Hello, and good morning, students." Sam heard someone snicker, but he didn't let it bother him. "I am Professor Milligan. I only have a few rules, and I think they're fairly easy to follow." He began taking slow steps, crossing his arms. "I do not allow electronics of any kind in here unless your life depends on having them. And no, your life does not depend on having your cellphone at all times. No one is to talk about any type of video arts while in this room. No discussing any TV shows, no comparing the books I assign to movies you've seen, and, above all, no one is to speak of those…electronic games so many people your age are obsessed with.

"Unlike other professors, I want you to be open about your thoughts. If you have questions about anything, related to literature or not, ask. There are no stupid questions here. Unless, of course, you try to ask where babies come from, because I will then redirect you to the Biology department." At that, quite a few students laughed, and Sam tucked away his smile. He turned as saw that the Dean boy from earlier had his hand raised. Sam swallowed before nodding to him. "Yes?"

Dean dropped his hand. "What do you have against TV?"

For a moment, Sam was quiet, then he asked, "What is your name?"

"Dean Winchester."

Sam stepped towards him, putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Mr. Winchester, it is my belief that TV holds no benefits. The same goes for movies and media. I have lived my entire life without partaking of or needing any of those things, so obviously, they are unnecessary."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Are you sayin' you've never watched TV?"

"That is correct," Sam began walking back down the stairs, his back to Dean.

"How can you judge something you don't know anything about?"

Sam paused, pondering what he should say. What would the correct answer be? To him, asking how he could hate television before he tried watching it was like telling him he wouldn't know if he didn't like burning books until he'd done it. He continued his decent down the stairs. "Will that be all, or are you going to make a big issue out of the subject?"

He stumbled a little when Dean replied, "I can make it an issue if that'll get you to call me Mr. Winchester again." Was his voice flirtatious? Sam peered back over his shoulder at Dean, who was smiling at him. "I like that." Dean winked.

Sam did is best to stay composed. He half smiled, and it faded seconds later. "I would ask to see you after class so we can discuss your behavior issues, but I get the feeling you would enjoy that too much."

The class laughed again, and Sam began teaching. He was shaky, and it didn't get much easier as class went on, but he reassured himself that he would get better with time. Thankfully, he didn't have to remind anyone to pay attention or stop talking, and no one tried to sneak out a cellphone, as far as he could tell.

Dean Winchester staring at him didn't help his nerves. Every now and again, Sam would pause to stare back at Dean, his lips pressed into a line, hoping this would tell him please stop staring it is very distracting. When class was over, everyone filed out of the room into the hallway, except for Dean, who lounged back in his desk, arms folded behind his head.

Sam was sweating a little – most likely because of nerves, but possibly because he'd decided to wear a cardigan under his suit jacket. "Is there anything else I could help you with?" he asked, purposely avoiding saying Dean's name. "Perhaps you have another question for me?" He crossed his arms as he stepped towards Dean. "Maybe you'll ask what I have against Philo Farnsworth and Charles Francis Jenkins."

"Huh?"

There was silence for a moment before Sam cleared his throat. "They took part in the invention of the television. My answer would be, I have nothing against them. They have imagination."

Dean chuckled. "Dude, I can't get over the way you talk." When Sam cocked an eyebrow at him, Dean clarified, saying, "You talk like you got sucked out of the 1920's or something. You remind me of Charlie Chaplin." The student was surprised to see that his professor was confused. "Wait, so you don't even know who he is? You really haven't ever watched TV, have you?"

"Why is this so important to you?" Sam asked, letting his hands fall to his sides.

With a sigh, Dean leaned back to look at the ceiling. "Because, I'm an Acting major, and I can't imagine anyone never watching a movie in their whole life. It really bothers me. I mean, I don't like books but at least I try to read from time to time. You can hate TV, but you should watch at least a few movies, maybe just the classics for you."

Sam just stared. "Don't you have any other classes to go to?"

Dean groaned, stretching before he stood from his desk, which didn't look easy while confined to such a small structure. "I'm free for the rest of the day. On Mondays all my classes are super early." He picked up his messenger bag, smiling at Sam. "Don't worry, Professor, I'll be back in two days." And with that, he was gone.

Sam leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to heat up in his tea kettle on the stove. He glanced into the living room, at the small TV he had turned backwards to face the wall. It had come with the apartment, and he sometimes found himself tempted to turn it on, just to see what it looked like when it flashed to life. Fighting temptation was easier if he couldn't see the screen. He'd also hidden the remote somewhere in the kitchen.

Dean Winchester's words continued to tickle his mind. Perhaps it was wrong of him to have never given television a chance. His parents made it sound as if watching cartoons growing up would've corrupted his mind and turned him into someone they could never be proud of. Aunt Ellen had tried to get him to watch TV or go with them to the movies, but he always refused, covering his eyes and humming so he couldn't hear.

But now they were all gone. Sam would have to make his own decisions for the rest of his life. His beliefs were now his own. It was a scary thought, that he couldn't blame anyone else for the man that he was now. Perhaps Dean Winchester was right, and he should try to like television, or at least observe it to finally know what he'd been avoiding all his life. The only thing, though, that Sam could see being satisfied by the television was his curiosity, and more than likely, that would go away with time. It couldn't give him anything else that he wanted.

The tea kettle whistling brought Sam down from his thoughts.