I hope you guys, whoever is reading this, liked the last chapter—sorry for how long it was, it's just easier to motivate myself to get longer chapters done because it moves stuff along faster. Reviews are love.
(One Year Later)
Sam shifted in the backseat of the Impala, her head aching with the thundering beat of Led Zeppelin booming through the car. Her father was drinking heavily in the front seat, his drunken voice joining with the chorus—only serving to make her head ache more. She just wanted to get to a motel, curl up in her own bed, and get some well deserved shut eye. They'd been in the car for hours—and right now it was all she could do to keep herself from crawling up the walls, her mind eating at her—never mind her sore arms from the digging they'd done, mud caked under her nails, bruises on her knees and shins, her hair was tangled and messy around her face, but she couldn't bring herself to care.
Dean leaned his head against the back of his seat, his eyes trained on the tan roof of the Impala, watching as the lights flickered over the material, casting distorted patterns in a rainbow of colors. He figured it wouldn't be long now before John would catch a lucid moment, just long enough to realize he was drunk and pull over. He stretched his legs out as best he could in front of himself, only getting half way before the front bench stopped him. His neck and back ached from his shifts digging, his hands were grimy and probably bleeding. There was aching silence, despite the thundering music—it weighed on him, settling below his ribcage and making him feel like he was sinking. His eyes slid to the side, finding the back of Sam's head as she stared out the window. Her hair had long since come out of the braid she'd tied it into, and it now hung around her in soft waves, the ponytail holder on the seat beside her. Even in the dark he could see the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she sat leaning away from the seat, just slightly.
Before the hunt, just a simple salt and burn, but this time Sam had to sit on the stupid stone and hold the flashlight until it was her damn turn, and that was the only way Dean agreed, she and John had another fight. Sam wanted to stay and go to school—it had been two months since they'd been in town long enough for her to even think about School, but this time around they'd been in one place for almost three months. It was the first time ever that she'd made friends, real friends. "For once in my life Dad, I have normal people to talk to! People who don't know what's out there, that still get to believe in things if they want! For once I was normal too! I had friends, not just Dean!" She hadn't meant it like it sounded, Dean knew that. But for a second, it actually hurt. He knew that it had been what she wanted, finally—a place where people didn't look at her like she was a total freak—a place where people invited her to do things, where she got to show off how smart she was, she'd even, almost had a first date. (Dean would never tell her that the kid wasn't going to show, because, maybe Dean was a little big to be threatening 13 year olds.) But Sam knew that she'd lost the second John said, "Grab a shovel and your bag. We're leaving after we torch the bones."
And so, there they were, hightailing it out of Tennessee, 110 miles per hour as though the devil himself were on their trail. Sam closed her eyes and tried to block out the music.
It wasn't long before John pulled over to the side of the road, tires squealing and dirt flying as he threw the Impala into park and turned off the engine. The cab was suddenly silent, and Dean's eyes cracked open, watching his father warily. For a long moment the hunter just stared out the windshield, his eyes glazed over with the alcohol and the familiar empty anger. The air outside the Impala, just beginning to warm, was still chilly—and before the heat from the engine ran down, John was snoring in the front seat, the bottle falling from his hand into the foot well. Dean could smell whiskey seeping into the floor.
Sam hadn't moved, her eyes were still closed, her body poised as though she was about to fling open the door and take flight, her eyes squinched closed like she was in pain—her head must hurt, but Dean knew his little sister better than to believe that she'd say anything about it. She might not talk at all, depending on her mood. He watched her, her body straining forward, before finally, she slumped back against the seat, opening her eyes which sparkled just a little too brightly for Dean to think that she was fine.
The feeling of Dean's arm around her shoulders shocked Sam, and her eyes slid up to him, wide and filled with tears that she'd been doing her best to keep locked up. She flushed, her fathers voice in her head, Winchesters don't cry, Samantha. But Dean, no matter how much he would protest, wasn't really all that much like John, and so he pulled her into his side and rubbed her back as she nuzzled closer, keeping her breathing slow and even so as not to wake her father. Her head ached, her stomach swooping, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs—but then she was breathing in Dean's comforting scent. Gun powder and Apples, and her head started to clear, her fingers digging into her big brothers sides, greedily breathing in his scent and letting it fill her up, until there was no room for the resentment of her father, or the desperation to be normal, or the confusing pain she felt when she thought of Dean growing up to be just like him.
Dean didn't say anything, as her tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt, her thin shoulders heaving. She had wanted that life so badly, and what was worse, she'd been so close to being able to have it—it had been so real for that short time, going to school, doing well on tests, her laughter a more common occurrence. She'd been liked, and while she was there, in the halls of that school, she hadn't felt like a hunters daughter.
::
It was like they were children again, Dean thought, as they wriggled around in the (suddenly much smaller) seat of the Impala, trying to find a way that worked for them both to lay down. Sam grunted quietly when Dean's elbow dug into her side, and he flashed her a grimace when her knee got a little too close for comfort, but finally they squeezed in together, chest to chest, her nose brushing his collarbone as she watched the Amulet, the one he teasingly called his 'Samulet' swing like a pendulum.
Her head was filled up with his scent, and how one of his arms was under her head like a pillow and the other was slung over her hips, his fingers rubbing warmth into her skin, their legs tangled together like it used to be. Logically, Sam knew she was getting too old to be cramped into this tiny space with her big brother, his breath ruffling her hair, his arms keeping her warm until the dawn—but she secretly hoped that this would never end.
Dean pulled her closer, melding their bodies together as he tried to keep her as warm as possible, pulling his coat from the floor where he'd dropped it earlier and laying it over them like a blanket. Sam pressed her cold face, still slightly wet with tears, into the hollow of his throat, taking comfort in him like she always had, always would. He felt her feather light kiss against his skin and smiled, squeezing her hip lightly. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of other cars racing past on the busy road—none of them paying attention to the black '67 Chevy Impala pulled over on the side of the road. This was their life, and Dean was remembering how, to Sam, this was her whole life. For her, there was no memory, no matter how faint, of a life before this—of a John who wasn't a hunter. No memory at all of Mary, or their big house in Lawrence, of the tree with the swing out back, and the four solid walls of the playroom, papered with balloons and ice cream cones. No, all that Sam could possibly remember was nights like this. Blood and fear, pain and tears and denial, unwilling to believe that this was all there could be for her. The anger was roaring within him, and then he heard her soft voice whisper against his skin, "Hey Jude, don't make it bad, Take a sad song and make it better, Remember to let her into your heart,Then you can start to make it better.."
Sam felt him tense against her, his mind spinning with thoughts she wasn't hearing, and wondered what they were. She could feel his fingers getting tighter and tighter around her hip, until she could feel the bones of his hand grinding into the edge of her hipbone. She stared up at his face, as best as she could through her bangs, and saw the tenseness of his jaw, the flashing steel in his eyes. Her throat closed up, her eyes going wide as his hand clamped down on her, lost in his mind—it didn't hurt, not really, but there would be a bruise, and if John saw it, asked about it, Dean would tell him before she could lie and say that she'd hit herself on a rock, or the shovel—and that would mean that Dean would get in trouble, because his number one policy was "Never lie to Dad." Someday, she thought grimly, that policy is going to shatter into a million pieces.
