Chapter Fourteen

Taking Sam's picture was the hardest part.

First of all, finding a good enough camera was a bitch. The cheap throw-away cameras wouldn't do—Sam both deserved and needed the best—and the ones in the first shop he tried, Sam in tow, were frankly more expensive than he could justify spending for a couple shots.

He was almost about to bite the bullet and bring Sam to a shop to take a normal sort of passport picture—even though John's handed-down paranoia and his own common sense said that wasn't the best idea to advertise what they were doing and stick around in a town that long—when he remembered the camera they'd picked up in a pawn shop when they'd had to make IDs fast and dirty, and then later it came in useful against a weird Venus flytrap thing that only appeared in mirrors and through camera lenses—so John had made enough space for it in the Impala with their bags of rock salt and the shotguns.

But even after Dean dug up and put together the camera—new film was not nearly as expensive as the cameras themselves, pricey fuckers—the second problem was Sam.

Dean explained what he was doing and why, and at the time, Sam had looked relieved, a strange light of hope gleaming in his eye making Dean kick himself for not thinking of this earlier. But when it came to actually taking the picture, he couldn't get Sam to look like anything but a terrified sixteen-year old who'd been through hell and was facing it again.

They'd pinned a sheet up over the hotel window, and Sam stood before it uneasily, eyes locked on anything but Dean's face.

"C'mon, Sam," Dean said, finger on the shutter. "Smile."

Sam tried, forcing his lips to curl up. Dean took two pictures, and then lowered the camera with a sigh. Sam looked like someone had stabbed him in the stomach and he was trying his best to smile for a picture anyway. Dean set the camera on the end table, grabbed Sam's hand, and pulled him over to the bed. He didn't want to try to talk about this with Sam standing awkwardly in front of the blank white backdrop.

"Sam, what's the problem?"

Sam ducked his head. "I'm trying to look n-normal. L-like a real, and I d-don't know how, and with the c-camera. I'm s—I don't know what you want."

"Just look like yourself, Sammy, that's all we need here." Dean brushed his hair back from his face. Sure, he probably didn't need to do that, but it would look better for the picture, okay? And he didn't think that it would hurt Sam for both of them to keep believing that was the only reason. "The camera's not going to hurt you. Can't steal your soul."

"It can s-see ghosts," Sam said. Then his mouth quirked in a real smile, but it was bitter as three-day-old black coffee and Dean wished—impulsively and uselessly, not a thought to linger over—that he could kiss the taste out of Sam's mouth. "Probably don't have a soul to steal."

"Hey, hey, hey! Don't say stuff like that." Didn't it figure that when Sam started cracking jokes (and that had better have been a joke), they sliced open Dean's heart as sure as quick as Sam's nightmares. "It's not a problem, Sam, seriously. And you look fine," you look fucking fantastic, "just the way you are. What's really stressing you out?"

"Dean, should we…" Sam's hands twisted together in his lap. "Should we really be doing this? I mean, I'm a…isn't this illegal? I don't want…you shouldn't get into trouble over me."

Dean gave Sam a cocky smile, but he kept his movements slow and gentle when he reached out to take his hand. "Sam, we're Winchesters. Illegal is our middle name. I had my first fake ID when I was younger than you. But seriously, I will always protect you, do you believe me?"

"Yes, Dean. You promised."

"Good, and here's another promise. Doing this will make things easier. This will help. This is gonna give you what you need to protect yourself until I come for you. I don't want them to come for you, I'll fight them down to my last breath, but if that can't happen, you dohave power. You survived them, Sam. And every day you're the bravest person I've ever met. Do you believe me?"

Sam nodded sharply. And still didn't look up.

"Okay. Let's do something different. Just look at the camera, okay. And try not to look like you think the camera's going to knife you."

Sam didn't look happy. There were still dark circles under and that depthless fear in his eyes. But the photos were good enough that after another fifteen minutes of Dean moving around and talking aimlessly to try to get him to loosen up, he called it a night.

The pictures, when they came back, worked for what he needed—it wasn't like he was forging a passport or anything, just a couple IDs—though he realized, with a gut-deep jerk, that he had forgotten about Sam's tattoo.

The numbers seemed more stark and condemnatory on the photo beneath Sam's dark eyes.

