Stanford, 2002
The residence hall was a beehive of activity. It was late in the afternoon, most classes were over for the day, and the freshmen were free to play. The wonder of being away from home, on their own, and surrounded by others in the same euphoric state, was recipe for high jinks.
A red remote-control car sailed down the steps toward a set of plastic bowling pins set up on the sidewalk. The crowd of boys raised their arms and cheered, calling out bets as the car dived. Their cheers turned to yelps as an elderly woman turned into the walk, leaning on her cane with each careful step.
"Stop! Abort! Get out of the way!"
The woman lifted her chin, raised her eyebrows, and swatted the car out of the air with her cane before it could collide with her face. It landed in the grass, littering plastic parts and growling as the wheels kept spinning.
Millie stifled her grin at the dismay on the faces before her, and did not break her stride as they boys rushed to the fallen car's side. "Aw, man! Look what she did!"
"Dude, you are just lucky it didn't hit her!"
"Sorry about that, ma'am." One boy stopped to apologize hastily. Millie looked carefully at his face, but it was not the right one. She shrugged, left the boys to their bowling, and carried on.
Inside, a chant was rising in the main lounge. "Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!" One boy stood on a table, surrounded by adoring fans waiting for him to vomit. He was gulping milk straight from the gallon, but suddenly paused and clutched his stomach. The cheers died and one voice sang out, "He's gonna blow!"
Millie hastily moved out of the line between the lounge door and the bathroom and made her way up the stairs.
She rounded the landing to see several young men in nothing but their towels. One shook his wet head like a dog, and another brushed his teeth as he walked. A third made a quick motion with his arm: reach, twist, tug. He darted to one side, towel in hand, as his now-fully-nude companion yelped.
The boy with the toothbrush stopped in his tracks, face flushing not at the sight of his friend's bare bottom, but at the appreciative grin on Millie's face. He pointed his foamy brush at her.
"Guys. Guys!"
All three heads turned to stare, and the boy without a towel immediately held his shower caddy over his front.
"I didn't know I would get a show!" Millie opened her wallet and pulled out a twenty, which she placed in the shower caddy. Her eyes lit on the boy with the extra towel in his hand. "Who's next?"
A catcall and a shrill whistle rang out from further down the hall. Now, all three were beet red. Millie gave the naked one a wink and moved past them. They parted instantly to let her through.
Millie pulled a paper from her purse, even though she had memorized the number on the way over here. She double checked anyway, just to calm her nerves. Room 143. She paused in front of the closed door. This was it. The moment she had been waited twenty years for. Millie raised her hand and knocked.
The door swung open to reveal another bare chest, but thankfully this young man was wearing shorts instead of a towel. Millie looked him up and down from toes to hair, and smiled. The sharp chin, the soft eyes, the height. Yes, this was the right boy.
"Um-can I help you?" The boy's eyes darted up and down the hallway, as if sure she had come to the wrong room.
"You are Sam Winchester?"
His chin twitched in surprise. "Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I'm Sam. Who's asking?"
Millie reached into her purse again and pulled out an old photograph. "I know you don't recognize me, but I thought you might recognize this."
Sam stared at the image of two boys sitting between their father and an older woman. One of the boys was just a baby, barely six months old. The other was four, and already knew how to pose for the camera. Their father beamed at the camera.
Sam's mouth dropped open slowly, and he reached for the photo. "That's us. I mean, that's Dad, and Dean, and that's probably me. How did you-?" His eyes landed on the fourth person in the picture, the old woman. Her hair hadn't been as gray back then, nor her face as wrinkled, but Millie didn't think she had changed that much. She waited.
"Who are you?" Sam asked.
Millie gripped his hand tight. "My name is Millie Winchester. I'm your grandmother, Sam."
o0o
Sam stared at the photograph perched on his knees. He had seen these faces before, even though he could not remember them for himself. His dad, a bright smile plastered across his face. Dean, looking sweet and innocent. A baby perched between them, and Sam had see enough pictures to recognize himself. But he didn't recognize the woman. She was seated beside John, young Dean settled on her lap as if her were perfectly comfortable there. As if he knew her well.
I'm your grandmother.
So the old woman claimed, and this was her proof.
It was pretty convincing.
