"Posting every Saturday," she says, then doesn't post on Saturday.
I'm sorry. I got sick on my vacation, and completely forgot about it. Thanks so much for the reviews!
Also, I forgot to mention there will be historical, lore, and medical inaccuracies. I made it the best I could, though, so hopefully it's not too glaring.
Please, please, please review. It means a lot.
Thank you so much to my two lovely betas: Greyline and Jetainia. They worked hard on this, and I appreciate all they did.
Enjoy!
Sam appreciates his brother for a lot of things. He really does. Take, for example, the fact he has legitimately dedicated his entire life to raising his little brother into their sparse family's rural, on-the-road world of cheap motels and stale cereal. No matter the circumstances, his brother's always put Sam before himself—never vice versa. Sure, he's tried to do stuff for Dean that required him putting his own well-being on the line, but his brother's never let it get that far.
So yeah, Sam appreciates that Dean gives him food when it's most needed, late at night in musty, aged motel rooms with stained ceilings and flickering bathroom lights. He appreciates Dean for providing him with the means to go to high school and receive an actual, physical education that doesn't include supernatural creatures trying to kill him. He appreciates that Dean's given up his freedoms, his hope for an independent life far from hunting and their dad's crazy revenge obsession, to instead be shackled to his selfish younger brother, to take care of him because he knows their father will never step up and do it right.
What Sam doesn't appreciate is when Dean wakes him up an hour earlier than normal. Especially not when it's still dark out.
Something's shaking his feet. For a moment, in the space between sleep and sense, he thinks perhaps something's come to eat them. A monster here to cleave him from his rest. Then he tiredly raises his head, with far less vigor than he would if he were actually being eaten by some creature, and looks up and behind him. He blinks a few times to adjust to the dim lighting—here, the bedroom light flickers, too—and stares up blankly at his brother's form as he shrugs off his jacket and puts on a plain grey tee.
"Mornin' princess," he says as Sam sits up. "Hope you have all of your school supplies ready and got some rest, 'cause Dad wants us ready to train within five."
Sam hangs his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging his palms across his eyes and rubbing the sleep from their corners. "What kind of training?" he asks, voice guttural and hoarse with lingering fatigue.
"Sparring," is the no-nonsense, one word response. Sam moans pitifully. "But don't worry, Dad's got a killer headache from his hangover. He ain't joining in, just watching us to make sure we do it right. I'll go easy on you." Dean winks and tosses a workout shirt and a set of loose pants onto Sam's lap. "Suit up. And seriously, dude, don't screw up or try to pick a fight with the man today, please. He's already unsettled—that would just make matters worse."
Sam throws his new shirt on and makes to object, before his mouth snaps shut again. His brother was right. Whenever he argued with his father, Dean got caught in the middle; it had to be haggering to constantly have to deal with your only two family members at each other's throats all the time.
"I promise I won't," Sam says decisively.
He means it, too. This week's going to be tough on all of them.
For a brief moment, Sam feels like collapsing back onto the comfortable(ish) mattress and just going back to sleep, like throwing in the towel without even getting in the ring. In fact, he never wants to get off this bed—ever. Beds are totally an acceptable place to spend your entire life, right?
"Hey, asshole—up and at 'em," his brother reprimands. "I ain't getting punished for your laziness."
Taking one more longing look back at the beckoning covers, Sam finally pushes himself up and puts on the sports shorts, combs his hair into something halfway decent (that's a lie—it's still a complete mess) and makes his way to the kitchen, leaving his bed unkempt and messy.
Dean follows. When Sam comes to the screen door, he pauses a moment and turns back around to face his brother.
"So, what's it going to be today?" he asks, wearing a small smirk.
His brother pretends to think it over, obviously debating over what could best be used to taunt his younger sibling with. "Hm…" he hums, scratching his head. "How about...whoever wins gets dibs on the fresh pie I brought back yesterday?"
"The entire pie?" Sam confirms.
A slow nod. "The entire pie."
"It's on."