Dean had to crop the photos he was using, but he kept some of the duplicates just to remind himself.


It started with a nightmare.

As Sam had gotten more comfortable with the outside world (or at least a little less paralyzed, less often brought to the edge of a panic attack by ordering breakfast), Dean had hoped Sam's nightmares would lighten up. Maybe only happen once a week instead of four or five times, or at least stop jerking him out of sleep, his throat raspy from withheld screams.

When it became clear that wasn't going to happen, Dean realized how stupid he had been to think it would be that easy. For eleven years in that hellhole, Sam had been terrified every fucking day of his life. And worse, he'd been so used to the pain, the fear, and the misery that it hadn't even registered. It had been normal.

It hurt, remembering their meetings over the years, how fucking calm Sam had been compared to how he was now. Dean had seen fleeting shades of terror over Sam's face—reserved for sightings of guards and hunters—and the familiar, utter blankness he'd tried his best to break, but it had never clicked for him that those two expressions hadn't been just a bad day for Sam. Those had been his life.

Dean still didn't have all the stories; he didn't knowexactly what had gone on, or if he could handle knowing what had made Sam like this. Could he keep joking with waitstaff, filling the Impala's tank and coaxing Sam to look him in the eye, if he knew? Didn't the marks on Sam's body, the texture on his back that Dean felt even through Sam's T-shirt at night, tell him enough? For eleven years, those fucknuts had been free to do whatever they wanted to his wonderful, breakable Sam, who had never been able to lift a finger to stop them.

Of course he was still terrified now; of course he didn't believe he was really safe with Dean. Sam didn't know what safe was. And even if he said he felt safe with Dean, that didn't mean his body or his subconscious, the parts of him that had been fucked up the worst, could now or ever believe that. If Dean was going to be honest with himself, he didn't actually think he had what it took to fixthat part of Sam. Just because he would spend the rest of his life trying didn't mean that it would be enough. But, in the interest of getting through every day, giving Sam the best he had, he tried not to think of the big picture, focusing instead on how many times he could wheedle Sammy into smiling that day, or help him relax a little more the next time they walked into a gas station. Things he could do. Places in Sam's life he could actually see improvements, day by day, because nighttime was completely out of his control.

The nightmares, like the panic attacks, became just another fucked-up routine. And when Sam stopped trying to stifle his sobs and fretting about keeping Dean up, it felt better, more like they were dealing with this together and less like Sam was suffering and Dean could do fuck-all about it. Though in Dean's opinion, Sam was still too fucking quiet once he woke up.

Some nights, Dean reminded Sam that he could tell him what he'd dreamed, though he always stressed this wasn't—hell no—a rule or order. The PTSD book said that sometimes talking about the past and nightmares could help "lance the wound," and Dean believed it, after its advice about waking Sam up had let Dean pull him out of more than one nightmare without causing a panic attack. And while the idea of hearing the details of Sam's nightmares was personally terrifying—Dean was pretty sure that Sam's nightmares could be his, too, with just a little prompting—Dean would do anything if it might help.

Sam never took him up on the offer, until the week after Bobby's call and the clusterfuck night that had followed. Dean had since been creeping around like he was avoiding Bobby's boobytraps, desperately avoiding positions (physical and otherwise) likely to lead to violations of the PG rule. He couldn't quite believe that Sam still wanted to be around him, trusted him, that there wasn't going to be some kind of profound psychological damage because of Dean's fucking horny body, but when the withdrawal of contact made Sam sleep worse—what choice did Dean have?

At least, when Sam woke crying and shuddering, lost for terrible minutes not even knowing Dean or where he was, Dean didn't have to worry about anything fucking inappropriategetting in the way.

The night that changed Dean's perspective on what he could and couldn't do started like any of the others. Dean woke to Sam's steady whimpers (fucking awful noises, worse because they were half-stifled, as though he didn't dare scream) and his body twitching as he tried to curl in on himself. Dean sat up, tugging the sheet so it wasn't tangled around Sam, then rested his hand lightly on Sam's shoulder, calling his name steadily—and wasn't that a fucking challenge, to keep his voice even when he wanted to scream and hurt something that existed only in Sam's head and the past—until Sam heard him.