Sam had asked questions about his mother for as long as he could remember. Dean loved to tell him about her, about some things. Other details were hidden, and Sam still had questions that had never been answered. The mystery of his mother had eclipsed everything else. Sam had never thought to ask about anyone else. He had a vague idea that his grandparents were dead, but that was all.
Clearly, that was not the case.
Dad lied to us.
Had he? Sam wasn't even sure. He couldn't remember being told his grandparents were dead, he just knew they were.
Clearly, he hadn't been asking enough questions.
Sam looked up at the clock. It was a quarter to ten. The woman. Millie. His grandmother. She had put the picture in his hands, invited him to brunch, and then left without another word.
He could have chased her down. It wouldn't have been hard. But had had been frozen in shock.
My grandmother is alive.
And she wanted to have brunch.
Sam had never been to a brunch in his life. Brunch was what suburban kids did with their families on Sunday morning. They put on fancy clothes and went to eat fancy food with other people who lived in nice big houses.
What did this woman expect from him? What would she think about the way he had been raised?
Sam stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his shirt. "Do I need a tie? Have you ever been to brunch?"
Brady glanced up from his homework and shrugged. "Who cares?"
"My grandmother."
Brady's eyebrows rose. "That old lady who caught Hesse without a towel?"
Sam flushed slightly. Everyone in the dorm had heard about that. "Yeah."
"Definitely go with the tie."
o0o
White tablecloths, waiters in black blow ties, and napkins folded up to look like swans. Sam paused at the door, hesitant to enter. He didn't belong in a place like this. But there she was, his grandmother, sitting primly at a white table and fussing with the place setting. Sam tried to picture his father as a child, having brunch in a place like this with his mother.
All he wound up with was the image of a miniature grizzled man polishing his shotgun with the tablecloth.
Millie looked like she belonged here. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun reminiscent of a 1940's hairstyle. She wore a silk dress and a string of pearls around her neck, with a glittering pin in one lapel. Her hands were wrinkled, covered in liver spots, and shook slightly as they moved. In short, she was everything one would expect a grandmother to look like.
Why haven't I met her before?
Because Dad doesn't like brunch? No. Because Dad is obsessed.
The woman-Millie-Grandma? He didn't know what to call her. She lifted her head and her eyes searched the room. When they landed on Sam, a huge smile lit her face. She rose out of her seat and waited, arms outstretched. The gesture dissolved his hesitation. He crossed the room and landed in her warm hug before he realized what he was doing.
Did having a mom feel anything like this? He wouldn't know.
"Oh, look at how big you are! Sit, sit! Here, go fill your plate!" Within the same minute Sam was settled into a chair, and then hustle back out of it. He returned from the buffet line with a plate nearly spilling over, which earned him a, "Oh, don't worry, you can go back as many times as you like."
"Oh. Right. Ok." Sam stared at his pile of bacon and pancakes and then back at the woman in front of him. "I'm not sure-I mean-" What should he say to a grandmother?
Millie held out her arm. "Do you need a blood sample? A bit of hair or skin cells for a DNA test to prove we're related?"
"Ah-no. It's spit, actually. They like to use your spit."
Millie licked her teeth. "Spit, hm? I thought you were here for a law degree, not forensic science."
"I am. How did you know?" Sam wracked his brain for anything he knew about this woman. She was a farmer's daughter, and her husband had abandoned her when John was six. That was all he knew.
She didn't look like she belonged on a farm, and she didn't have the haggard, overworked look of a woman who had been left to face the world alone. Her eyes sparkled, and she dug into her plate with gusto.
"How did you even find me?"
Another smile flashed across her face; she looked very proud of herself. "The internet." She said it as if she had found an alien spaceship. "It's this lovely new device. Well, I suppose it's not on a device. I don't know what it is. Is it floating out in the air around us, like radio waves? No one could really explain. But it-"
"I know what the internet is," Sam said. "But I didn't think my address was on it."
"Not your address, no I had to bribe the registrar for that. But you're on the Dean's List, Sam. Straight-As, congratulations. So they published your name, and here we are!"
"My name was published?" Sam knew the Deans' List was posted on campus, and he'd gotten a letter about it, but he didn't realize anyone could look it up.
It didn't matter. Dad wouldn't bother.