The idea popped into her mind, and before thinking it through, her mouth was already open, the tune crawling it's way up her throat. Her breath pushed against his skin, and she felt him jump in surprise, the song slowly filling the car.
Dean's breath stopped in his lungs, just hearing her sing the song he'd always sang to her, and their mother sang to them before that—her voice almost an exact copy of Mary's. For a second, he felt like he was a tiny child again, held in his mothers arms, being rocked to sleep by her sweet voice and the words of "Hey Jude".
Sam wrapped her arms around him, her thin fingers combing through the hair at the back of his neck, slow and gentle. She whispered the words like a promise into the skin of his throat, her voice soft, like a secret—low so they didn't wake their father. She pressed closer, wriggling against him so that she could hold him as he'd always held her when her anger and fear had become too much. He held onto her desperately, needing to feel his baby sister in his arms and assure himself that despite everything, she was wonderful and soft and sweet and warm still—that she wasn't turning into him or their father or Bobby—that she was still Sam. And she was, she held him tighter as he buried his head in her long, sweet smelling hair, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulders, scratching lightly at the hairs at the back of his neck, her voice bubbling around him like a stream, pulling him into deeper water.
She felt it when Dean fell asleep, felt the way his arms went slack around her, his fingers twitching against her back, his head heavy on her neck. His warm breath erased the last of the chill, and she settled in, her headache nothing but a distant memory—now she was warm and safe, the faces of her almost friends already being forgotten. What did they matter? Why did she think they were so great, again? They had houses and beds and closets and backyards and pets and Moms—but she had something better. She had Dean.
::
The Winchesters rolled into a motel the next day at noon—the windows rolled down to ease the smell of whiskey that had slowly permeated the car, Sam's legs stretched out over Dean's lap, her head resting against the door, watching the clouds over head.
It wasn't fancy, no better than the last, or the one before that—nestled into some nameless town in Missouri. John climbed out of the car, only slightly off kilter as he walked into the main office to book the room. Sam watched him go, watching the way he held his head straight up, his limbs barley shaking—he was the most talented liar she'd ever seen, and it made her unwillingly proud. "We'd better get the bags." Dean said, his hands pushing her legs off his lap, she nodded absently, pulling herself up and out of the car—not even bothering to open her door, just sliding out the window.
"How do you think he does it?" She asked, waiting as Dean slid the key into the lock on the trunk.
"Does what?" He asked, grabbing his duffel and their dad's, moving aside so she could grab her own, and the medical bag. Dean slammed the trunk shut and they started moving toward the building. She shifted the bag higher on her shoulder as she saw her Dad push back through the glass doors and walk down the length of the building.
"Act like he's not so hung over, he's still pissing straight whiskey?" Dean choked on a laugh and slung one arm around her shoulders, pulling her smaller form against his side. Sam smiled a little as well, quickly wiping her expression when John turned back to see what they were laughing about—finding only innocent faces. He narrowed his eyes at them, still suspicious, but the ache in his head seemed like a far more pressing matter so he shrugged it off and threw open the door to their room.
Sam shuffled in after John, smirking slightly and chose the bed the farthest from the door, knowing that John always took the closer one—ever the protector. Dean followed after her and tossed his stuff next to hers, flopping down on the bed, making the springs squeal. John winced and headed to the bathroom."Oh, I say." Sam said when her father had closed the door to the bathroom after himself, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Five stars."
::
They were dancing again—loud music pulsing through the room, their yells of the lyrics, not even trying to be considered singing. Sam jumped up on the bed, her voice reaching pitches that would make a dog cry, but Dean just pounded out the beat against the flimsy table.
Neither one had mentioned last night, and Sam was just glad that John hadn't woken to hear her singing. The last time he'd heard her sing he'd grabbed onto her arms in his drunkenness and left dark purple marks for days. She'd had to hide the marks from Dean, terrified of the fight that would break out. So, needless to say, it was a good idea to be very careful around John Winchester. Thankfully, he'd left shortly after they'd arrived, saying he'd be gone maximum of a week.
Dean spun out, falling to his knees when the guitar solo came on, ripping through the room—Sam pretended to be holding a microphone and sang until, when finally the song was over, her throat was scratchy and raw, but Dean's smiling and so it hardly matters. She falls back on the bed, Dean crawling over to climb up next to her. It's late, probably already midnight, they'd been singing for hours—desperately trying to ease the tension of last night, and the slowly blooming bruise on Sam's hip isn't helping matters—but that's just one more thing she'll keep quiet about, for Dean's own good.
"God, I'm tired." Dean murmurs next to her, his face pressed into the stiff comforter. He pushes himself up slightly, turning to look at her face. Her hair had been torn from the loose ponytail she'd had it in, and now strips of it hung over her face and neck, he can see the beat of her heart, pushing against the skin over her ribs and laughs. "Worn out, Sammy?" He asks teasingly, pulling her hair from her flushed skin. She makes a face at him, slapping his hand away and sitting up—he watches her hair fall down her back like chocolate in a fountain and smiles. She's got a simple beauty that he doubts she sees. Its obvious though—the delicate features, the wide eyes, milky skin and soft waves. At the last town, the boys had started to take notice. Even boys just a grade below Dean had watched her walk by, noticing her slim waist and curvy hips. She'd only started to change last year, but she was practically a new person, her cheeks were thinner, no more baby fat, her legs were sleek and muscled, her waist curved into an hourglass shape and her breasts beginning to show. He flushed with anger, remembering the low whistles of appreciation she'd gotten from a Sophomore at their last school.
"I'm thirsty. You want something?" Sam asks, pushing herself up off the bed and pulling her arms over her head. She twisted around to look back at Dean, his eyes still glazed from whatever thoughts he'd been having. She rolled her eyes. "No, wait, I know. Beer." She grinned at him and walked over to the kitchenette, pulling open the fridge and taking out a beer for him. She spun back around, twisting off the cap and taking a sip herself before handing it over. Dean gave her a weak slap on the leg, knowing he should probably be more strict about her having beer, even if she didn't have it much. She laughed, twisting up her face and sticking her tongue out at him. Dean snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. "What?" She asked, her face flushing.
"Nothing." He said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he lifted the bottle to his mouth. Sam yawned next to him, sinking back into the bed and laying her head on his thigh. Dean rested his hand on her head, lacing his fingers through her soft hair. "You're growing up so fast." He said, his mind flipping through pictures of her. He'd watched her grow, from diapers to guns, it had all happened too quickly, and John had missed out on it. Dean sighed, pushing away that thought, it was a battle for another day. Sam shifted, moving her eyes to meet her brothers, for a moment they were sad.
"You are too, De." She said, struggling not to sound sad. Every day he was becoming more and more of a hunter, and next year.. Next year he'd be one, officially. He'd leave her on her own and hunt all the time with their Dad. He'd hunt Demons and Wendigos and Ghosts and Sam would be on her own in a motel, wondering if he was alive, about to turn up at the door, bloody and beaten. A slight shiver ran through her and she bit her lip hard. "You're all.. muscley and grown up now." She said, swallowing down the tight feeling in her throat. Sam could feel Dean's laughter from her spot on his leg—the steadying vibrations and the rough, deep sound filled the room and Sam wished she could wrap the sound around herself and keep it with her, so that when he left to go fight the never ending war, she'd have something to hold on to.