His voice broke through all at once, and Sam flinched away, pulling himself into a sitting position and dragging in ragged breaths, his face averted. Dean let him go; Sam would let him know when he wanted to be touched.

"It's all right," he repeated, the same fucking hollow words he offered every night (of course it's not fucking all right, nothing that happened to you can ever be made all right), but they were all he had. "You're okay now, you're out, we're on the other fucking side of the country, Sam, and I'm never going to let them touch you again." He didn't have much, but he could, at least, assure Sam he wasn't thereanymore.

Sam shuddered, dropping his face into his hands as his breaths broke into sobs.

Shit. Since last week, Dean had tried to wait for Sam to reach for him before putting his hands all over the kid, but at times like this, when Dean wasn't sure if Sam was hearing him at all, he couldn't stand to watch Sam locked alone in his own head. Dean drew closer, rubbing his palm lightly over his shoulders, trying not to think about the furrowed skin beneath the fabric.

"Hey. Hey, Sammy. I got you now, right? You're safe here, you're gonna be okay."

And then Sam collapsed, curling against his chest and clutching handfuls of Dean's t-shirt like that was the only substantial thing he dared touch, and Dean pulled him in, because dammit, Sammy deserved more, anything Dean could give.

Sam cried for a while, and while at least he didn't seem to be smothering his cries, the sounds were still godforsakenly hopeless. Like he hadn't heard a word Dean said, or finally knew how empty they were, that Dean's best was bound to let him down one day.

When the sobs eased back into deeper, ragged breaths, Sam whispered, "I dreamed," and Dean's hand froze on the back of his head. They stayed like that, still, for no more than the count of five breaths, and then Sam took another deep shaky breath and continued. "I dreamed th-they came to take me b-back."

Dean felt ice forming down his spine and spreading to his extremities. He bent his ear close to Sam's trembling mouth, barely stopping himself from tightening his hold on Sam's shoulders.

Sam's words were a thready half-whisper against his shirt. He made no effort to speak louder. Dean wondered if Sam half-hoped he wouldn't hear. "We were in Boulder."

"I wouldn't let them, Sammy," Dean whispered. Gentle, gentle, he tried to be, when he wanted to make threats and promises, wanted to vow retribution and snap necks. "No one will ever take you away from me."

"Y-you...weren't there." Sam sniffed. "You h-hadn't left me, not f-for good, but just like an e-errand or run. They k-kicked in the door. I couldn't d-do anything. I couldn't stop them. I couldn't even c-call for you. I just...froze."

"It's not gonna happen, Sam," Dean said vehemently. "Fucking never. I'll get them—I won't let them near you. And you won't freeze up, you get to a damn phone or run like hell and find me, or fucking fight them off, but they're never gonna get you."

Sam was crying openly again, head shaking against Dean's chest. "I can't...I can't fight them. I can't, Dean."

There were lines. Sometimes Dean could even tell where they were. And he knew, for the time being, that he had to back off.

"It's okay," he said, rubbing Sam's shoulders. "They're not here, no one but me. They won't get you."

Some nights they turned to the TV for some kind of mindless distraction, like the Weather Channel and Bowflex ads (fuck, Dean missed the days he could flip to a porn channel and just stop thinking, but now even the idea of doing that with Sam beside him had the same effect as a bucket of ice water to the crotch—just one of the many things that had been turned on its head since he'd gotten Sam). But tonight Dean couldn't make himself reach for the remote when they lay back down, Dean keeping one arm curled around Sam, who tucked his head to Dean's chest.

Dean didn't know how Sam could roll over and get back to sleep after a nightmare like that. He certainly couldn't do more than drowse fitfully, his own nightmares picking up the sounds of Sam's weeping. But that night, when Sam's sobs slowed into the even breathing of sleep at last, he had something else on his mind.

Sam had said he couldn't fight, and it occurred to Dean that it wasn't just that the hunter-bastards in Sam's head were stronger, faster, or armed. It was also that Sam didn't have the tools to resist.

Where could he go, if Dean weren't there? Sure, Bobby would help—fuck, Bobby had better help, or Dean would come back from wherever he'd been and deal out some Winchester vengeance—but Sam didn't even know how to find him, and what other options did Sam have?

