Disclaimer: not mine. Title is Joni Mitchell.
Summary: Sam's a little homesick during his first semester at Stanford. Also, his TA has a poltergeist. Vaguely set at Christmastime.
I Would Teach My Feet to Fly
There are these people called TA's, who are like professors but a lot younger and a lot more available. No one else seemed exactly amazed by their presence, but Sam, for all his bravado, doesn't know much more about college than what the movies have told him when he arrives via Greyhound with one duffel in hand.
His Spanish TA is beautiful, kind of exotic, but all she wants to do is talk about movies he's never seen and decide what his name would be, if he were Spanish. The kind of girl Dean would like. That's fine. His physics TA is awesome, this super knowledgeable but super down-to-earth guy who knows how to build a bomb eight different ways. Dean would like him too.
His Gen Psych TA is a first year grad student named Gretchen Yates. She's short and stocky and dressed for the 1990's, with a perpetual expression of curiosity. She's the kind of girl Dean wouldn't like- the kind of girl who wouldn't like Dean- and Sam's not sure how he feels about that.
"It's not that I don't believe you, Katie- no. Okay, well, it is kind of unbelievable. And it only happens when you're alone?- it's not a ghost, then, sweetie. Mom and Dad would be seeing stuff too."
Sam's learned pretty quickly that folklore is kind of a conversation starter, but only if you deliver it casually, and only in front of the right kind of people. You have to wait for someone who looks like they go to midnight showings of Lord of the Rings, and then you say it with a vaguely sarcastic smile. They love it. Believe it or not, he can really break the ice with his freaky "hobby".
Gretchen looks like she goes to midnight showings of Lord of the Rings. So when she closes her cell phone, shaking her head, he says, "Actually, poltergeists have been known to disappear in the presence of adults, to avoid detection."
Gretchen raises an eyebrow high. "Yeah. I'm gonna not tell that to my kid sister who's already afraid of sleeping alone." Sam shrugs pleasantly. "You're Gen Psych, right?" Gretchen continues. "You're the first student to come to my hours all semester. What did you want to talk about, besides ghosts?"
Anything, Sam thinks, but he says "um, John Watson?"
It's not that he doesn't have friends. Jerry is awesome, and of course there's Rebecca. And Sam's roommate Marcy- John Marcynuk, that is- is pretty fun. But none of them really get it, really understand that hanging out for a few hours isn't enough for him. He enjoyed the solitude for about two days before it began to drive him crazy. He just wants people, just wants bodies around him.
He doesn't know if Gretchen gets that or if Gretchen will just talk for ninety minutes to anyone who'll listen. Either way, she has office hours twice a week, and he usually finds himself there both times.
Maybe it's a little weird, but Sam knows one thing: he gets a 100 on the first exam, and the next highest grade is an 82.
"Scratches? What do you mean? Like- maybe you're doing it in the shower accidentally?- yeah, but it doesn't make sense, Katie. Sweetheart... my office hours are starting. We'll talk more later, okay?"
Gretchen hangs up, gives Sam a tired smile, and Sam tries not to display any interest in the conversation. Eavesdropping is rude, he'd learned somewhere along the line, and this is not his problem. This is not his kind of problem anymore.
It's November, and people are already talking about what they're doing for Thanksgiving. Sam heard back from housing pretty promptly, accepting his request to stay, but that doesn't make it any easier.
Gretchen has lost her notes again, and is chatting with him distractedly as she looks for them. They know each other well enough to do that, Sam guesses, but it doesn't help when she says, "so, what are you doing for break?"
"Oh. Um. Hanging around," Sam says lamely. Gretchen straightens, notes in hand, a little look of sympathy on her face.
"Home too far, huh?"
"Yeah. Too far."
It's a delayed reaction. They talk about conditioning for a full ten minutes before Sam realizes that his voice has given out. He can't really make a run for it, because that's just even more dramatic, so he just sits there, trapped and helpless as a hunted rabbit. He breathes in slowly through pursed lips, hoping that he can play this kind of cool, at least avoid actually sniffling or sobbing or anything like that. It works, sort of. Two tears go running down his cheeks, and that's pretty much it.