But his grandmother had. "Why were you reading the Dean's List at Stanford?" Sam asked. Dad was an only child, so she didn't have any other grandchildren.
"I wasn't. I was looking for you. I've put your name into every search engine I could find once a year since the internet was invented." There was a stubborn glint in her eyes, and suddenly Sam could see how she was related to his father. "You are a hard man to find."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, it's not your fault." There was a bite in her tone, and Sam suddenly wondered if she was here for him at all. Because she was right, it wasn't his fault. "Where is your father, anyway? Did you tell him about our little date?" Her eyes flicked around the room, as if expecting to see John Winchester lurking behind a pair of sunglasses and a newspaper.
"No, I didn't. We don't talk."
Millie's eyes snapped back to him. "What?" She asked sharply.
"I didn't call him. I doubt he'd answer the phone if I tried. We had a bad fight when I left for college, and he threw me out. Told me never to come back." The words still stung, even though it had been nearly a year. No, Dad wouldn't care that he had made the Dean's List. Sam wasn't useful for hunting anymore, so Dad didn't care about him at all.
Millie let out a sharp breath. "Did he? John Winchester! He should know better!"
"Know better?" Sam echoed. "Why?"
"Why, because I had the same argument with him, only in reverse."
That was a puzzle that didn't fit. "In reverse?"
"I wanted him to go to college. I wanted him to study like his father."
"Well, that would do it right there. Dad hated his father." Sam was 100% sure of that.
"Yes. I realized that eventually." Millie glared at her sausage as if it was to blame. "I tried to explain-but he wouldn't listen. He ripped up his college applications, told me he was going to join the army, and stormed out."
"Marines," Sam corrected automatically.
"What?"
"Marines. Dad joined the Marines, not the Army."
Millie rolled her eyes. "Whatever. He wanted to play with machines and shoot guns, when there was so much more his mind could do! I thought for sure I would never see him again. He would be headed straight for Vietnam, you know. I expected a knock on the door and a letter with a purple heart attached. That hour after he walked out was the worst of my life."
"Only an hour?" Sam asked. He had felt terrible for much longer than that, after he stormed away from his last fight with Dad.
A fond smile flashed across Millie's face. "Well, he was still seventeen. Had a week to go before his birthday, you see. It was a cold and stormy night, and he didn't want to sleep on the street. The enlistment office was closed, and they wouldn't have taken him yet anyway. He turned up back on my doorstep looking wet and miserable."
"You let him back in?"
"Of course I did! I wasn't going to let my boy sleep in the street."
Sam stared at his plate. He remember a few nights on the streets on his way to Palo Alto. Thankfully, he had found a friend on the way. ** It never occurred to him that his father might have felt the same way, ever. John Winchester, feeling alone and scared?
But he had gone back home. And his mother had taken him in.
"So you see, your father should have known better." Millie reached across the table and placed her hand on his. "I'm so very happy you came to college, Sam. I'm so very proud of everything you've done here."
Sam felt a lump rising in his throat. He had never heard those words before. He hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear them. "Thanks."
"So, tell me everything."
"What?" Sam's insides squirmed. He should have expected this.
"Tell me about your life. Where have you been all this time? What have you been doing? What do you want for the future? Have you got a girl to settle down with yet?"
Tell me about your life. Well, grandma, I lived in a different motel every month. Although sometimes, Dad didn't bother to get a motel and we slept in the car. I learned to shoot a gun when I was six, and fought my first monster when I was ten.
Somehow, that didn't seem like the right thing to say.
"Well, we traveled a lot."
"Yes. I thought as much." Millie's tone matched Sam's. As if she, too, wasn't saying everything. "Go on."
Details. She wanted normal details about a normal life. What did he have to give? "I played soccer when I was in sixth grade. I did tech for the school musical in high school." Yes, there were a few things he could say. Small details wedged between the ongoing drama that was the Winchester way. "Decided sports and art weren't my thing, and lawyers make good money."
"That they do," Millie agreed sagely. She waited, letting the silence drift between them. Sam shifted and filled his face with pancakes, to hide the fact that he didn't know what to say.
"Right, I thought this might happen." Millie pulled a large handbag onto her lap and withdrew a deck of cards labeled "Table Topics." "Take a card."