Whenever the planned training is to fight each other, they always put down a wager. Their father's never known about it because if he did, most likely they would be running five miles a day, every day—for a month. John would call their bet childish, a distraction, careless horseplay when they should obviously remain very serious about molding themselves into better monster fighting machines. So, they ensure it's kept between them, a secret they've shared since Sam was barely ten.
It had begun as compensation. Sam won't lie and say he was good with his defensive skills at his younger ages; actually, he'd been completely terrible. It hardly helped that every time he screwed up, whether it was a phrase in Latin or an attacking maneuver in barbarism, the rough voice of a pissed off John Winchester would come bellowing through the door. Sam's size was a problem. His build was a problem. His mind was a problem.
But most of all, his heart was a problem.
Not physically of course, but rather his mentality—his perspective.
Sam was lucky enough to retain seven years of normality before being introduced to the true world—he's thankful for that. Yet...it also meant he had a lot of catching up to do.
His soul was innocent, one not having the mettle for murder. Dean's always reveled in the adrenaline of a fight, in killing things, but Sam remembers his first hunt—a pagan god—all too clearly... Stumbling across the dying form of a deer on the floor of the forest, mauled yet still breathing... He recalls begging his dad to help save it, pleading with Dean to get it to aid. Neither had responded, merely looking at him sympathetically.
Finally, John had spoken up and handed him a knife.
"You can help it this way."
Sam had been eleven.
He took the weapon, mesmerised at the sharp glint of the metal in the moonlight. Under the assessing gaze of his father and brother, he'd had little choice but to follow through. The trembling animal feebly lifted its head off the floor, looking at him with an indifferent sort of regard—wide, black eyes that reflected his own fearful expression. It appeared calm, accepting of its fate, but deep down Sam knew it was frightened beyond belief—just like him. It was amazing, he had thought, how one day you could be arguing yourself senseless about infinitesimal things and the next be bargaining, pleading with death's reapers to leave you be.
Sam knows that it's pointless arguing with his father all the time, but he honest to God can't help himself. The way they've been raised, taught, trained...driven into the frickin' ground for Dad's crusade—it's infuriating to him. Who becomes a training general to their kids? Certainly not a father. At this point, it's becoming ever clearer it can only be one or the other...and Sam's beginning to believe the former's won out.
As if there was any other choice.
So, he opens the cabin door on his general's orders and turns away from Dean, leading the way outside. The sun's first rays are starting to poke out from behind the mountains, but the majority of the sky is still pre-dawn navy-black. It's hot and muggy nonetheless—Sam's already wiping sweat from his forehead.
The cabin is in a remote location, a forest stretching out on one side and a lake lounging on the other. This means they've got no neighbors. Sam actually prefers the seclusion, the only company the crickets and cicadas. Sometimes, he even wanders outside the walls of their temporary sanctuary at night, breathing in the fresh scent of nature. It calms him. Especially considering the damaging words hurled at him everyday at school (and a number of other places...like everywhere he went, including at home). It helped to soothe him when he needed time to himself.
This morning, Sam's footfalls are oddly hollow as follows the gravel path down to the treeline and, spotting his father, squares his shoulders, heading straight for him. Dean does much the same. Soldiers on parade. They come to a halt before the man, who tips his chin up and checks his watch, raising an eyebrow at them.
"Two minutes late," he says simply—observation rather than outright admonition.
Regardless of what's said, the two of them know what it means. They exchange glances and Sam's fingers curl themselves into a fist at his side.
"Two miles—get going."
And their father says it so camly, simply...like he's mentioning what lovely weather they've got for a run this morning. It's really hard, sometimes—most the time, actually—not to hate him.
As Sam grows stronger, catching up with Dean, their training is slowly becoming more intense and precise. Now, for every minute they're late to start, they get a mile of running. There was one day he remembers getting delayed at school for ten whole minutes, subsequently being forced to do a whole ten miles with his brother; granted, they were allowed five minute rest periods after each one and time to walk during each lap, but overall it was brutal. Two minutes and two miles isn't too bad, but on days when they end up five minutes late, walking normally after their run is so difficult they need to recuperate in bed for half a day.
Neither Sam nor Dean dare show up more than three minutes late, these days.