He didn't have money, weapons, the location of Dean's safehouses, a functioning ID, or even a working knowledge of a world of normal people. Sam didn't have these resources. And while understanding the fucking strange world into which Dean had dragged him was probably one of the most important, and the one they worked on every day, Dean should damn well work on getting him everything. And then maybe next time those bastards showed up, in Sam's dreams or otherwise, he would have more options than fighting or being taken.

Dean had never once deliberately thought about the laws that had defined his childhood. He couldn't remember once when he and Da—John had talked about when they should change a PO box or replace their old IDs. The only time he could remember talking about the emergency procedures—not just being reminded of them before John walked out the door for another hunt—was after the CPS fiasco when he was thirteen.

But tonight, with Sam sleeping exhausted under his arm and the dawn still far away, he had plenty of time to consider the strategies and rules that made up the fabric of his life, and figure out how many of those he could refashion to support Sam, too.


The next morning, after breakfast, Dean paid for another day at the hotel—clerk probably thought he was some kinda druggie with the dark circles under his eyes—and took Sam out shopping. Luckily, there was a fairly small cell phone store in a nearby strip mall, and Sam didn't seem particularly stressed out while Dean handled the salespeople and paid in cash. Next up was an office supply store—bigger, but when Dean took Sam's hand and asked if he felt up to coming inside, Sam nodded. Dean got what he needed, and they headed back to the hotel. The table was small, but Dean gestured for Sam to take one of the rickety chairs, dropped the bags to the side, and sat down across from him. On the way, he grabbed his journal from his duffel—he'd started his own when he started doing solo hunts—and ripped out a couple blank pages, one of which he slid across the table.

"Okay, Sam. This is something I should have done ages ago, but better late than never."

Sam tensed slightly, his eyes wide and fixed on Dean, but there was less blind terror there than there used to be. Dean kept track of small miracles.

"If things ever go south and we get separated, this is what we're going to do."

It took a heck of a lot longer than he'd expected to lay it all out. The emergency drills and panic plans that had been the foundation of his childhood were just the beginning. Dean had codewords for varying levels of emergency situations and eighteen running aliases that either rented PO boxes and safehouse locations across the country or were authorized with access to his various credit cards. He had tricks for getting fake credit cards, staying under the law enforcement radar, forging signatures, patterns for which town, hotel, and fake name they'd take next if they split up, and the numbers for his actual bank account in Boulder, the one where the ASC deposited his monthly stipend. Other than the bank account that he'd only opened when he turned eighteen, he'd never had to think about these, and certainly never said them in one go. He didn't have to thinkabout them, no more than he thought about those other details that were as much a part of his daily life as sliding knives into his boots every morning and doing an ammo check every night.

Dean was nervous. Not as nervous as Sam, of course, but he still didn't have any idea what Sam's reaction would be. These plans required a lot of him. He couldn't just wait for Dean's directions, and it wouldn't always be crystal-clear which course he should take. But, fuck, it had to be better than nothing, right?

Sam listened as he always did, relaxing perceptibly while keeping his eyes fixed on Dean, hand flying over his paper making tiny, copious notes in the neatest handwriting Dean had ever seen. He had questions sometimes, stuttered occasionally, asked in his quiet-but-not-terrified voice if he could get the map from the Impala when Dean was in the middle of listing safehouses, and generally absorbed the information like taking notes was a direct line into his long-term memory. He didn't seem wildly relieved at the end, but Dean thought—well, he thought he saw Sam's shoulders loosen, his hands rest with more determination than fear on the table, like this could be the start of a new, better stage.

Dean could swear up and down until he was blue in the face that he'd always be there for Sam, but the fact was that Sam was too goddamn smart to believe that. He knew a situation could always go FUBAR—or maybe just that Dean would always screw up eventually—and that when that happened, a man damn well better have a plan.

And now Sam had everything Dean did. He had safety nets and contact information for all the other hunters Dean trusted—that was a pretty fucking short list, but it should still help—and a brand new cell phone with Dean's and Bobby's numbers in the contact list. He had everything Dean could give him.

It could have felt like giving Sam the power to leave him, but instead it was as comfortable and goodas handing Sam a bag of M&Ms in Freak Camp and sneaking his hand into the bag after Sam's, or splitting a sandwich. What was Dean's was Sam's, and every time Sam accepted what he had to offer, Dean felt that much closer to having more between them than the memory of FREACS and fear.