Sam blinked. For a brief moment, it felt as if he was in a Mary Poppins movie. What else did she have in that bag?
Millie wagged the cards. "They won't bite. I find them quite entertaining."
Sam slowly pulled a card from the deck and read it out loud. "What would be a really good flavor for toothpaste?"
Millie grinned. "Oh, I have the best idea…"
o0o
"Who's coming here for Easter?" Bobby asked, as if he'd just been told the Easter Bunny was real.
"My grandmother."
"How did that happen?"
"I don't know." One minute, he had been answering harmless questions about toothpaste, and the next, he had been marking holiday plans in his calendar.
On the bunk bed, Brady snickered. "Grandmothers. They always get their way."
"That ain't it." Bobby continued, unaware of Brady's heckling. "I didn't think John Winchester had a mother."
"Then where did you think he came from, Bobby?" Although Sam had thought the exact same thing. He still couldn't reconcile the woman he had met with the father he knew. They were so different.
Millie was happy.
"I dunno, I thought he just kinda thought he sprang out of the ground with a shotgun in hand. John Winchester as a baby." Sam could hear the shudder. "It's a strange thought. What was she like?"
"She was nice. And bossy. At the same time." Ok, maybe John and Millie weren't so different. She didn't bark orders, but she got her way. "She looked for us for twenty years, Bobby."
"And I thought John was stubborn," Bobby snorted. "To just leave his mother without any word..."
Sam bit his lip, but said nothing. He'd been mad at John Winchester for so long, one more reason didn't seem to make much difference.
"Well, if she's coming, you're cleaning."
"What?"
"You heard me. You want to bring your grandmother to my grimy old house? I don't think so. You are coming down a week early, and you're buying a scrub brush and bleach on the way. Understood?"
Sam hung up the phone, and Brady startled cackling. "You should see your face!"
Sam threw a textbook at him. "Shut up!"
Brady threw the book back and kept laughing. "You wanted a family again, man. Now you've got it."
o0o
No one carried handkerchiefs anymore. They had once been the essential fashion accessory. Even Bilbo Baggins knew better than to leave home without a handkerchief. These days, it was all paper tissues, if a person had a tissue on hand at all.
Millie always kept her handkerchief close to hand. It was just sensible. But she had promised herself she would make it through brunch without needing it.
Millie had promised she would find her family again, and she had. Holding John close the night Mary died, she had promised to look after his boys. Millie always kept her promises.
So she hadn't shed a single tear until Sam left the restaurant. Her eyes remained dry all the way back to the hotel. Then the deluge began.
And why shouldn't she cry? She'd found her grandson again. He was tall, smart, ambitious, and stubborn. Just like his father. It was a recipe for trouble, and Millie had a feeling he'd already seen more than his fair share. Off doing whatever it was John was up to these does.
Whatever it was that had made him pack up and leave Lawrence in the middle of the night without a word. He'd left nothing for her. No note, no phone number, no hint of where he might be.
Gone was the seventeen-year-old who still needed his mother. No, that boy had never returned from the war. But that had been alright. Children were supposed to grow up. But they weren't supposed to vanish.
What had scared her boy so bad he didn't think he could come home?
She didn't know, but she was going to find out.
Millie stared at the phone number in her hand, the last gift of her visit with Sam. She wasn't a woman who was easily scared, and she didn't get nervous often. But today, her hands couldn't seem to stop shaking. Funny, how being nervous and being happy sometimes felt exactly the same. It was just a string of numbers, but this string of numbers could change her world. Brunch had been wonderful, but she wanted more than Sam.
She wanted all her boys.
She wanted her son.
What mother wouldn't? She'd learned her lesson that night he stormed out to join the marines, and she would never make the same mistake again. It didn't matter why he had left. It didn't matter how much the leaving had hurt her. She wanted to see her son again, and she wasn't going to stop until she did.
But Sam didn't have John's phone number on him.
Only Dean's.
Well. Maybe it was better this way.
Millie picked up the motel room phone, she preferred to use a landline whenever she could, and dialed the number. She held her breath as the phone rang. What had become of the sweet four-year-old she had last seen?
o0o
NOTE: If you are wondering about Sam's Stanford-era connection with Bobby, read my story "Park Bench." And this is pre-demon Brady, he's just a normal kid who is Sam's friend.