It goes easy enough this morning: when they finish their second mile, only fifteen minutes has passed and the sun's just broken the base of the mountains. They complete the remainder of their stretches and, by the time John has told them about the sparring, Sam feels more than ready. He wants his pie. To be honest, he's only beaten Dean outright twice before, but maybe today will be different. His brother's getting fat and lazy with cheeseburgers, while Sam only gets fitter. He's gonna beat him.
He takes the defensive stance that's been burned into his mind as Dean approaches, trying to read the ploy... Every indicator says Dean will go for a right-hook outsider to his face, but there's one small mistake in his brother's body language that gives him the opening he needs. Dean's left knee is angled differently than it would be if he were going to punch from his right, so he figures his brother's actually going to attempt a low uppercut with his left.
The mental analysis takes mere microseconds.
Dean makes his move. Sam's right forearm shoots up to counter the blow. Even as he is inwardly congratulating himself for having been right, even as his brother's face fills with surprise at his feint being read apparently so easily, Sam has got a hold of his left arm, is twisting it... A hovering moment of building energy and—he lands a pulled-back kick to Dean's gut.
Nothing they do in their sessions is meant to harm the other, often their offensive attacks are complete blanks, so Sam knows his brother's all right even as he lands hard on the ground, if a little winded. Years of practice has made them experts at taking one another's hits (sparring with their dad is a completely different story).
They continue at it for about an hour. The sky fills in from navy to orange to blue and, even with Sam's best efforts, his brother still comes out on top. So much for that pie.
He returns to the cabin a curious mix of annoyed and desponded, gathering up his school supplies sulkily whilst simultaneously making breakfast for the three of them. Dean won't stop gloating and it's getting on Sam's nerves—always a sore winner.
"Sammy, you gotta get some muscle! You try so damn hard, but you never beat me." The smile the elder boy sent his way nearly tips Sam over the edge. "Hell, way you're going, I don't think you're ever going to get that fuckin' pie. Mmmm."
At this moment, their father traipses in the room and collapses into the chair at the table next to Dean...just in time to hear Sam's snide, "Fuck off."
"Sam, watch your language," the man commands perfunctorily.
Dean shoots Sam a knowing smirk that's more than a little bit smug. As if the guy needed any more smugness. With any luck, his brother would overdose on smugness...or choke on pie.
Their dad's presence puts a stop to their bickering but isn't enough to foil Sam's plan of putting a couple of spoonfuls of cayenne pepper into Dean's eggs. If his brother doesn't like them spicy, he easily justifies, then he should cook them himself.
Setting their three plates down at the table, he begins digging into his own food, hiding his expression of gleeful anticipation behind a mouthful of eggs; when Dean starts sneezing and runs for a glass of water, he nearly inhales them and chokes himself. He knows full well there aren't any glasses on the drainer...or in the cupboard. Sam hid them all. A moment later, his brother obviously works this out because there's a clash and curse—Dean banging his head trying to stick his face under the faucet.
Egg comes out Sam's nose and his shoulders shake; a small smile pulls up the corners of even their father's lips; and from the sink, comes a continuous cacophony of gargling, spitting and cussing.
Every story has a moral. This one's is:
Never piss off the chef.
The walk to school is uneventful, to say the least. The only thing remotely of interest is that when Sam is leisurely walking up the steps to his class, a large figure materializes to push him right back down them. Technically, he isn't even running late today. It's Friday, sparring earlier in the morning had gone fairly well (aside from Sam's devastating loss), and things have been going pretty smooth so far. Until now.
He was already halfway up the stairwell when he was shoved, so down he goes like a sack of salt, tumbling almost back end over head before physics decided his momentum isn't nearly enough for this acrobatic maneuver and his shoulders crash hard onto the concrete steps. Friction—his shirt catches on sharp corners as he slides to their bottom, thwacking the back of his head against the ridge of each lower step as he goes. Vision blurs. Head throbs, teeth ache.
He squints up in dazed surprise-confusion at his new tormentor.