::
It was late, too late for Dean to be awake when he woke—he knew it had to be early early morning, before the sun had begun to make it's appearance, and so with a heavy sigh he began to turn over, wishing to return to the dream he'd been having about his Mother, when something stopped him.
Sam's small form was draped over his bed, he noted with amusement, even though she'd crawled into her own before going to sleep. Now, her skinny body was stretched out alongside his, the fingers of her right hand brushing the fabric of his T-shirt, long chocolate hair spread against the white sheets, her skin flushed and rosy from the warmth rolling off of their bodies. Dean paused, just looking down at her, watching the slight movement of her chest as it rose and fell, the subtle twitch of her nose as she dreamt. Samantha Henrietta Winchester, He thought, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, wrapping one smooth lock of hair around his finger, feeling it catch against the callouses on his skin, You are beautiful.
Dean laid there a moment longer, just watching her as her body twitched, her eyes shifting behind her lids, deeply in sleep—if he believed in god, he would pray for good dreams for her, but he knew that god was pretty much just a bedtime story in this world of terror and blood. For now, she wasn't a part of it, and he let himself enjoy that, for her. She sighed in her sleep, her lips falling open, soft words dripping from her open mouth, garbled murmurs of his name warming his heart. His throat swelled closed, his eyes going wide and soft as she smiled in her sleep. Without thinking about it, Dean reached out and wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing his face into her silky hair, smiling as she stirred, pulling her head back to look at him. He cut off her sleepy apology, saying simply, "Go back to sleep." Sam smiled, looking like a tiny child in his arms again, and pressed a sloppy kiss just a tad too close to his lips before she sank back into his embrace, her face pressing into his shoulder, her breathing evening out again before he knew it.
In a perfect world, Dean thought, Sam wouldn't have nightmares and crawl into his bed—she'd have her own bedroom, a closet filled with clothes that weren't picked because of durability and price. Mary would be there when she cried over a bad dream, or a broken bone—and she'd never want for anything. But, this wasn't a perfect world, and Dean knew that, feeling his body weigh heavily with guilt as her t-shirt slid up her hip and revealed the pale blue bruise, in the shape of his hand. None of it was fair, he thought, his eyes reflexivity darting around the room to check salt lines. She wanted so many things, things that John just couldn't—wouldn't give her. They were things that Dean didn't understand, couldn't, it was too far gone for him, he was almost out of high school and she was set to begin—it was too late for Dean to do anything else, he'd been on this path, irreversibly, since he was four. But, Sam? Sam could do so much. She was so smart, he thought with pride. Always getting A's—skipping through the door holding the papers up, great big smiles on her face as she pushed past John(on the off occasion that he was actually there) to show them to Dean. There was nothing in the whole world Sam liked doing more than curling up, a warm coffee in her hand, in a library with a good book while Dean and John researched—she'd lose herself in tales of Pirates and Fairies, sinking into literature and escaping. She was that type, loved knowledge and stories, loved to figure things out, always enraptured in finding the truth from the novels he'd sometimes smuggle out for her. She would give him big toothy grins, her dimples flashing, and she'd pounce on the book, losing herself in it for hours, escaping between the covers. If she wanted to, Dean knew, if there was anyway, she could be something great—something that didn't involved blood and death and this life. But, he sighed deeply, Sam was a Winchester—and Winchesters were hunters.
Sam's fingers wound into the loose fabric of Dean's shirt, her breath warm against his collarbone, shifting in her sleep. His large hand spread almost all the way across her back, and he couldn't help but compare how big, lithe maybe, but still big, to how birdlike she was—so small and fragile looking. Sam could best most grown men in hand to hand combat, but laying here wrapped around him like a second skin, she looked to him like glass. It had been a long time since he'd been afraid to touch her, since she was tiny enough to still be considered a baby, all pudgy cheeks and tiny fingers, gripping tightly onto any part of Dean that was close enough—his hand, his hair.. She'd been stuck to him like glue since the beginning, ever since their mother died, Dean was the only one who could make her stop crying, could convince her to eat her meat loaf, and allowed him close enough to put her to sleep after nightmares. Even now, she rarely let John too close—always shifting along with Dean as though they were bound together by some invisible thread. Dean wondered if she even noticed anymore—most times he didn't, it had taken one of the kids at the last school pointing it out for him to realize that they did move like that. Sam's eyes wouldn't even flicker to him anymore, she'd just move on instinct, like gravity. John had said something once, that it would make them a fierce duo in battle. Dean supposed it was true, having someone that knew his moves before he made them, and if anyone would, could, it would be Sammy, would be damn near impossible to beat—but just the thought of Sam in danger like that made him shudder.
He was becoming a broken record—but he didn't want this for her. Sam was too good, too young and innocent and perfect, and he wanted her to stay that way. She didn't need blood, of any kind, on her hands. It was Dean's job to protect her, John had made that his job that night, shoving his tiny baby sister into his arms and making him run—fast as his little legs could go, choking on smoke and sobs, terror filling him as the image of his mom burning up engrained itself into memory. Since then, that moment, his entire purpose had been "Keep Sam safe, no matter what." But how could he protect her when the only way to make sure she was safe, was to make sure she could protect herself? He'd always thought guns and knives looked wrong in her pale hands, but she'd mastered them before the age of 10, and there was nothing he could do but let it happen—let her slowly become a soldier. But, god, if he could he'd change it all—tuck her into a bed of her own and give her a life that was worth his beautiful, amazing, baby sister.
::
Alarm clocks, Sam thought, were devil contraptions. The blaring sound of some country song that was popular at the time, a thick southern drawl ringing in her head. Sam groaned, levering herself up from the bed, her legs hopelessly entangled in the cheap cotton sheets. She could hear humming from the bathroom, the door slightly cracked and letting steam pour out—the faint sound of running water greeted her as she slid her feet to the floor.
"Are you honestly singing this freaking song?" She grouched, shoving her shoulder into the door and making it swing open. Dean just laughed from behind the shower curtain, pulling it aside enough to see his face and shoulders.
"Well good morning, Sunshine." He smiled, the slight crinkles around his eyes lighting up his whole face. He was too young for them, she knew, but they made him look more.. Dean-ish. "How'd you sleep?" His hair sent little drops of water to collect on his eye lashes, made them sparkle and Sam couldn't help but notice that her brother was beautiful. He watched her, his tan skin flushed from the warmth of the water, little droplets sliding down his neck, over his collarbones, and Sam's stomach got warm and twisty feeling as she jerked her gaze away.
"Fine.." She said, turning to the mirror to pull her hair back from her face, desperate for a distraction. "About that, actually—sorry for.. well, I didn't want to wake you, you looked so peaceful." She said, pulling her hair back with savage force, trying to push out the flush she could feel working it's way up her chest, the confusing feeling in her stomach that she didn't have a name for. In the shower, Dean laughed, his deep voice bouncing off the tiles, reverberating around the room—the sound so familiar that it made her smile.
