Her dad handed her a heavy 9 x 12 envelope, one eyebrow raised curiously. They stopped by the PO Box every couple weeks, when the money ran out, so he could pick up the funds his handlers deposited there. Occasionally, John would have the mail forwarded to their motel if he planned on keeping them in one place for a while. It was Sam's only solid link to the outside world. Everything else changed – towns, schools, people. They never stayed any one place for very long. And they seldom returned to a town they'd already visited. But somehow they managed to swing by the PO Box in Lawrence, Kansas several times a year.
Now she was standing outside the familiar beige brick and blue stone building with a white open end envelope in hand. She stared down at the front of the package. The return address said Stanford.
Dean had run hot and cold since the night he'd kissed her. Most of the time he acted like she didn't exist. But any time she needed him, he was never more than an arms reach away. She felt ignored and smothered at the same time.
She'd done the only thing that made sense. She'd applied for college, despite the fact she was only 16. She used her background and her finely honed skills at manipulation to get in. Between being raised like some homeless runaway, her age, and her test scores, she was a university's wet dream for a scholarship recipient. Sam tested well. It was the only way to pass from one grade to the next when she didn't stay in one place long enough for teachers to evaluate her in any more meaningful way.
She opened the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was her scholarship information, dorm assignment, and instructions on how to register for her first semester of classes. She held a four year, all expenses paid vacation to Stanford University.
Her dad opened a smaller envelope from Stanford. It was addressed to her - the acceptance letter. She couldn't read the meaning behind the look he gave her, but she suspected it didn't bode well. "We'll talk about this later," was all he said.
She swallowed dryly and nodded. "Yes, sir." She looked back at the package in her hands. It had seemed such a reasonable idea when she'd done it. She'd known they'd accept her, her essay guaranteed it. But now that it was here, weighing heavy in her hand, she wasn't sure she could go through with it. She'd have to leave behind the only two people she'd known for longer than a month.
Dean hit the roof when he found out.
"What the hell do you want to go to college for?" he demanded. "Surrounded by entitled yuppies, you'd be bored out of your skull." He had quite a bit more to say on the subject. He was vehemently against her going. She fought back just as passionately, more from habit and to prove that he didn't control her than because she still wanted to go. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave him.
"Let her go, Dean," John said. His quiet tone cut through their fight more effectively than any shouting could have. "She's not family, she doesn't belong here."
It was like a slap in the face. These two men were the only family she remembered. She'd been too young to form any tangible memories when their mother was killed. She'd never met any cousins, grandparents, aunts, or uncles. These two were her entire world.
She stood frozen, listening to them breathe. She and Dean panted heavily from their bickering. Their father exhaled silently into the spaces between. The TV from the room next door buzzed, a laugh track and applause complementing the muffled dialogue. A thud came from another room. Headlights swung across the stained and worn curtains.
"Get out, girl," John said dispassionately.
"Dad, no." Dean sounded like he was in shock.
Sam picked up her bag. She didn't have to be at school for a couple months. She wouldn't have left so soon, but maybe it was better this way.
"Sam..." Even Dean couldn't make their father disowning her any better. She shrugged off the sound of his voice and stepped out the door.
John and Dean slogged to the car. John didn't leave Dean behind anymore. No reason to now that Sam was gone. In the intervening months John had even started to let Dean work some of his own jobs. This particular job had required them both.
They were caked in mud and sweat from wading in a swamp all day. They dumped their weapons and John slammed the trunk shut. He turned to Dean and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, stopping him.
"Out with it boy," John said.
"With what, sir?" Dean asked, hoping the conversation would be short. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a night of mindlessly cleaning mud out of their weapons. He could already smell the gun oil.
He'd been moving through their routine from habit. He felt numb, like a piece of him was missing ever since Sam walked out of that motel. She'd always been his annoying little sister, following him around and breaking his stuff. She was also the only one who knew what it was like to grow up the way they had.
"With whatever you've been wanting to say since Sam left. Get it off your chest before it distracts you and puts one or both of us in a shallow grave."
Dean had thought of a thousand things to say. Had ranted and raved at their father in his head. He'd cursed the man for his pig-headedness. He'd blamed him for being callous. He'd asked more questions than there were motels in New Jersey. After obsessing over it for months, the only thing he could ask was "Why?"
"Why'd she go?"
"Why'd you say she isn't family?" Dean said bluntly.
John's expression softened. "She would have stayed." He sounded regretful. "To take care of us. To work by your side. She would have stayed."
Dean understood then. Sam was different from the two of them. She was smart and she didn't belong in their itinerant lifestyle. They'd done their best to protect her from the ugly things John's job exposed them to. And they'd done it well. Sam belonged at school. Her life was meant to include a degree and a real job. A real life. But just because Dean understood didn't mean he approved.
John clapped him on the shoulder. They got in the car and John turned up the heat full blast. "She isn't family either." He pulled the car off the grassy shoulder and onto the empty stretch of asphalt. "We have no claim on her." He sounded sorry, like he wished he could claim her.
"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.
"You were too young to remember, but Sam was your brother. He died as a baby. Damn doctors couldn't even tell us what killed him, called it Sudden Infant Death Syndrome." The words were bitter as they hit the air. John gripped the wheel and stared at the night as it passed. Dry winter grass passed in the headlights and a light dusting of snow drifted across the road.
John relaxed his hands and continued. "Your mother came back with your sister one day a few weeks after the boy died. I never asked where she came from. It was obvious she'd been neglected and abused. Mary altered the gender on the birth certificate and that was that."
Dean felt like he'd just been plunged back into the ball-shriveling cold water of the swamp they'd left in the rearview. For months, he'd struggled with the guilt of wanting his sister. Ever since the night she'd popped her cherry and he'd kissed her. Now none of it mattered. They weren't even related.
But did that make her any less his sister? He'd helped change her diapers since before he'd had words to describe what he was doing. She was still the girl whose hair he'd pulled and wrestled into the ground. He'd given her noogies and taught her how to give the best indian burns.
He'd been there the day she'd accidentally spilled a carton of milk all over a new classmate's head. The memory of her horrified expression still made him smile. He'd been the one to help her pass off the faux pas, telling them both that milk was good for your hair and the kid's short locks would be sleek and healthy tomorrow because of it.
With all their history, how could she be anything other than his sister?
He had to see her. If he could just see her, it would all make sense. She liked puzzling through these kinds of things. If he gave it to her in the abstract, she'd worry at the knot of it for days before coming to any conclusions.
John looked at Dean sidelong. "Don't even think it, boy. She's better off where she is. Safer."
What did he know? He hadn't been there as Sammy struggled and failed to make friends at all the new schools they'd been dragged to. Hadn't watched over her and tried to fill in the gaping holes left by growing up with men. Dean had been there for her first period. He'd been the one to sweet talk a girlfriend into explaining the different products and how they were used. Sammy was the reason he'd asked all the girls he bedded a zillion questions about what it was like to be a woman. She was the reason he'd tried on Rhonda Hurley's silky underwear.
John hadn't done any of that. He'd barely made sure they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
"She's family," Dean insisted.
John shot him a glare. "She's not a pet. Leave her be."
Dean let it drop. He took his shower. He cleaned his weapons. Then, when he was sure John had drunk himself into a sound stupor, he snuck out the door.