When he fell, his limbs automatically spread to try and catch himself, so at least a lot of damage was prevented. Grazes, not broken bones. But now his head is a pumpkin atop his shoulders, a hulking lump of useless mass his neck is suddenly insufficient to contend with—inertial... And all of his books are scattered around him—some open, some crumpled, spines bent grotesquely back on themselves beneath him—and the fuzzy face of Trey Ralston (seriously, could you have a douchier sounding last name?) looks down at him. Nobody else is passing, it's just him and the other boy. Even through hard spikes of pain driving themselves into him, Sam understands he's in a very vulnerable position.
"Hey down there. Winchester, ain't it?" Trey inquires mockingly. Sam hauls himself to his feet, using an adjacent wall for support. "How does it feel to be the one knocked into, this time?"
Sam hesitates, curling forward slightly and affixing a brave expression to his face. "I dunno," he says, scratching at the nape of his neck. "Why're you asking me when you should know in the first place?"
A look of fury overtakes Trey's features, causing Sam to smile. Trey steps closer, forcing Sam into the brick wall; despite the other boy's aggression, he knows he isn't in any real danger. There are cameras in this hall and Trey knows it too.
"You think you're funny?" Trey hisses.
Sam shrugs. "I think I'm not a douchebag, unlike you. Comedy's got nothing to do with it."
Now enraged, the bully pulls back his fist, arm wound with tension. A burst of adrenaline floods Sam. He effortlessly prevents it hitting his face—Dean's more dangerous just mucking about than this asshole at his best.
Sam raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice. "You sure you want to do that, Trey?" He directs his eyes to the camera watching them intently.
Trey doesn't seem to care about being seen, though, and quickly focuses back on Sam with a thirst for revenge shining in his eyes.
"I think I am," the bully spits.
Sam's got no time to react before the same fist he initially blocked comes flying back at his face, filling his whole vision. The recoil from the punch is enough to send him reeling. He falls lax, hoping he'll just collapse to the floor, but instead he finds himself held up by thick, calloused hands. They keep him pinned against the wall—zero room to move, zero to escape. Sam hadn't honestly thought Trey would follow-up on his big-me, macho posture and threatening demands, but obviously he was completely wrong; now, looking back at the security devices he thought were his savior, a jolt of disappointment races through him: they're facing the other way. There'd be no footage for evidence.
Sam, willingly accepting the beatdown he's about to receive, is surprised nonetheless to hear a feminine voice suddenly shriek, "Trey!"
This time he is dropped and he falls down in a heap, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. A bout of dizziness overtakes him for a few seconds, before he shakes his head and glances up with itching curiosity at who has interrupted him and Trey and, consequently, saved him. In all honesty, Sam could save himself. He could. With the amount of training that he receives everyday from his family, he thinks he could take on many grown adults who don't retain minimum knowledge of self-defense or combating. He's been taught since such a young age continuously for many years that he knows his stuff. He knows how to protect himself, and he knows how to shut down bullies like this. But nobody knows about that, except for the few friends he has at this school.
To them though, even then it's just a lie he tells them about sparring for a martial arts class with his brother, which he guesses isn't too far from the truth. He still does it with Dean, and maybe sometimes John, but the bruises and cuts he receives are simple enough to cover for and the excuse of a wronged punch or mis-kick is typically enough to stop them from breathing down his neck. So...why give the entirety of a highschool ammo to repeatedly pummel him with for being such a freak?
In the end, he has discovered that sometimes staying quiet and keeping to yourself is the best way to handle things. To everybody else, he's just a normal skinny and lanky seventeen year-old who's the easiest of targets to pick on.
He turns his attention back on the incident that is occuring before his eyes, and he sees the woman in question storm up the steps. The fury is clearly evident in her posture, anger overtaking all of her senses. Her blonde hair whips back behind her in a frenzy, the curls entangling them in each other, and her eyes are a piercing blue-white encased in a torrent of ice.
Trey takes a small step backwards and squints as if he couldn't believe who he is seeing. "Casey?" he asks disbelievingly, and murmurs something to himself that Sam can't make out. The girl clearly hears it though and her forehead creases, her eyebrows narrowing in indignation.