"It's fine, Sammy." Dean said, reaching down to turn off the water. She watched his arm grope along the wall for the towel. She sighed in exasperation when she noticed it crumpled on the ground. He's hopeless. I swear. Sam bent down and grabbed the towel, pressing the cloth into her brothers wet palm, watching with a tight throat as his long fingers closed around it, his smile visible through the crack in the curtain and wall. "Thanks, baby girl."
"M-Mhmm." Sam nodded, turning to leave the bathroom. When the door closed behind her, she sank onto the bed, her head spinning in the cooler air—now free of the moist heat that had threatened to choke her. She pressed her hands to her face, fighting for composure. What is going on? It's just Dean, god. But somehow that thought didn't help. Her stomach flipped, hearing him singing along to the song on the radio through the thin door, how he horribly missed notes and grated out instrumental solos that he firmly believed were meant to be sung, "for the whole experience." He'd say, flashing her the special smile he always saved, just for her. Sam felt her mouth twitching up, her face warm and her palms sweaty.
Dean bumped the door open with his hip, his jeans still unbuttoned, his shirt hanging from his fingers. He bobbed his head to the song, walking with his bowlegged stride to the fridge, pulling out the orange juice Sam had begged for and taking a large mouthful, ignoring the disapproving clicking of Sam's tongue behind him. She watched as the last of the water from his shower trailed down his muscled back, her eyes trailing them without her permission as they rolled below the waistband of his jeans, disappearing. He took another swallow from the carton to annoy her, and when he turned around his mouth was fighting down a smile. She rolled her eyes, an unwilling laugh forcing it's way up her too tight throat as he pulled on his shirt. Half of her sagged in disappointment, the other relief, as the dark blue t-shirt covered his smooth skin. What is wrong with me?
He spun around, his fingers turning the dial on the radio, raising the volume. Sam watched in helpless amusement as Dean shook his hips and mimed singing into a microphone. "We should be sparring. Practicing. Doing something productive!" She yelped as he pulled her up from the bed, spinning her around three times until she was a mass of giggles and messy hair, falling against him as his hands latched onto her hips and moved her in a silly dance. He kept singing, his voice going right to her head, his breath close to her skin—fresh and heady and Dean assaulting her senses. They kept moving, spinning and dancing, laughing and crashing against each other, fighting to stay upright. Dean's hands wrapped around her skinny waist, his fingers individually burning her up through her shirt as he lifted her to be face to face with him, her hands scrabbling on his wide shoulders, searching for purchase feeling like she was falling despite knowing he'd never let that happen. Sam's head was filled with his exhaled breath and the deep rumble of his voice, her eyes wide and sparkling. Dean leaned forward as the song ended, pressing his lips to her forehead, breathing in the clean scent of her, smiling against her skin as he felt her arms wrap around his neck. These were moments he'd miss later, when she got too old to want to hang out with her big brother, and so he'd cherish each of these moments for when he couldn't anymore.
Sam pressed as close to him as she could, feeling the shifting of her insides finally quell, content in his arms. "I love you, De." She said into his shirt, smiling as she felt his arms tighten around her.
"I love you, too, Sammy."
::
Three weeks later.
Sam narrowed her eyes, glaring distrustfully at the girl that was wrapped around Dean's arm—her long red hair shining in the weak light peeking through the clouds. Voices rose and fell all around her, the students of this nameless high school milling about on the open grass, paper bags and lunch trays balanced on books. Sam had no apatite for the turkey sandwich she'd packed that morning, grimacing with distaste and dropping it back in the bag as her eyes once again found Dean and the girl.
What was this one's name, she wondered? Who was she? From her place by the bleachers, with Dean headed straight for her, the girl wrapped around him like plastic wrap, she could see the girls features, delicate but plain, wide blue eyes trained on the side of Dean's face. Sam rolled her eyes and swung her feet over the side of the bleachers, dropping to the ground and taking off running to her brother. Dean, grinning, stepped away from Red and crouched to Sam's height—grabbing her up in his arms as she collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist. "Hello, Samantha." He teased.
"Dean." She said, seriously. "Who's your friend?" She asked, only a tiny bit of mocking leak into her voice—Dean caught it and pinched her side. She smiled at him, all teeth and crinkled up eyes.
"Carrie." Red said, stepping forward. "And you must be, Sammy." Sam's eyes flashed. Only Dean calls me that, whore. Red stuck her hand forward, and, cringing on the inside, Sam took it.
"Just Sam, thanks." She said, letting go of Dean and dropping a full foot. She turned and climbed back up the bleachers, smiling when she heard the heavy clang of Dean's boots on the metal, following her. She settled back into her spot, pulling her coat around her as a chilly breeze blew over the field. "So, Brother Dearest—Forget lunch again?" She smirked and shoved the bag into his hands. He winked at her appreciatively and pulled the sandwich out.
"Thanks, Sammy." She pretended not to notice the way Carrie's eyebrows raised at the nickname, her eyes darting between the two. "Having fun yet?" He asked, taking a bite.
"No." She said, laughing and tucking her hair behind her ear. She watched him gobble up her sandwich, reaching back into the bag for the bottle of water. "Two people have already mispronounced our name. It's not that hard, I mean really." Sam rolled her eyes, exasperated. Dean laughed, his green eyes sparkling in the weak sun that struggled through the clouds. It was always a joke to Dean—sometimes it seemed like everything was. Some day's that was nice, this, however, was not one of them. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw Carrie lean toward him, her face all eager and starstruck, like Dean was some kind of Greek Adonis. Sam snorted.
"Lighten up, Sammy." There was that name again—it made her feel like she was two years old again, toddling around hanging onto Dean's pant legs. She glared at him, not wanting to reprimand him, because it obviously frustrated Carrie that Sam blatantly didn't like her. "Lunch is almost over," He said, even though Sam knew it wasn't true, finished the last of the sandwich and standing up, crumpling the bag in his fist. "You should head back to class—wouldn't want you to be late, nerd." He ruffled the top of her head affectionately—Sam rolled her eyes and hopped up, clambering onto the next level so that for once, she was taller than her big brother. She knew what that was code for—it meant get going so I can fuck Red under these bleachers and Sam wasn't about to let that happen.
"You said you'd walk me." She blurted, her eyes darting back and forth between Carrie and Dean. Instantly Dean was trying to dig up the memory of when he'd said that—she knew he wouldn't find one. "Please, De?" She begged before he could open his mouth—her eyes going big and soft, the trick that Sam had learned from years of experience and adorable puppies in shop windows. Sam watched Carrie watching Dean watching Sam, her eyes shifting from his eyes to his jaw to his muscled shoulders, defined even under his thick jacket. She wanted to punch the girl, (an innocent girl, she tried to remind herself) in the face for looking at her brother like that, like he was some kind of prized possession she was being forced to sell. The rage bubbled in her stomach, surprising her with it's potency.
"Not today, Samantha." Dean's voice had gone hard, and Sam gaped at him, hurt rolling over her face. Carrie smiled triumphantly, slipping her hand into Dean's. The rage surged within her, and Sam bent down to grab her bag off the slowly warming metal. Her head held high, she shoved her way between them, her shoulder knocking into Carrie's chest on the way down. Sam grinned at her pained gasp, satisfaction surging through her.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, steadying Carrie as she wobbled precariously on the bleachers. "Get back here!"