Sam hadn't known what to expect when Dean sat him down. The stores had been fine—thankfully empty, so he hadn't really had to be brave to walk through them, and Dean had held his hand besides—but when Dean sat down across from him looking so very serious, he'd felt his stomach drop.

He knew it had to have something to do with telling Dean about his nightmare. It was the only thing that had changed, and Dean had looked so broken after—arms wrapped around him, his eyes dark in a way that Sam knew now not to associate with imminent pain—and Sam thought that no matter what Dean had said, he should have kept his fucking monster mouth shut because something had changed and change was so rarely good.

And then, in his most serious voice, Dean told Sam the secrets of being a Winchester.

After about five minutes, Sam knew that Dean wasn't making this up or designing this just for Sam. There were too many details, and they came too easily to Dean for it to be invented. Which meant that each of these steps, each of these words, locations and processes was something he had used. Dean was laying out his life, and Sam could barely believe it, even as every word convinced him of the truth of it.

He gave Sam stratagems for keeping safe and free from anyone unlucky enough to try to catch Dean Winchester. There must have been a dozen of them, relayed in precise, clear details, but then Dean helped him see how each trick could be adapted for Sam, to keep him just as safe. And gradually, as Dean recounted the steps, the possibilities and the variations, Sam realized that Dean wasn't just giving him information and rules, like for a test. He was telling Sam that he would always find him, and, more breathtakingly, giving Sam the abilities and the knowledge to look for Dean as well.

So Sam listened, listened for all he was worth, with almost more concentration than he had given to the Director's instructions during a session, because this wasn't just a question of pain or survival, this was from Dean, a gift of trust and faith and Sam could notfail that. He would never let himself.

He wrote everything down as a matter of course, glancing at the notes Dean was making—messy and hard to read upside-down, but Sam had had to absorb more illegible documents faster in the past—but he knew that it wouldn't take him more than a couple hours to commit the information to memory.

Applying it would be another matter. Most of these steps required Sam to walk alone into stores without having a panic attack. He would have to be able to look reals in the eye, talk like he belonged there, and Dean had even mentioned the prospect of carrying a weapon of some sort. Sam hoped it wouldn't come to that ("A freak doesn't require a weapon to be dangerous, but the very possession of one indicates a willingness to resist which must be burned out at the root. Do you understand, 88UI?"),but he supposed he would be willing to fight to make his way back to Dean. And if Dean gave him a weapon, that might indicate that he was willing to let Sam end himself rather than be taken back to Freak Camp, if there were no other options. Though Sam was beginning to believe that there would, generally, be other options. Just the fact that Dean was telling him all of this showed Sam that whether or not he could actually remember and perform every aspect of these plans, Dean wouldtrack him down.

Even with all these reassurances, it was hard to accept the phone.

"D-Dean," Sam said, running his fingers slowly over the small device. "I d-don't—"

He didn't need it. Just knowing all of Dean's numbers was enough, having access to the hotel phones, and Dean showing him how payphones worked—"There aren't that many anymore, but we'll try one out next time we see one"—would be enough. Why would a monster need to be able to contact others? Didn't that imply that he would be seeking out other monsters—never, never, never—to hurt humans, to do bad things? And it was yet another unnecessary thing Dean had bought for Sam, a stupid monster, when he had already given Sam so much, when most of his emergency plans didn't require phone calls anyway.

But before he could even get the words clear in his own mind, Dean reached over and closed Sam's fingers around the phone. "Sam, don't. It's a gift. I want you to have it. Here, I even kept the manual, maybe you can teach me how to change the damn screensaver."

Sam took the manual and made himself breathe. Dean thought he should have this. Dean thought he could do it. So he would. He had to. He wantedto. "Okay."

It helped that every time he let Dean treat him like a real person, truly capable of doing what Dean asked, the dark smudges around Dean's eyes faded.

Standing for the photo had been hard, too. He kept thinking how he didn't look like a real—too thin, too pale, too freak—and the photo was just going to give it away and all Dean's hard work was going to be for nothing because you could take the monster out of FREACS but that would never change what he really was. It was a huge relief when Dean said they had enough and put down the camera and Sam could push all those thoughts from his mind.