"You wanna repeat that a little louder?" she questions him forcefully. Trey actually looks intimidated, and shakes his head. "Come on, I'm sure he would like to hear it too." She motions to Sam, and Sam feels slightly out of place, as though he shouldn't be a part of this conversation. It had the ideation of something that had happened prior to this school year, and he honestly didn't believe he had the reservation to have a front-row seat to some drama that had occurred long before he arrived.
"Fuck off, Casey," Trey says, regaining some of his confidence almost as if Sam were a fueler. The thought of the young hunter laying dazed on the ground must have restored some of his dominance over the rest of the teens there, and he clenches his jaw, looking up with a refounded strength.
"Just as bitchy as I remember," Casey observes, although Sam can't tell if there's a hint of sarcasm in there or not. "I think that's why I fell for you in the first place, actually." She bites her lip. "Back then I thought you were the bad-boy, y'know? Which, obviously, you are. Just not in the way that you believe, or I initially believed."
To Sam, it looked like the older senior had shrunk back a little at the harsh words. Something had definitely happened between the two of them, and he didn't really want to know what, but it was affecting everything at play here. Seeing the boy who was preemptively taunting him being so submissive was odd. "I didn't mean to push you away," he says quietly.
"Well," Casey says, "you did."
Trey runs a hand through his hair, clearly distraught. He straightens up though, and solidly responds, "Fine. I'll leave you to your new boyfriend." He glares at Sam. "Since you've obviously been eyeing him for weeks without his knowledge, you might as well make your move now. And you know what? How slutty is that? Going from one boy to the next—who knows? It might come back to bite you in the ass."
Trey adjusts his backpack and shoots both of the other teens one last dirty look before making his way up the remainder of the stairs and heading off to class. The bell clearly has already rang a long time ago, so all three of them are late no matter what, but the way the older boy hurried off made Sam recheck his watch.
Casey is the first to speak between the two of them, and she runs a hand through her hair before offering it to Sam. He hesitates for a moment and, annoyed, she says, "Take it or leave it. Or hang out on the floor all day, whatever." Sam blinks, confused. The girl laughs, and Sam snaps out of his confusion, grasping her limb as she pulls him up.
He stands awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to say. For one, he hasn't even realized that this girl had existed until today, and now, he had an aching face, bruised eye, battered body, and had just been told that she had been interested in him for a while. Internally, he couldn't hold back a maniacal chuckle at his perfect luck. Because, you know, he actually had someone intrigued in him for once, but because he was a Winchester, they would be ditching this place very soon. After the gig was done, at least.
This leaves three people hurt. Sam, his soul, and Casey herself.
While Sam is still staring stupidly at her, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and bends down to pick up his books that are all across the ground. A few of them have fallen down the steps, including his English and trigonometry textbooks, and she slowly walks down them. It takes Sam another ten uncomfortable seconds until he finally gathers the will to help her, and together they silently work on their chore. Not long after, the notes are all back in his notebook—no matter how wrinkled they are, now—and he's slightly more stable. She casts an empathetic look toward him, and Sam rolls his shoulders.
To any bystander, it would have looked hilariously funny at how eccentric the scene was. Two teenagers, embarrassingly standing and not talking to each other in the hallway, avoiding the appearingly delicate subject at hand. Sam knows he needs to get to class, knows he'll have to deal with the wrath of the teacher; hopefully, though, with some puppy dog eyes and some sincere pleading, he can get out of detention. But for some reason he can't move from where he is rooted to the linoleum floor, and for the first time he really takes in the Casey's slim form.
"Well, this is strange," she says, and rubs a hand across the back of her neck.
"Yeah…" he trails off, not knowing what to say following that. Silence. Finally, under the weight of the tension, he manages to get out a steady, "Thanks, you know. For doing what you did."
She nods, and the muscles in her jawline clench. "Don't thank me. Trey's a dick. Him and those two friends of his… God." She pauses. "Makes me wonder how I was stupid enough to date him last year."