"Have fun with your Whore, Dean." Sam said, spinning back around, her middle finger waving in the air. The anger on Dean's face was plain to see, even as far away as half the field. She felt the hot wave of anger and sadness wash over her—she was losing Dean to some.. some.. redheaded slut. Sam shook her head, shoving the doors of the school open, wondering if he'd follow her.
The answer, was no.
Well fuck him. She steamed, pushing past two boys on their way out to eat lunch, ignoring the startled, "Watch it!" that followed her down the hall. He can have fun, get herpes and explain to dad later. See. If. I. Fucking. Care. Sam finally made her way to her locker, slamming her back against it and leaning her head back, her chest heaving with anger and disappointment. They'd only been in this school a few days, after John had called and informed them that Bobby had called with a bigger hunt a few states away—that he'd be gone a few months and he'd mailed school forms, and already she was losing Dean.
It wasn't like Sam didn't know it was going to happen—that he'd catch the eye of some girl (all of them) and be swept away in a haze of flowing hair and batted eyelashes, she just kinda hoped it wouldn't be so soon. Tears of anger burned behind her eyes and she turned away from the mostly empty hall. She fumbled with the lock on the door, shifting her threadbare backpack higher on her shoulder and fighting down the tightness in her throat. This was bull shit. Complete bull shit, and she knew it. Dean was supposed to pick her over anyone that was just the way it went—but he'd looked back at Carrie, and decided that getting laid under the bleachers was more important than walking his sister to class.
Outside, Dean was probably pressed up against that stupid whore, his hands tangled in her hair, full lips moving against hers, probably seconds away from getting into her pants. Sam's lip curls in disgust as she slams the locker door open, ignoring the deafening clang that resounds through the hall. He's probably moving one thin fingered hand up her shirt, feeling the beat of her heart through the fabric of her bra, breathing, hot air across her neck. Sam jerks her mind away—feeling tears well in her eyes.
Samantha Winchester hates a lot of things. She hates hamburgers and bananas, has an odd dislike for french accents, despises hunting and all the things to be hunted, she hates her father for never being there, and she hates the mind numbing sameness of motel rooms—but the thing she hates the most? This. Being left, one upped, dropped, forgotten in favor of some slut in too tight jeans and caked on makeup. She hates the feeling of unease and hate and maybe even jealousy that never fails to roll through her blood and curl in her stomach. She hates the look of satisfaction on those girls faces when she passes by them on the way to class, the heavy content look of someone who'd just had the fuck of their life. She hates the way they walk, and the way their painted nails scrape the back of Dean's hands as they head to class, fingers twined. She hates the skinny waists and boobs that they thrust toward Dean every chance they get. She hates that it's them he turns his attention to. It should be, always should be, her.
Sam bites back a scream and yanks books off the shelves, shoves them in her bag, their faces flashing in her head. Julia in Wyoming, Mindy in Texas, Hannah in New Jersey, Gina in North Dakota, Kathy in Nevada, Quinn in California, Lilly in Florida, Valarie in Missouri, Rachel in Ohio, Destiny in Connecticut, Jamie in Virginia—so many she loses count. Finally, Sam has had enough—the bang of her locker slamming closed and her angry, heavy footsteps ring in the silence and then she's out the door, past the field, not even bothering to look. She keeps going, past the science building and the huge domed structure of the pool, not stopping when she came to the road, only moving faster as their faces fed the fire in her stomach.
Spring in this place felt closer to winter, but at the moment, in her haze of anger she can't remember what state it even is—she doesn't care, when she finally finds what she's looking for. A park. It's old, she can tell, the wood chipping and splintering, the paint on the chains of the swings peeling away to reveal dusky gray. She tosses her bag at the base of the swings, throwing herself into one and pushing off from the ground.
The creaking of the hinges breaks through the cloud of hate, giving her a breath, air to breathe. The faces of those multitudes of girls that Dean had been chasing since he was Fourteen finally blur out of focus—but the hurt doesn't. The feeling clenches in her gut, and she knows that by now he's inside that girl, his hands on her hips, her mouth streaming moans, hands raking into Dean's back—he's probably panting above her, giving her a little bit of himself as he always does, leaving hickeys on her neck and chest that will last long after he's gone. Sam's seen those marks left in return along the curve of his collarbone, has named the color lust purple and knows the scent of cheap motel cologne to cover up the scent of sex. She feels the nausea roll in her stomach, crawling up her throat and for a second is genuinely afraid that she'll vomit all over the thawing ground. Instead, a ragged sob leaps from her mouth and hot tears roll down her cheeks. The motto of Winchesters never cry withers and dies, as once again, Sam proves herself to be nothing more than a sniveling child, curling into herself on a playground swing in a state she forgot the name of.
::
Dean walked out from under the bleachers, pulling his jacket back on—his hair a tousled mess that screamed sex and satisfaction. Behind him, Carrie swiped at the smudged lip gloss that's spread around her mouth. Her tiny hand clamps around his, her fingers too short and her nails scraping the back of his hand. She's nice. Pretty, sweet and quiet, her manner one that makes her easy to like in the thick falsity of school, but too bland and empty to make into a real person outside. She tries a little too hard, he thinks, as she flips her hair over one shoulder and fixes the signature "Just fucked" grin on her face. He wants to laugh, because it's typical and he's comfortable in the rhythm of her stylish tennis shoes crunching grass as she hurries to keep up with his long strides.
As he watches, students began herding back to the school, after lunch chatter becoming louder the closer they got, and Dean doesn't bother to search for Sam's head among the crowd—knowing that after their argument she'd probably headed inside to sulk. He tries to ignore the stab of guilt that accompanies the thought of Sam's anger flushed face, heading away from him. She was over reacting, he tried to justify. Acting like a kid, he thinks, ignoring the desperate tinge that's taken his thoughts. Inside, he knew that she was genuinely upset for some reason that he couldn't understand—or maybe just didn't want to. Either way, he'd have hell to pay when he got home that night, and it wasn't something he was looking forward to dealing with.
::
Sam ran out of tears eventually, after what seemed like forever. The dry burn behind her eyes told her she couldn't cry more if she wanted to, and her mouth tasted like cotton.
The watch on her wrist informed her that it was almost time for school to let out, and there was a small flutter of nervousness in her stomach when she realized that Dean would've noticed she was gone by now—but it was quickly deadened by the fact that she didn't care. The swing kept creaking, the sound the only noise in the whole park, breaking the silence with the whine of metal on metal. She leaned her head back, letting her hair fall back, thick and dark, swaying in the wind. Sam tried, really really really tried not to think about her brother and his faceless whores anymore. She didn't need the replay of the time she stayed, crouching behind the trash can's and watched as Dean made love to some blonde in Tulsa, Arizona. She had run before he'd found her, eyes wide and full of longing she didn't understand. Still didn't. But the image was burned into her brain, the golden tan of his shoulders beaded with sweat, the dark blonde of his hair jarring against the gray dirt as the little blonde was swallowed whole by the glow that surrounded Dean. His muscled back clenching and shoulders rolling with each rhythmic snap of his hips against hers. She'd never looked at the girl—not even once.
