Title: Sam Winchester's Catch-22
Author: alakewood
Warnings: Light wincest. Slight spoilers for Pilot. Angst.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,000+
Summary: Coming down from a post-hunt high, Sam does something inexcusable that forces him to make the difficult decision to leave.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
oxoxo
Dad's passed out on half a bottle of Jack and a Vicodin from earlier when Sam had stitched up the long, gaping gash across his back from one of the werewolves they'd killed. Dean swiped the rest of the bottle of whiskey while Sam raided the fridge in their small apartment for beer and now they're sitting side by side on the hood of the Impala, coming off the adrenalin high of the hunt. Sam's never quite felt like this after killing something – he's still got that pleasant buzz of energy thrumming in his veins and he feels like he could go another round with one of those weres. His unusual good mood must be obvious because Dean's grinning beside him and slinging an arm around his shoulders.
"You did real good out there tonight, Sammy." He ruffles Sam's hair, leaves his fingers tangled in the long, messy strands and leans against him drunkenly. He's about as banged up as Dad – didn't take a Vicodin, but was swigging healthily from their bottle of sterilizing vodka as Sam sewed up the three parallel claw marks on his side.
"Thanks," Sam says, ducking under the fall of his sweat-stringy bangs and pressing his head into Dean's palm.
"Really, Sam. Shoulda seen the way Dad looked at you when you took that bitch down. He was real proud."
Sam looks up at that, catches Dean's eyes in the darkness behind their apartment building. "Yeah?"
Dean smiles, this soft, fond curve of his lips that Sam's never seen before. "Yeah."
Even as he's closing the distance between them, some small part of Sam's mind is wondering what's possessed him because surely somethinghas. He shocks himself and Dean when his lips land on his brother's, parted just enough they purse around Dean's bowed upper lip. Sam stills, eyes squeezed tightly shut, feeling Dean's exhalation through his nose across their joined mouths. And either this moment is an endless eternity or time's stopped because Sam's not moving and Dean's not pulling away. Then they are, Dean's large, steady hand on Sam's chest giving a firm shove strong enough to send Sam sprawling to the gravel below.
Dean's eyes are wide, shocked, back of his hand dragging across his mouth. "What the fuck, Sam?"
Sam gets his hands beneath him, feels a twinge in his tailbone from the fall. "I don't – I'm sorry."
"Like you aren't a big enough freak as it is," Dean says, incredulous stare hard and accusing.
Sam can't help flinching at the word, miraculously saved beer bottle finally upending in his lap to spill across his already blood-stained jeans. His heart thuds heavily in his chest as he scrambles to his feet. Sam can't get away from that look on Dean's face fast enough, finds himself halfway across the patchy yard before Dean calls after him.
For the first time in a while Sam finds himself thankful that they've got separate rooms – he's always felt safer with Dean nearby, falling asleep to the sound of his brother's even breathing. But now it affords him the opportunity to lock himself away. Lets him hide like a coward from Dean's obvious disgust like normal kids do from the monsters under their beds.
He gets the heavy wooden dresser that came with the place in front of the door just as Dean tries to open it and drops to the floor, sagging with relief because this barrier will keep Dean at bay until Sam can figure out what to do, until Sam can find a way to fix the damage he's done to their sacred, fraternal bond.
"Sam. Let me in." Dean knocks a couple of times and tries the knob again. "Come on, man, I didn't mean it."
There's a stretch of silence where all Sam can hear is the creak of floorboards in the hall outside his room as Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot.
"I'm sorry, Sammy." He says it so quietly Sam barely hears it. There's a brief pause, then the sound of Dean walking away, followed by the closing of his own door.
Sam just sits and breathes for a long time before finally climbing up off the floor and shucking his filthy and beer-damp clothes. After pulling on his last pair of clean sweatpants, Sam digs the book he borrowed from Bobby two months ago out of his bag. Wedged in front of the back cover is a small collection of college acceptance letters.
He'd never really planned on going, just applied to see if. It was nice to know that he could do other things and that the opportunity was there if he wanted to take it. And right now, after Dean's reaction - freak - Sam wants to take it. He never wants to see that look on Dean's face ever again, that look that said 'I don't know who you are.'Sam flips through the letters - there are schools in New York and Texas and South Dakota that want him, Stanford in California is even offering him a full-ride based on his 'academic achievement.' He's never been to California. He thinks he'd like it.
Sam keeps the Stanford letter out, drops the others into his duffel to get rid of later. He'll talk to Dad in the morning. For now, he just wants to try to sleep and forget about how seriously messed up he is for a while.
oxo
Sam tosses and turns all night, sleeps in fits and starts until the sun rises, hazy light through the sun-bleached, water-stained curtains in the window. He can hear movement out in the living room,. Heavy-footed shuffling that can only belong to Dad.