Sam smiles, and gazes down at his feet. "Everybody makes mistakes. It just depends on what you do after those mistakes, not when they happen. But either way, seriously. Thanks."
"Anytime." Her icy eyes peer into his own. She fiddles with her hands, nervous. "Hey, um, there's a Halloween party going on Sunday, by the way, in the woods outside of the town square. It's kind of, well, a town tradition per se. Most people go, and it's kind of the night where everybody just tones down for a bit and drinks some booze. Typically this place is barren and boring, but every once in awhile, people agree that there needs to be something to bring forth a little life. I was wondering, maybe, if you'd like to go with me?"
Sam is surprised, yet jovial at the same time. He thinks back to his family and the hunt though, and has to stop to contemplate for a moment. This must've looked like Sam was rejecting her to Casey, because then she's scrambling, "I mean, if you don't want to, I get it, it's fine. I know what Trey said, and if I'm not the kind of person you want to hang out with—"
He interupts her sharply. "Hey, Casey, that's not it," he says. She stops her ranting, and waits for him to go on. "My family is just amazingly strict," he continues, "and I doubt they'll allow me to go."
Her face falls, and Sam feels a pang of guilt in his gut. "It's fine, I—"
"No. I'll talk to them, and try to persuade them, and if I get anywhere then I'll message you to come pick me up. But I can't guarantee anything. What's your phone number?"
She looks happier at that, and reads it off to him to put in his contacts. He quickly does so, and together they start up the stairwell. At the top, he realizes that she needs to go left, and Sam needs to go right. He stops, and extends a hand in gratefulness. She looks like she's going to take it, before the bell suddenly rings and a rush of students come out of the line of doors. Sam's stunned, and it takes a minute to realize that he had just skipped all of his 40 minute mathematics class. Since it was a Friday, he has all of his classes and totally just missed his first one. Sighing in defeat, he returns to his locker and puts his supplies for his first period away, exchanging them for his French notes.
It's going to be a long day.
By the time Sam has walked all the way home, it's late afternoon and he's exhausted. Good news was: he didn't have to go to detention, but rather simply come thirty minutes before school on Wednesday to aid the teacher with a few tasks he needed to get done in his classroom. Which Sam was deeply thankful for, and had praised the teacher for his mercy. He had honestly expected something far worse, so a half hour out of his day wasn't that bad at all.
Dean must've been working overtime down at the garage again, because he once more wasn't there, and Sam had to make his way through the inferno of heat that was the outdoors. He didn't mind, though, and went without a single complaint on the entire trek home, even in his mind.
He opens the screen door quickly, and skips inside with a newfound exuberance at the day's earlier events. It hits the frame loudly, and Sam is halted in his tracks when his father's call at him not to break the door comes from the main room. He didn't think his dad would be home right now, but clearly he was wrong. At least most of the damage from his tumble down the stairwell is either hidden in his hair or his mind, and the knock to the face hadn't resulted in anything aside from minimal bruising around his lower lid. It's barely even noticeable, but of course, John was a Marine and knew an injury—however small—at first sight.
"What happened?" he questions as he walks into the kitchen where Sam was setting down his stuff on the table.
Sam shrugs and meekly says, "Just a knock to the face. Bumped into some kid and he got pissed." Technically, it's the truth; he's just avoiding some significant and specific parts. Like falling down some stairs.
"You didn't fight back, did you? Draw any attention?"
Sam swallows back his heating anger, and replies, "No, sir."
"Good."
It's approval, and that just pisses Sam off even more. The fact that his father wants him as defenseless as possible in school was far from wholesome, and it bugs the hell out of him. His dad applauds him for taking a beating. Sam sighs inaudibly. Harsh world, he tells himself and forgets about it.
Instead, he picks his book bag back up and makes his way to his and Dean's room. He doesn't come out until dinner is ready, and goes to sleep extremely early. His brother returns a lot later than usual when Sam is already out, but even though Sam can tell the elder hunter tries with his utmost vigilance to avoid waking him, he was already wide awake from the moment he heard the screen door. After he assures himself that Dean was safe and home, he lets himself relax, and falls back into the rest he'd maintained beforehand.