Agitated with herself, Sam slipped off the seat, resigning herself to the fact that even if she didn't care about Dean yelling—she didn't want John to find out, lest he beat her while Dean went out for food after he got back. The dirt shifted under her worn boots, and she felt like her bag weighed a thousand pounds. She shouldered it anyway, and began the trek back to the Motel, the only sound was that of her grating breaths.
The road led to the business section of town, and with a few turns and a little luck, she arrived back before Dean, the emptiness of the room a relief. She tossed her bag down and went to the fridge, her anger rolling. Sam didn't care that she wasn't even Fourteen yet. Didn't care that her dad would kick up a fuss and that her mom would've never approved. She needed a beer, and she'd be damned if she didn't get one. The metal dug into her skin as she twisted off the cap, tossed it into the sink, ignoring the little ping sound it made. She took a gulp, the bitter liquid gushing into her mouth, promising relaxation.
After a few more gulps, the Motel door swung open to a blank faced Dean. Sam could see the worry in his eyes, even if his face was hard as stone, and tried not to feel guilty. When he laid eyes on her, his shoulders sagged just slightly, and then they were rigid again, anger blooming across his face, his mouth contorting, holding back the venomous words he wanted to say. Sam just watched him, standing by the door, and lifted the bottle to her lips again.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Sam?" Dean's voice ripped through the air so suddenly that it almost startled her, but she stayed still, fighting against the instinct to sass back and make an ass of herself. "You skipped school? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam. How could you be so fucking stupid?" He slammed his hand against the table, making the cheap wood shudder. Sam blinked, turning away again and taking one last pull from the bottle, sucking it dry. In her head all she could see was the image of herself, curled up on that swing, crying for a reason she didn't really understand. The only words in her entire mind, staining the blank calm, It should've been me.
"Answer me Samantha Winchester!" Dean yelled, his hand slamming into the table again, and this time there was a creaking groan. "Because before today I never thought of you as such a fucking brat."
A cord snapped. "A brat? Oh, my apologies King Dean, I forgot that you're the only one who matters! I forgot that meaningless sex is more important than me! How fucking stupid of me, right, Dean?!" The scream was cut off as she shoved herself into the bathroom, slamming the door with enough force to crack the frame, sending tiny flakes of paint fluttering down to the carpet. Behind the cheap wood, Sam slid to the floor, her back pressed to the cool porcelain of the tub, her hands over her mouth, trying to keep the pained noises inside. She'd never felt such anger, all packed into one day, and none of it made sense. Sure, she'd always felt stirrings of resentment when Dean would disappear to go with one of his replaceable sluts, but she'd always reminded herself that she was the one girl in Dean's life that couldn't be replaced. The only one that got to watch him make moony faces over pie, and dance awkwardly with her when the radio blasted away horrors that they didn't want to face. She knew all of Dean's favorite movies and all of the reoccurring nightmares he'd had since he was four—she knew the scar on his upper leg so well, because she'd been the one to sew it closed, she knew exactly how he took his coffee and that he only snored during blizzards and that his passion was the Impala, that he knew every song Kansas had ever made, and his favorite thing in the world was Christmas, with a tree, and old black and white movies on the TV, the one time that John could almost be counted on to be home. She knew Dean, and for as long as she could remember, that had been enough. But not today.
Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard her sob from behind the bathroom door. He knew she'd been angry, but angry Sam didn't usually mean tears, yet he could clearly hear her, shuddering, chest racking sobs that sounded like they hurt. He rubbed his hands over his face, thinking about Carrie and how it hadn't been worth listening to Sam like this. Guilt fell heavily on his shoulders, wrapped around his throat and pulled tight, because sure, she may have scared the ever living fuck out of him, and he'd only just managed to cover for her, but there was something wrong. Something that no doubt was more than just Carrie, and it was his fault she was crying like that. He hesitated, still standing by the door, his legs locked in place, at first too angry, and now too shocked to move, and stared with wide eyes at the bathroom door.
I should go in there. He thought, moving towards the door, his footsteps slow and clumsy in his hesitation. This is my fault, it's my fault she's crying. God, he thought, I'm never thinking with my dick again. Even though that most likely wasn't true, he swore to it anyway. Sam's sobs ripped through the thin wood, faintly muffled, almost like she was trying to hold them back—and that only made him feel worse. She didn't want him to hear her cry, when all along it had always been his job to make her stop, to make her feel better. He was supposed to be the one that never made her cry—and yet there he stood, one hand hesitating over the brass door knob, wondering what to do.
::
The door creaked open but Sam refused to look up, kept her eyes focused on the toes of her dirty boots, her face streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and red. She listened as Dean cautiously stepped into the room, finding her curled against the side of the tub—her thin hands like claws around her legs. The urge to sob again pressed up her throat, and she whimpered, fighting it back.
Dean crouched in front of her, reaching for her hands. She didn't fight him, but he could tell she wanted to, still he took it as a tiny victory and rubbed the backs of her hands with his calloused thumbs. Sam sighed, her throat raw and aching, her eyes sore—she was a mess, and something in her chest cringed at the thought of Dean looking at her like this. Don't be stupid. He's seen you cry a million times, he's changed your diapers and bathed you all your life.. Still, the queasy, tight feeling remained and she focused her eyes onto the leather toes of her boots—determined to find something interesting about them.
"Sammy.. I'm sorry." Dean said, his voice gruff. Her eyes flickered to him for a split second, shock in her pretty hazel eyes. "I shouldn't have yelled at you—" Anger clouded over again and she wrenched her hands away.
"That's not the problem, Dean." She snapped, climbing awkwardly to her feet. "The problem is that you chose that skank over me." The door slammed in his face for the second time that night, and he cursed, rubbing his face with his hands. Outside, he could hear her flop onto the bed, the springs squealing from the sudden impact. How did I even manage to fuck up my apology? He thought angrily. He stood up and began shucking off his clothes—if he couldn't go driving, (which he couldn't—John had taken the Impala) then he'd have to settle for a steaming shower, to hopefully wash off the cloying perfume that clung to his skin.
When the whole room was filled with steam, fogging the mirror and seeping out beneath the door—Dean climbed under the water, ignoring the burn on his skin, embracing the pain as it cleared his mind.
He'd just been so scared when he couldn't find her after last period—when she didn't come out of her World History class with an amused smirk on her face that she'd no doubt learned from him, and gloated about how she'd bested another person in the mythology of ancient Egypt. He'd waited a moment before peeking his head inside—and she hadn't been there. At first, it had been confusion—then raw panic. Sam didn't skip school. She just didn't. That wasn't Sam, that was more Dean. But it was the only possibility he'd even dared entertain. He'd rushed home, flat out running half way, shoving past Carrie and ignoring her cry of "Call me!" But he wouldn't, he never did. When he'd swung open that door to Sam's bloodshot eyes and hand clenched around a beer bottle, well, it had been a surge of relief. She was alive, safe, and also in a whole hell of a lot of trouble.