He'd watched Dean get the ID ready, of course. Dean had put it together on the hotel table, and Sam had glanced over every once in a while as he brushed up on the notes—he was still getting the street address for the Nebraska safehouse mixed up with the Florida one, even though he'd gone over the notes twice before re-copying them from memory—but then it disappeared, and they drove on, swinging out of North Carolina. Dean didn't say anything more about it, so Sam thought he'd given up on the idea after realizing how pointless it was to try to pass Sam off as a real. He tried not to think about it, or feel anything like disappointment.

Dean took him to one of his nearby PO boxes to show him how they worked. They stopped that night in a small motel—one that Dean had said had character—just over the Georgia border, and Sam stretched out on the bed, lost in the middle of Watership Down, until he heard Dean clear his throat.

"Got something for you, Sammy."

Sam sat up, eyes falling on what Dean held out halfway between them, from where he was sitting on the other bed. It was a wallet, Sam recognized, similar to Dean's, but shinier and creaseless.

He knew that Dean would never pass him anything that might hurt him without warning him first, but he still reached for the billfold with a thrill of inexplicable apprehension.

"We still got a few months before Christmas, and we're only halfway to your next birthday," Dean said, in a tone Sam recognized as when Dean tried to be cheerful even when he didn't feel that way. "But this can count for one of the ones I missed. Got a lot of catching up to do."

Sam heard the words, but he didn't quite hearthem, because the wallet was in his hands now, and the weight told him it wasn't empty. He couldn't hold this, let alone open it, this unmistakable mark of a real with power. It didn't belong anywhere near him.

"Go on, Sam, open it," Dean said in a rush, without even the pretense of patience, and Sam did as he was told.

Three cards were tucked into the pockets, and Sam's hands were remarkably steady until he pulled the top one out.

It was a driver's license from the state of Colorado, the same design as Dean's. But the name in bold capital said Sam Winchester, eighteen, from Boulder, CO. Brown hair, hazel eyes, 5'10" tall, 120 pounds.

Sam felt like he couldn't get his lungs to expand. It was like the library card all over again, but this was so much more. This was his name and Dean's, his picture staring at him with dark sad eyes, and his description laid over glinting, real-looking holographs, with no place left for 88UI6703.

"Thank you," he said. This once, he let himself not look at Dean. Just this once. Because if he raised his head, Dean might see how watery his eyes were and think that he was sad, and that was so far from Sam's emotions that he couldn't let Dean think that for a moment. It was all he could do to keep his shaking hand from dropping the small, precious card that fit so easily in his palm.

Dean reached over, and as he had with the phone, curled Sam's fingers over the card. "Anytime, Sam." He sounded happy again, with the easy confidence Sam knew so well. "Check out the other ones."

The second was a credit card for James Plant, but the second, a debit card for a Boulder bank, bore Sam Winchesterat the bottom too, in raised letters he could trace.

"Sometimes the credit cards fuck up, it happens," Dean said. "But the debit card is legit, goes right to my ASC direct deposit account, so if you ever need some quick cash, it'll work at any ATM. We'll try one of those out sometime soon so you can get the hang of punching in the PIN and stuff. It ain't a bottomless account, but it should put at least a few hundred bucks in your pocket if you need it." He sounded smug now. "Go on, keep looking, there's more in there."

Sam was already reeling, a thousand thoughts and feelings clashing within him, and he didn't know where to start with which ones he should utter; but he had been given another direction, so his fingers moved on, sliding under the pockets, feeling the soft, supple material. Then two crisp green notes peeked out, and Sam's stomach pitched forward again.

This was too much. Wonder, disbelief, and consternation had warred within him, but the battle was abruptly over, one side sweeping over the others. Sam couldn't drop Dean's impossible, priceless gift to the floor, but he let it fall to his knees. He clasped his hands together over it in an effort to get them to stop shaking, but he had no such luck with his voice. "I can't."

Crossing the space between them, Dean sat close beside him and rubbed his back with the heel of his hand until Sam found it easier to breathe and could bring the room back to proper focus. Then Dean said, quietly, "Why can't you, Sam?"

