Aberration in Practice
The bar is nothing special.
Sam, over the time of living up his youth and discovering the many amenities of the world, has been to probably more joints than he has school. John doesn't really care about education and Sam never really talks to him about it, unless they're arguing. After years of complaints, pleas, yearns, and whines, he's come to discover there is no chance in changing his father's mind. So, he keeps his mouth shut, and although it's a slippery slope with the ice about to crack, it works. Barely.
Sam thinks about this as he does his homework in the scratched up booth, doing the Geometry in his head and double-checking it on his paper. It's a mashup between the two aforementioned subjects, and a fragile balance that Sam will have to work with for now.
Smoke and alcohol fills the atmosphere in an uncomfortable eccentricity, and Sam tries to imagine how Dean actually enjoys being in places like this—downing shots and snagging girls. Sam hates it here. It feels foreign to him, and it makes him more of an outcast than he already is. But the worst part is the looks that come with the gig; the distaste and confusion from the adults drinking themselves half to death as to why a fourteen year-old freshman is sitting in at a table, lonesome, doing schoolwork. It's pity and condescension, both things that Sam absolutely despises. Especially when he can most likely take on everybody here.
So he keeps his head down, hides his face in his assignments, and forgets about the outside world. He finds that time goes quicker this way, and by the three hour mark if Dean's nowhere to be seen, he knows to walk himself home. Sam's not even sure why Dean makes him come with when sometimes he'll just ditch him for a chick, but he doesn't really care. He thinks maybe it's because Dean doesn't want him to be alone at the motel, however that idea is quickly shut down by the hypocrisy of it.
This is the normal. Of course, he still keeps an eye on his brother to ensure Dean doesn't dig himself a grave he can't climb out of, but most of the time this is the routine. Wake up, go to school (maybe), come home, train, study in the bathroom, and end the day with sitting in a bar. And there you have it: Sam Winchester's life.
A cute waiter in her mid-twenties comes up to beside Sam's table, and looks at him with brown, doe-like eyes. "What're you doin' here alone, hon'?"
Her accent is heavy and thick with the south, the words rolling off her tongue in a crisp wave. She gives a small smile, and Sam responds with a light laugh. "I, uh, I'm not here alone. My brother's over there."
He indicates to the pool tables near the other side of the building, and the girl nods. "The cocky—totally not subtle—dude in the flannel?"
Sam sets down his pencil and tries to hold back a chuckle, because that is exactly how Dean is. He can already visualize him making a move on the girl before him, and the disgusted look he got in return. He would've payed twenty bucks to see that, as this girl didn't look like the flirtatious and sex-driven kind he often meets.
She takes a seat across from him and puts her notepad down, extending a hand. Sam takes it cautiously, and she starts with, "I'm Mathilda, but you can call me Mandy if you'd like."
"Sam," Sam replies to the pleasantry.
Mandy grins, then pauses as it turns to a sigh. "You know, my father used to make me come to these kinds of places all of the time, and I never really got a chance to do anything else. He'd come here and drink himself silly, leaving me to whisk him home and let him rest in the rum. Kind of ironic that I'm workin' here now, ain't it?"
Sam's demeanor changes, and sorrow consumes his features. "It's not my brother's fault. We have a rough life."
"I never said it was," Mandy amends, "and I sincerely believe you. He's hustlin' like a pro back there. Y'all travel on the road a lot?"
It's almost nice to have somebody to understand what Sam is going through, but he knows it won't last for long. Before he knows it they'll be off to the next town, the next club, the next motel. Sam looks down at his hands. "You could say that."
Mandy looks sad. "Figures. Your brother seems pretty protective over you, too. I see the way he's always glancing over his shoulder to make sure you're alright, and the skeptical glances he's giving me behind my back."
Sam blinks, and directs his gaze to the Billard's tables in the back. Dean peeks at him out of the corner of his eye, and Sam shakes his head. Dean shrugs, then turns back to what he's doing, seemingly satisfied. Mandy watches with curiosity, and maybe a little longing.
"Wish I had a siblin' like that," she says ruefully. "Instead my sister and brother ran off to leave me to take care of our folks. Least they got what they wanted."
Sam eyes her downcast features, and shoots her a sympathetic look.
"I think I know how you feel."
It's about an hour or two later when Dean returns to his table, and slaps down a bundle of about $400 dollars. Sam's eyes widen as he raises an eyebrow, and Dean gives him a smug smirk. His brother reaches into his pocket, and out comes a gold-lined, silver pocket watch. It's a delicate thing, and Dean gently sets it down on top of the green cash.