It was true, that Dean had always been the real parent to Sam—had always set her bedtime and dealt with the cuts and bruises and tears. He'd been the one to help her with her homework and teach her how to hold a gun, how to drive, how to fight. But, he wasn't their father, no matter how much Sam insisted he was a better father, and when he yelled at her, it came out all wrong because he didn't know what to do. Big brothers aren't supposed to be the ones dishing out discipline, but that's exactly what he'd done, and it felt like a pine cone lodged in his throat. And the look she'd given him—like he was just as bad as John—he shuddered. He loved their father, they both did, but John wasn't cut out to be a parent anymore. Not after Mary. Dean still had the faintest of memory of John before he became a hunter, when he'd smiled with just as deep of dimples as Sam and always made time to play the Knights and Dragons game with him before he went to bed. Sam, however, saw him as he was. Cold, empty, broken and lost, unsure of anything other than Hunting and killing and drinking. He didn't know how to deal with his daughter, who was so different from Dean, who wanted more. And so he'd shut her out, left the parenting to Dean, never bothered to try—just walked out the door, knowing that it was still Dean's job.
The water was slowly turning his skin a deep shade of red, his muscles relaxing under the spray, his head beginning to come back to order. Sam had done something wrong, but in a way, he should've expected it. Sam was, of course, very territorial. He was too—they were all they had, and so it came with the deal. Sam was Deans and Dean was supposed to be Sam's. Only today he wasn't. The raw truth of it made him suck in a breath, because she'd begged him with her big shiny eyes, asked him to walk her to class, and the lingering touch of arousal from Carries hand under the table in Science was all he could think about—and now, it disgusted him. No lay should ever come before Sammy, but Carrie's red hair and rounded hips were all he'd been able to think about. He saw Sam's hurt face, the sudden cloud of anger, her defiant shove against Carrie's chest, almost sending the poor girl tumbling down the bleachers. He remembered her thin finger waving in the air, shouting with gusto at him from twenty feet away, the twisted anger and betrayal that was written into every line of her face, and felt his gut twist. He was supposed to be her's, but today he'd picked sex over his little sister.
::
The next morning, Sam got up at five thirty, took a shower, pulled on her newest jeans and a tanktop, slid on her ancient leather jacket with the cracks in the cuffs and her boots—left her hair down and put on the mascara she'd stolen from the convenience store three hunts ago. She glossed her lips with chap stick and practiced her smile in the mirror, until it was dimpled perfection and she could convince herself that it wasn't bitter in the slightest. Then, she dumped a glass of water over Dean's head, and as he sputtered awake, made herself toast to go.
Dean shoved himself into his clothes, glaring at the floor, knowing she was still mad. He'd tried to talk to her last night, but she'd tucked herself under the covers, a stiff and unforgiving blanket lump, and ignored him until he got the hint that no matter what he said, it wasn't going to change a damn thing. He'd crawled into bed with the biggest fear that he wouldn't be able to fix her, that they wouldn't be the same after this. But, he supposed, it was bound to happen. Make your bed, you have to sleep in it.
The whole way to school, Sam hummed songs she'd memorized from the tapes that John played every time they were in the Impala—old 80's hits that no one in her grade would even know existed, but they comforted her and soothed the ache in her throat that missed Dean's arm around her shoulders. She stayed at least three feet in front of him the whole time, leaving him to stare at the back of her head with frustration, at her and himself. Occasionally he'd heave an angry sigh that she ignored, the irritation in her stomach blowing up like a balloon, bigger and bigger with each exhalation.
Finally, the school rose up in front of them, dull and promising separation from her brother. Sam shoved herself through the doors, losing Dean in the crowd of students gushing towards the freshman lockers. Only when she'd reached the blue metal door of her own, did she allow herself to relax. Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool metal, fighting back the desire to run back through the hallway and find Dean—to wrap her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, to press her face into the warm, home smelling skin of his neck and just be, like she was supposed to be. He chose her over you, Samantha. Get it through your head, you're not Dean's number one anymore. The thought sent spasms up her throat, and she jerked back, fumbling with the lock before tearing the door open.
She gathered her books and pasted a smile on her face, ran a hand through her hair and closed the door.
I'm done being Dean's pet. Sam thought to herself, making her way through the crowd of students, her step sure and confident. I'm a fucking Winchester. I don't need anyone. Least of all my brother.
::
The boy who stared at her in English, the one with the soft blue eyes like faded denim and long blonde hair's name turned out to be Steven. She learned that when he came over to her table while they were choosing partners for their project about poetry. He had a nice smile, nervous and young—his hands fumbled hers slightly when she stuck it out in greeting, answering his question of her name with a dimpled smile and "Sam."
She let him sit a little closer than necessary and listened to him explain what he knew about poems. "They rhyme sometimes, but it's easier to have them not." He said, his fingers tracing the words on the paper in front of them. "Mrs. Williams said, before you came here, that you can put more emotion into them if they don't rhyme." Sam nodded, pretending to know what that meant. "And other than that, all I really know is that you usually write them about someone you love." Steven shrugged and grinned at her. Sam smiled back, trying not to think of the only person she loved.
"Well," She said, pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, "This project is due in two weeks right? And we have to write three separate ones?" Steven nodded. "Then I say we get started, because there's no way we'll finish." She laughed, bumping her shoulder against his, liking the way he smiled back at her.
Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to start over again. Maybe she could learn a thing or two from Dean and his effortless belonging to every group. She ignored the tightness in her chest at the thought of Dean and smiled even wider when, at the end of class, Steven scribbled down his number and passed it to her with pink cheeks.
::
It had been three days.
Three day's of Sam's eyes wandering over him, through him. Of her constant silence, and determined distraction. Three long nights where, when she woke in the night, tears sparkling in her eyes, her pained gasps bringing him to consciousness, she didn't come to him.
Dean kicked the ground beneath his boots, watching as faceless kids wandered down the hall, moving with all the speed of molasses on a cold day. He craned his head to the left, peering towards the Freshman hallway, waiting for Sam to emerge for lunch, hoping to corner her and make her see that he was sorry. Everything about the day had sucked so far, he'd gotten caught ditching class, tripped over a kids books on the way to Science and almost smashed his face into the ground. Needless to say, he needed Sammy to forgive him before he put himself in a hospital.
When Sam emerged from the crowd, her head was turned attentively towards a boy, maybe a year older than her, with shaggy blonde hair hanging down around his face. She was laughing, smiling, her eyes bright and interested. Dean felt his stomach clench—the urge to lay into the locker he was no longer leaning against only got worse when she laughed, and placed her delicate hand on the boys arm, her cheeks flushing.
The elder Winchester took a deep breath, watching until Sam had exited the double doors at the end of the hall, the boy turning the other way, toward the Sophomore lockers, before moving. His footsteps ate the ground, his bowlegged hunters stride moving him fast enough to catch up with Sam within a minute. Dean's large hand wrapped around her upper arm and he ignored the confused stares of other students as he dragged her to the bleachers—kicking and yelling all the way, Sam cursed him from heaven to hell.
"Let go!" Sam screamed, lashing out with her opposite hand. Dean winced as her nail dug into his neck, but kept walking. "I will fucking kill you!" She yelped, her feet tumbling out from under her as Dean hefted her upright and tossed her into the dark space below the bleachers. He scrambled, her tiny hands jerking him by the lapels of his coat away from her—the sudden shade making his eyes confused.
"I'm sorry!" He yelled over her cussing.
"Not good enough Dean Jonathan Winchester!" Sam steamed, her face flushed, moving away from him, her eyes set on the exit—back out to the field.