Throwing his thin blanket back, Sam climbs out of bed and picks up the Stanford letter from the floor where he dropped it. He tries to be as quiet as possible when moving the dresser back against the wall, but it slides with a loud squeak. The living room is empty when Sam finally makes his way down the hall.
"Son of a bitch," comes from the kitchen in Dad's gruff voice, followed by a clatter.
Sam ducks his head inside, surveys the scene of coffee grounds spilled across the counter and floor from the overturned bag. "I got it," he says, setting his letter on the counter and going for the broom and dust pan in the corner closet.
Dad sits heavily at the kitchen table, rubbing at his face with both of his hands. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam quickly cleans up the mess and sets the coffeemaker to brew a fresh pot. In the dim light of the one working bulb in the overhead, Sam looks at his father. Dad's tired and scarred and bruised. He's probably seen more horrible things the past sixteen years than his whole company saw in Vietnam. Dad can't want that for him and Dean, too, can he?
Sam reaches for the letter and sets it on the table near Dad's elbow. "What's this?" Dad asks, looking up, gaze lingering on Sam's face before dropping back down tot he thin, stark, tri-folded piece of paper that has become the key to Sam's future. Dad flips the letter open, turns the page around to read it. Sam watches his dark, shadowed eyes scan the short block of text. "College?"
"Yes, sir." It's not exactly like he has to ask for permission. His eighteenth birthday is barely a handful of months away.
"No."
"Dad." Sam can't stay here. He can'tface Dean. "I'm going."
Dad's stare is harder than Dean's was last night. "Fine. Then go. But if you walk out that door, don't you come back."
There's a hint of betrayal there, Sam thinks, like Dad sees his wanting to go to school as abandonment. Maybe it's not far off, but he can't do this. Can't become this person he's starting to see in himself the more he follows in Dad's footsteps. He needs one normal thing in his life. Sam nods, eying the letter, and backs away from the table. "Guess I'm going, then." This is really happening. As much as he's entertained the idea of leaving, he's never thought about how it would feel. And it's terrifying. He's going to be on his own. Alone. That thought circles in his mind as he changes into jeans and shoves his feet into his sneakers. He drops to his knees to back his duffel as Dean's door opens just down the hall. Sam counts the seven footsteps between their rooms and feels the weight of Dean's gaze on his back. It's heavy and feels like shame.
"What's going on?" he asks, voice sleep rough. "We leaving?"
"Uh, no," Sam says shoving the last of his clothes into his bag, then reaching for Bobby's book. "Just me."
"What?" Dean moves into the room, stands close enough tot Sam that he can feel the warped floorboards shift beneath his knees. "Sam? Is this – is it about what happened last night?"
Sam doesn't turn around, doesn't answer. Just reaches for his dirty clothes piled by the foot of his bed.
"Look, it's not a big deal. You were drunk and – Sammy, will you look at me?"
Sam's dirty laundry gets wrapped up in the cleanest shirt in the pile and wedged into his bag. He thinks that's everything. Standing, he shoulders his duffel and reaches for his wallet on the dresser. Dean tries to block his path to the door, stands right in his way. "I've gotta go."
"No, you don't, Sam. Please. Don't go. We'll be fine. It's gonna be fine." He reaches out, hands on Sam's shoulders. "Sammy. Please?" He sounds as desperate for him to stay as Sam is to leave.
"I can't," Sam says, pushing Dean's hands away, using his height to reach and get around Dean and out the door. "I'm sorry," he whispers as he passes.
Dean follows him down the hall like an afternoon shadow, catches sight of Dad in the kitchen nursing a mug of coffee. "Dad – aren't you going to stop him?"
Dad's eyes stay down but Sam doesn't expect any different. He walks to the door and fights the urge to turn around for one last look at Dean before he's gone for good. But he doesn't. He needs that expression on Dean's face from last night to stay with him se he can stay away. If he looks at Dean now, sees something on his face beside anger or disgust, he might not be able to go through with this. Might become that person he saw a glimpse of last night. Sick and wrong and wanting his brother. Deep inside himself, Sam knows the feeling isn't something new, that he didn't glance up at Dean last night and suddenly see him differently.
"Sammy."
Sam turns the deadbolt and unlatches the chain, takes a deep breath before opening the door. He doesn't turn around and he doesn't say goodbye. He pulls the door closed, listens to the click of it catching, feels the weight slowly sliding from his shoulders, from his chest, as he walks away.
He's not aware he's crying until he steps outside and a gust of cold January air cuts through the Oklahoma morning and leaves his hair sticking to his cheeks. He wipes the tears away with the stained cuffs of his coat and keeps going. The streets aren't familiar – they've spent all of Sam's school break hunting in a couple of different towns in the county. He heads for heavier traffic, knows that'll lead him downtown and that the bus station won't be far.
Sam doesn't have to wait long to catch a bus out – he doesn't have enough cash to go to California, but he's got a couple dollars more than the price of a ticket to Sioux Falls. What he's got left over is just enough for breakfast and a phone call.