A box of tissues is being waved in his face. He takes one and makes good use of it.
"You get a lot of weepy undergrads in here?" he comments, because self-derision is a good alternative to dignity.
"Decent amount. Most of them are angling for extra credit." Gretchen cocks her head. "Not your angle, is it, Winchester?"
"I don't have an angle," Sam says, his voice sounding small as it filters into his ears, and he resists the urge to add, I don't have much of anything.
Gretchen turns around and fumbles in her desk for a long minute, giving him time to blow his nose discreetly.
They're friends after that, because it kind of had to happen. Friends in the way that a freshman and a grad student can be friends, anyway. They don't really hang or go out, but they get coffee and trade emails, and Sam takes to studying in the grad lounge with Gretchen, even though he's pretty sure it's not allowed.
Next time he talks to Dean he'll have to tell her how much time he's spending with a 23-year-old blonde. Next time. Should be soon. Dean hasn't called in over a week.
One day just after break, they're on their way back from Starbucks; it's a little cold for California, and Sam's feeling brash.
"You wanna know my angle?"
"What?"
"That time I pulled a Party of Five scene in your office. You asked me what my angle was."
"You said you didn't have one."
"I don't. But I have a story, I guess."
"I figured. So?"
Sam gulps. His stomach feels kind of greasy and his heart is pounding. He hasn't told Rebecca this, or Jerry, or Marcy. Gretchen's just looking at him, eyes wide.
"My dad wasn't all about me going to college. Not at all. I did anyway. And he... I mean, he disowned me, pretty much. I haven't talked to him since I left." Sam swallows again, hard. "And I have a brother. He's not mad, not really. Still calls me and stuff. Sometimes. But he and my dad are pretty much joined at the hip." He lets the implications of that go without saying. "My mom's dead. I've got a few uncles, but they're not family types." He sighs. "Dad and Dean're all I've got, and I don't really have them anymore."
Gretchen cocks her head. "I'm not saying I know how you feel, but Katie really didn't want me to come this far away for grad school either. And sometimes I do think about it, y'know? Maybe I don't want to travel or get married or anything. Maybe I should just get a house with my sister when she's old enough, and we'll just be friends for life."
Sam nods, a little miserably, and Gretchen thumps his shoulder gently, nearly spilling his coffee. "I'm not gonna say I'm sorry, cause I know for a fact this isn't gonna last forever."
"Yeah," he snorts. "Wish I could believe you, Gretch."
"I swear, she's incorrigible. Really." Gretchen's waving her arms as she bitches to him after class. "The shit she comes up with, for real! Well, I'm not losing any sleep over it. I can tell you that."
The next week Gretchen's eyes are underlined by baggy purple skin. She looks like she hasn't slept in days.
Maybe it's because he actually opened up to her, or maybe it's just because she has no other fucking place to turn- he knows how that feels- but she grabs his arm the minute she sees him.
"If I tell you something," she whispers, "do you promise you'll believe me?"
He nods.
"Promise, Winchester."
"I promise."
Gretchen's eyes are huge in her head, and Sam knows what's coming a second before it comes. "Either my parents' house is haunted, or my sister is batshit crazy." Her chin crumples. "I don't really like either option."
Half an hour later Sam's filled in completely, Gretchen's mostly calmed down, and he takes her hand gently. There is no doubt in his mind, not a single iota, that it's a poltergeist, and that the Yateses are in pretty considerable danger. Oh well. He kept his cover up for four months. It's more than he'd though he'd manage.
"If I tell you something," Sam whispers, echoing her words while he looks straight into her eyes. "Do you promise you'll believe me?"
"I promise."
"I think you have a poltergeist," Sam tells her slowly. His stomach churns a silent protest, but lives are quite possibly on the line here. "And this is how I know..."