"Holy shit," Sam says in awe. "What is that, like $600 total?"
Dean ruffles his jacket in a very Winchester-like way, and keeps his posture proud. "Well, it's $450 in money, and the watch is somewhere around $200, so yeah. I'd say about that."
Mandy had left a little while ago, having to get back to her shift. But she kept dropping by and handing him glasses of water, giving him tiny smiles of reassurance. Sam greatly appreciated it, especially since she told them they were on the house. At least he didn't have to sit here without any drink for the past hours.
As if Dean was reading his thoughts, he suddenly started, "By the way, who was that chick you were talking to earlier? I tried to start up a conversation with her before, but she wouldn't budge. Then I see you over here, and bam, she's at your table. What the hell?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "She saw me sitting alone over here, and sat down. Started talking. Casually."
Dean didn't look like he believed him. "So, all I have to do is sit alone at a table and wait for a girl to come talk to me?" he concluded.
Sam slapped his shoulder.
They quickly collected the little stuff they had—Sam his books, and Dean his beer—and exited out the back. Sam was genuinely surprised that they were walking back together for once, but he dismissed the strange occurrence with a shrug. If something was going on, he was confident Dean would tell him about it. That was one of the unspoken rules that they had: tell each other everything and anything. Keeping secrets was one of the main things that came back and bit them in the ass a majority of the time, and over a long while, they had agreed that it was better to be honest with each other rather than sly.
The bar wasn't far from their current motel, but it was even quicker when they took a shortcut through the alley off the main road. They veered off the path, and started traveling their typical way of going back to their room. Sam couldn't help but notice, though, the multitude of times his brother kept looking backward. After the umpteenth time, Sam finally caved and stopped walking, snatching Dean's arm and making him turn to face him. Dean peered at him, though he didn't look surprised at being halted. In fact, he appeared a bit concerned.
Sam hesitated, a bad, nagging feeling settling over him. "Dude, what's happening?" he asked sincerely.
Dean didn't confirm, nor deny, that something wasn't right, causing Sam's stomach to drop to his feet. In fact, he glanced back behind him again, driving Sam nuts.
"Dean." His tone was sharp and commanding, a demand to be informed on the situation they may or may not be getting themselves into.
But an untelling, "I don't know," was the response, and Sam blinked. Not knowing wasn't good enough. And honestly, not knowing was dangerous. Lacking information was something that was treacherous enough in itself, and even more so when you walked straight into something blinded.
"Dean," Sam began quickly, paranoia beginning to spread to him too, "I need you to talk to me. What happened? Why are we in trouble?" He didn't know for sure that there was an issue, but Dean's instinct was as good as any given fact, and now he understood that they needed to get someplace safe.
Dean studied their surroundings in a full circle, checking the shadows and probable hiding places. "Call Dad."
"What?"
"You heard me. Call Dad. He's gotta be at the motel, so he should pick up. Dial and start running. Don't look back, just keep forward, and if I'm not behind you, don't you dare try to backtrack. Do I make myself clear?"
Sam's mouth went dry, and he immediately began shaking his head. "Dean—"
"Go!" His brother interrupted. "Take out your damn phone, call Dad, and fucking get out of here! I'm going to pursue you all the way to the main road. Just go!"
With no choice, Sam fumbled for his phone in his pocket, pulling it out and flipping it open. He hit his speedile two, and took off at a fast run, feet pounding against the blacktop's rough pavement. He could hear a pair of footsteps behind him, and knew it was his brother's. But soon, as seemingly with each ring of the phone, the steps multiplied.
Ring.
Two pairs of thundering feet.
Ring.
Three pairs of thundering feet.
Ring.
Four pairs of thundering feet.
Click.
Five pairs of thundering feet.
"Sam?"
Sam nearly collapsed in relief, but kept the right mindset to continue his ruthless sprint. "Dad!" he called in relief, panting through the line and trying to get more oxygen to respire throughout his exerting lungs. "Dad, we need your help! We—uh, we were at a bar, Dean and I, and now we have some guys chasing us, and we're trying to make it to the main road!" The words came tumbling out of his mouth in a frantic frenzy, the story spilling out in a tangled heap. Sam thinks he knows what's happening now, and the gold watch flashes behind his retinas in memory.
"Sam," his father says quickly beyond the phone line, "I need you to stay calm for me; is Dean still with you?"