"Sam!" He grabbed the back of her jacket, hauling her closer to him. "Just listen to me!" The agony in Dean's voice made Sam's heart shake, made her feel like a monster—but she just couldn't stop. She'd done so well, for three whole days—and she wasn't about to let all her hard work go to waste. She spun around in his arms and slammed her fist into his eye as hard as she could.
Dean yelled out in pain, stumbling back and falling against the support beam of the bleachers, the dust the coated the concrete spinning up in clouds around his boots. "Fuck, Sammy.." He murmured, blinking at her through the fingers of his hand. "I know—I know you're ma—"
"Don't." She snorted, ripping one hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face. "Don't even say 'mad'. I'm not mad, Dean. I'm livid." She said, balling her fists. "You chose a slut, some red headed bitch you knew for maybe three days—and chose fucking her over me. Over your sister. And it finally occurred to me that it's always gonna be like that. You always do this, and I've always assured myself that I was still number one—but now? No. I'm not number one. I'm dead last and I have been for a long ass time."Something shifted then, "And you know.. It's just not good enough." Something raw and pure and ancient in it's agony washed over her sweet face. Dean swallowed convulsively, his throat tightening around all the words he wanted to say—fighting back tears because it was Sammy and Sammy should never have that look on her face. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, her face hardening, eyes going steely and cold. She turned, sending clouds of dust into the air, her hair whipping like a molten chocolate lash against the black of her jacket—and then she was gone.
He couldn't even begin to move. His feet felt glued in place again. She hadn't looked like Sammy, his kid sister right then. She'd looked fierce, beautiful and dangerous. She had ceased to be delicate Samantha Winchester, and had become Sam—the hunters daughter.
Dean ached, the image burned into him for the rest of the day.
::
Sam bit down on her lip, her worn back pack balanced on her shoulders—listening to Steven talk beside her on the sidewalk. She hadn't bothered to tell her brother that she wouldn't be going back to the motel room after school, but she was so angry at the time that she hadn't even cared if John did find out and hit her. Now, the anger had faded from her and she just wanted to curl up in bed, shed the persona she'd been carrying around like a mask for the past three days and go to sleep, but they had to do the stupid project.
"Have you thought of anything you want to write about?" His voice seeped into her aching head.
"Not really, I'm afraid I wont be very good at it." She admitted. He laughed, as though the very thought was hilarious. "What?"
"The way I see it, Sam, is that poetry is just feelings. So unless you're emotionally constipated—" He broke off, turning to her with a shrug, the warm breeze ruffling his soft blonde hair. She shook her head, a slight smile on her lips. She found it surprisingly easy to talk to this boy, despite his being the complete and total opposite of her and the rest of her family. He had an easy way of seeing the world that was nice to look through, to not see monsters and fear lurking in every corner.
"I mean—I guess you're right." She said. "It's just my family has a policy of "Don't talk about it."" She laughed, the sound coming out awkward, forced. "Probably because it's two guys and me." She said, shrugging.
"Ah. Divorce?" Steven asked.
"No." She answered simply. Steven didn't ask any more questions.
::
"Oh god. I told you I can't write." Sam groaned, tossing the notebook onto Steven's bed and falling back against the floor. The older boy laughed and grabbed the notebook from where she'd thrown it.
I suppose I could tell you the truth,
But daddy always taught me to lie,
And now,
I don't even know if I know the truth myself.
She'd stopped writing there, and Steven dropped the notebook off the bed, so that it landed on her lap.
"It's good. Keep going."
All I really know,
Is that you feel like home,
And I know the lines to all your favorite songs,
The catch phrases of your favorite superhero's—
How you take your coffee,
And the sound of your sleepy voice is my favorite sound in the world.
I know that you're the only one who was there,
On a night filled with fire and blood,
How you've been there ever since,
But,
Not anymore.
I know that you have eyes like spring after rain,
I know how many freckles you have on your face,
And the exact way you smile when you want something.
I know,
That you make my heart hurt and my soul light—
I know that you used to love me most.
You don't have to waste your breath,
Telling me your sorry,
Because I don't think I could believe you if I tried.
There are lines you don't cross,
And you've crossed them all so many times that they're nothing more than bootprints in the dust.
"Steven this is crap." She said, half an hour later, glaring at the words scribbled onto the paper.
"No, it's really good." He said, "Who's it about?"
Sam hesitated, balancing on the edge of making up a lie, some boy in some other school—a broken heart that didn't really exist, and the truth. My brother. We're so so so close, but not anymore, but even though she didn't know much about "normal" family dynamics, she was pretty sure you don't write poems about your brother. In the end, she settled for, "I've got to go."
::
Dean sat on the edge of the motel bed, his fingers clamping down reflexively on the cheap comforter. Sam wasn't home yet, and he was getting anxious. Usually, she would be home, she would be sitting on the bed, headphones plugged into the crap CD player, that she'd saved up for, head bowed, working on her homework. She'd be back to ignoring him, but at least she'd be there, her scent breezing around the room from the fan by her bed—and he'd pretend he wasn't watching her, thinking of ways to apologize. It'd been days—and he was panicking, what if she didn't forgive him? What if she kept ignoring him? It was all so messed up.
His thoughts snarled into giant knots around her name, tightening and pulling taught, fucked up, so stupid, lost her. Dean didn't want to think about it anymore, didn't want to remember three days of silence and chilly nights without Sam pressed against his back like always. The whole world felt wrong, off balance, and he didn't know what words to say to make it tilt back the right way.
Just when he felt like his head was about to explode, the door opened. Dean's head snapped up, seeing Sam coming through the door, her face tight and eyes flickering from the floor to him and back again. Dean stood, his mind spinning—screaming at him to go, grab her up in a hug and tell her it'll never happen again, that you'll do all her homework for a year if she'll just talk to you, God, say anything just get her to listen. But he didn't move, feet glued to the floor as she shut the door, her hand white around the knob.
"Please." It's less of a word and more of a groan, and Dean will deny it to his dying day—but it wasn't okay anymore. He needed this to be over, needed Sam again, his baby sister, all sweet and happy and the light that was annoyingly bright when all he wanted was some good old fashioned teenage angst. He stumbled forward a step, feeling woozy and off balance. "God, Sam—please."
Sam's hazel eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, cheeks white and hair mussed from running her hands through it too many times. She stands there, taking in the sight of her big brother, her hero, vulnerable, weak, open, begging her for forgiveness. There is such pain, longing, desperation in Dean's eyes that all she wants is to wrap him in her arms and sing into his ear, soothe the ragged ache in her chest that she can see mirrored in the gorgeous green of his eyes.
Three days, Sam. Three days of hard work, is it worth it? The little voice in her head nags, and she doesn't even have to think about it.
Of course it's worth it.
Sam crashed against him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck as he slumps back to the bed, his hands hard and desperate against her back, his face buried into her neck, pained little gasps and relieved tears streaking her skin and his. His voice is soft, whispering into her hair. "I love you, Sammy. I'm sorry, so sorry." Sam knows, and Dean knows she knows, but it's nice to hear, so she digs her face into the warm skin of his neck, pressing her lips over where his pulse pumped, just beneath the skin.
Yep. Worth it.