The drive to Gretchen's parent's house is about three hours. She punctuates the silence every few minutes by declaring how stupid she's being, but Sam can tell how terrified she is.
It's a mark of how terrified her parents are as well that when he arrives, a relatively large and very male college student, they immediately let him poke and prod the scratches down eleven-year-old Katie's back.
"Okay," Sam says quietly, patting the little girl's shoulder. "Okay. It's gonna be all right." He wonders if Gretchen can tell that he's saying it mostly to himself.
The Yates house is decorated for Christmas. Sam had admired the decorations politely when he first walked in; now he's admiring them at slightly higher speeds as they go whizzing past his head. This spirit does not like that Sam's chanting, does not like that Sam's here, and suddenly the nativity scene figures start exploding one by one.
Sage is burning; salt is being trampled into the fluffy beige carpet as Sam ducks and dodges, only halfway through the rites. The Yates are in a huddle around Katie, who's been screaming for a few minutes straight, and god only knows why the police aren't here yet. Sam can feel the sting as scratches begin to form along his back.
Then there's a rumble of anger, and it's over.
Sam's been hit in the forehead with an candlestick- didn't even notice in the middle of everything- how dignified. Now, head aching, he's perched in the Yates' kitchen while Mrs. Yates washes the wound and coats it gently with antibiotic ointment. He can see into the living room, where Mr. Yates and his daughters are past the denial stage of what just happened, and are taking turns losing their shit.
Presently Gretchen is grasping her little sister by the collar, pulling her towards her, hugging her hard. "I'm sorry," she's sobbing. "I'm sorry. I wasn't here. I didn't believe you."
Mrs. Yates calls him a hero. Nineteen years old in a ratty hoodie, hair falling over his bruised, bandaged forehead, he doesn't feel like one. Just the straight man from a disbanded three-man show that got lucky somehow.
She hugs him and insists that he come back next week for Christmas, and he's not even sure if he manages a polite excuse before fleeing.
Tears are flooding down Sam's cheeks. He lowers himself onto the curb and hides his face against his knees. The sun is rising and the happy suburban street is bathed in sleepy pinks and oranges. Christmas decorations adorn nearly every yard, and Sam's never felt less Christmasy in his life.
A few minutes later, Gretchen sits beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. She says nothing as he leans his head against her neck, gulping and gasping like he's sinking underwater. For all that he doesn't like people to see him cry, she's seen it twice in two months.
"You saved my sister's life," she tells him. "You should be happy."
"I miss Dean," is all he can say in reply, and it comes out a moan. He wipes his faucet nose on the sleeve of his hoodie.
Gretchen just hugs him tighter and lets him sob himself empty at the end of her driveway, while back in the house her family's lives are slowly returning to normal.
He spends a restless morning, though the Yates' couch is surprisingly comfortable. The sun streams through the windows and Sam wonders when he actually got this circadian rhythm thing down, why he suddenly can't sleep during the day. It's not very damn helpful, right now. When Gretchen rocks him arm lightly, it's 2pm and he's only just managed to shut his eyes.
The drive back is sad somehow, and Sam just wants to curl up against Gretchen, but her car isn't designed for such things. He sits isolated in the passenger's seat.
"So, it attached to my sister," she says quietly, as they zip down the freeway. "Why? I mean, why her?"
"Poltergeists generally attach to preadolescents during times of stress in their lives," Sam responds automatically.
"Do you think... think it was cause I left?" Gretchen's voice is quiet, and all Sam has to offer is a reassuring lie.
"More likely it's because she's about to hit puberty," he assures her firmly.
A few more tenth-mile markers pass by before she says, "so you do this stuff? Like, for a living?"
Sam snorts. "It's not exactly for a living, but yeah. Dean and Dad too."
"Shit," she breathes.
"Yeah."
More silence follows, and they're well past the halfway mark back to Stanford when Gretchen says quietly, "sometimes you just gotta leave, y'know?"
Sam's pretty sure Gretchen doesn't believe that any more than he does.