Sam gestured once with his hands, up and helpless, before clenching them together again. "I can't, I can't carry all that. I can't p-pass well enough, they'll c-catchme eventually, and they'll be so angry, Dean, so angry that I was carrying — that I pretended to be —"

"Sam." Dean covered his hands with one of his own, and Sam let himself drop his forehead to rest atop it, over his knees, fighting for deeper breaths. "No one's going to catch you, Sam. Gimme a little credit, okay — I've made IDs for just about every government agency there is, and no one's ever called me a fraud."

"Because you're Dean," Sam said, unable to stop himself.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Well, I got some practice. But it's good, okay? This'll work. I told you that every fake credit card eventually goes belly up, but if that happens, or if the IDs fuck up — that's my fault, Sam, not yours."

"No!" Sam pushed himself up on his elbows, shocked.

"Yes," Dean said, smiling, though his tone was still gentle. "This is my arts and crafts, dude, I get credit for however it turns out. I'm just asking you to trust me. I wouldn't give you anything that might get you in trouble, right? Nothing but the best."

Sam took a couple more slow breaths, then sat up and forced himself to pick up the wallet again and take out the ID. It was good, very good. He had to believe Dean that the marks of authenticity would count more than all the signs of freakshining from his face.

They sat there quietly for a few more moments, until Sam said, "I don't think I weigh 120 pounds."

Dean's laugh shook through his arms, warming Sam, and he felt a smile tug at his own mouth. "Yeah, well, you're not eighteen quite yet, either. Think of it as a good first goal."

Sam nodded, slid the ID back inside, and folded the wallet back together, clasping it between his hands. "Thank you," he said again, and this time looked into Dean's face.

Something flickered in Dean's eyes, and he bent his head forward, pressing his mouth to Sam's hairline, as his hand squeezed Sam's shoulder tight. Sam closed his eyes, breathing in Dean's scent deep.

Just when Sam thought he had gotten any kind of grasp of what Dean wanted from him, just when it started to seem feasible, Dean reset his expectations to impossibly enormous. Quite often that scared Sam, though never with the hopeless dread he had felt in camp. He was finally coming to believe that every time he failed, Dean would catch him and never let him hit the floor. He could count on that, and Dean's faith in him, over his certainty of his own shortcomings.

This wallet was scary in new, indefinite ways, because it seemed to suggest he could survive without Dean; it opened the possibility that Dean might leave him someday. Sam tried not to think about that, focusing on the plan rather than the necessity for the plan.

The power the wallet offered was alien as well because this was something that didn't depend on Dean's kindness, or whether or not Sam was good with his mouth. Sam didn't know if he could accept or trust in it yet, but just the new possibility open to him was enough of a revelation.


Dean was so proud of how Sam had taken on the challenge of their emergency plans. He hadn't even blinked at how much crap there was to remember—Dean had been a little impressed himself that so much information had come out of his head—and other than going through his notes every night and asking Dean questions every once in a while, he didn't mention it. But Sam walked with more confidence and made a bigger effort to actually look at people when they went into a restaurant or convenience store, and Dean felt like he'd been carry a forty-pound pack on his back long enough to forget it was there, and now it was gone—or at least lighter. Dean saw Sam touching the wallet frequently, as though just the feel of the leather under his fingertips was another layer of reassurance that Dean couldn't always give.

It helped Dean, too. Take this diner, for example. He wasn't getting a single weird look from the other customers, like they thought he was beating Sam or something. Yeah, Sam didn't look like a one hundred percent healthy individual—maybe someone recovering from a bad bout of the flu—but at least he didn't look recently beaten.

Of course, even when no one was staring at them, there were always things about being in public that Dean could do without. That day, a mom sat with her kid right across from them, which always set Dean´s teeth on edge for Sam's sake. Kids—and how their parents treated them—could set Sam off faster than anything else. At least today, the kid was talking a mile a minute and the mom wasn't being a nasty bitch. The big sticker on the boy's chest—proclaiming "I'm smiling because I saw the dentist today!"—was explanation enough for why he wasn't in school, making Sam probably the second youngest person in the place.

Dean never caught the woman looking at them, but the boy kept sneaking glances at Sam when he thought neither of them were looking. It made Dean twitch every time, but the kid couldn't have been less threatening—he seemed more curious than anything—and Dean couldn't exactly give the Death Glare to a six-year-old.

When the pair got up to leave, he breathed a silent and hopefully unnoticed sigh of relief—until they reached the door and the boy said in a whisper that could be heard halfway across a room, "Mommy, why was that man at the window so sad?"