In truth, Sam's terrified to check. He can see the main road up ahead of him, but it's still exponentially far. His muscles are burning, the pounding is still behind him, and he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on. Just then, he misplaces his next step and stumbles, grunting and cursing and trying to regather himself. His legs are weak and protest when he gets himself moving again, but his adrenaline is faltering. He's lost his momentum.
He risks a peek behind him. Dean's fallen further and further back, and all four men are right on his heels. Sam stops mid-stride, and completely turns himself around to face his brother. Dean's eyes widen in shock, and although it appears he pushes himself even harder at Sam's standstill, the men are too close.
One of them, a very tall guy with a buff build, he recognizes from the bar. The man leaps, and tackles Dean from behind, causing both of them to fall hard onto the cement. Dean lands underneath him though and Sam clearly hears his head smack against the concrete.
"Sam? Sammy!"
He had forgotten his father was still on the line. Breathing heavily, he answers the question from before. "No, Dad! Please. Please! Get here!" He has no other options but to beg.
The other three men turn look to him, a glint in their eyes. Sam's only about 50 yards away, and he knows he's not outrunning them. Even if he could, he wouldn't. He's not leaving Dean's side—screw orders. By the time he goes to get help, Dean would already be dead.
He falls to his knees, and tears stain his vision blurry. "I'm sorry," he whispers into the phone, before letting it fall from his fingers to the cement.
"Sam!" he hears someone scream, but he can't tell who it is, whether it be Dean or his father. Perhaps it was both. Each sounded harmonically heartbroken, which confuses him, because why is his family allowed to be distressed at his giving up, yet Sam's not allowed to try and protect his own brother?
Calloused hands brusquely handle his shoulders, unforgivingly yanking him up to his feet. They shove him forward so that he and Dean are facing each other. His brother has a betrayed expression on his face, and a pang of guilt stabs at Sam. However, as quickly as it came, it fizzles out and fades into acceptance. At least if this was going to happen, it was going to happen with Dean, and moreover, that was all Sam asked for.
There's two men on Dean, and two men on Sam, and two brothers who are pinned down and facing harm together. At some point a blade is drawn, and it comes to a rest at the base of Sam's neck. He tenses unwillingly, and tries to keep a straight façade as to not display any weakness, but it's impossibly hard as he realizes that he may never see Dean again beyond this day. Before he knows it, a prayer is rolling out in his head, and he's thinking, Dear Lord, I'm so sorry for all that I have done in my life and for all those moments I have sinned against better judgement. I'm sorry I wasn't better, I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, and I understand I reserve no right to ask this, but please allow Dean to live. He deserves a life, despite me maybe not. And if…and if that's something that isn't possible, then let me rest peacefully, and let Dean rest peacefully, in Heaven up with You. Please, Lord.
He doesn't get the chance to finish it out though, because then Dean is screaming, "I'll give you your money and your grandfather's watch back, just please! Don't hurt him!"
It's pure terror in those words that makes itself known, and a tremor racks Sam's body. The knife slightly cuts down on his skin, and it burns. Burns like fire. Deeper, deeper, deeper it goes, red oozing out of his skin like a leak in a faucet that hasn't been repaired for months. Is this what Mom felt like?
He chokes for a moment, and for a brief while he thinks that the blue and red lights flashing before his eyes are a part of him dying. In reality though, the cops are there, the men are running off, and Sam is falling into Dean's arms before he can hit the floor. Mandy watches in horror, yet is inwardly grateful she had called the cops in time. John is running up after breaking a hundred speed limits to get to the alley, and sprinting over to his injured sons.
The elder brother's face is scratched and bleeding, the younger reaching up to wipe the red away. Pointedly, Sam thinks he should be dead. His throat has been sliced. But by some miracle he is still alive, Dean is still alive, and they're all right.
Later in the hospital, Sam will learn that it was a one-in-a-million chance that the knife had missed his vein by a mere few centimeters. It was a miracle that the boys had been smart enough to call their father in the midst of a bad feeling. It was a miracle that Mandy had seen the four attacking men follow the brothers out of the bar. It was a miracle they were still alive.
Mandy visits him in his room. She hands him a clip of $1,000, yet Sam turns it away. She insists, though, and Sam takes it cautiously, just like he did her hand back during the day he met her.
The word miracle is tossed around for many more days, by townsfolk and by news stations. But, the reality is, it was no such miracle. It was family devotion and trust that helped them through, and together, really, they all were a miracle.