Dean wouldn't have cared, except Sam recoiled and dropped the french fry between his fingers, keeping his eyes fixed on his plate, and he didn't reach for the remaining half of his sandwich.

The woman shot them an embarrassed glance and gently pushed her son toward the door. "Come on, sweetie, I think we've dodged school long enough."

Dean crammed his last couple french fries in his mouth and ordered a to-go box for Sam's sandwich. Sam still hadn't so much as glanced toward the door, but his right hand had slid into in the pocket with his wallet, and his breathing was unnaturally slow and even.

In the Impala, Sam settled into the passenger seat and curled toward the window, back to Dean, eyes closed. Stifling what he wanted to say—which started with Goddamn fuckand went downhill from there—Dean tossed the leftovers in the back with a little more force than he had planned and shoved the keys in the ignition.

To his surprise, Sam spoke first, in a flat, hollow voice. "I'll n-never be...able to pass for n-normal, will I? They all know. The ID, the p-plans, they w-wont work if—Dean, will they work? C-canthey...p-please tell me...if it w-won't w-work because I c-can't p-pass, p-please tell me now. "

Dean's mouth was dry. He wished this was just another symptom of Sam's fear, that he could say some general reassuring words and make everything all right, or at least better. But he couldn't, because this wasn't just the same old fear. With the advent of their plans, which looked so good and felt so right, he couldn't just dismiss this. It was key, and Sam was smart enough to know that, and Dean wasn't stupid enough to brush him aside.

But he didn't know if he had an answer that would keep Sam hopeful and striving, gaining confidence, even though that was what he desperately wanted. It was his nightmare, after all, that Sam would get worse instead of better, that Dean would wake up one day left with the terrified, disturbingly obedient stranger that Sam had been at the beginning, and not the hesitantly smiling, responsive, and mind-blowingly brave Sam that he had today.

"Fuck normal," Dean said. Maybe a little too loud, because Sam's shoulders twitched. "And fuck the horse it came in on. I'm not normal, Sam, and no one else is, and just because people are…noticing you, it doesn't mean...it doesn't mean it can't work, okay? Trust me, there are some kooky sonsofbitches out there who make you look like one of the Brady Bunch, and people have to deal with them too. People are allowed to be different, it's not a fucking crime."

Sam turned his head, hunching tighter to the window. "But they're noticing. And I'll...you'll...I don't want to get you into trouble. It's not w-worth it, I'm not—"

Dean jerked the key out of the ignition and grabbed Sam's shoulder like it was his lifeline, because hearing that hopelessness in Sam's mouth again made him feel like he was drowning and the sea was closing over his fucking head. "Sam!"

Sam jerked up straight and stared, eyes wide, face as frozen as during any panic attack.

Dean tried not to be rough, not to shake him, but his voice still came out in a half-growl. "You're worth everything. Don't worry about me. Don't fucking worry about me when you have so much...when it's so...I can fucking take care of myself, I just need you to keep fucking fighting, even if that means running like hell and going into restaurants and fuck, Sam, can you do that?" Because if you can't, please, fuck, tell me now.

Sam had to swallow, twice, before he could speak. "Even if they know?"

"I've never given much of a damn what people think before, I don't know why I'd start now."

"Even if it doesn't always...even if sometimes I can't..."

"Yes."

Sam took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he lifted a hand and locked it around Dean's sleeve. He nodded with painful resolution. "Y-yes, Dean. I won't...yes."

Dean exhaled too, feeling the same release, and he laid his free hand on top of Sam's. "Okay. We can work with that."


Neither of them felt much like going out when they got to the next hotel that night. As far as Dean was concerned, the highway had passed in one long grey black blur, and Sam hadn't done anything but read the cell phone manual for the fourth time. Or maybe he'd just held it in his hands to have something to pretend to be doing.

Conveniently, the hotel had one of those little ring binders with restaurant options. There was even a nice little subsection for delivery.

Dean ran his hand down the line, decided that he didn't want to fucking eat vegan curry, and turned around. Sam had already laid his bag on the second bed and sat next to Dean, watching the black TV as though it was already showing the soothing clouds. "Pizza or Chinese?"

Sam's head turned. "What?"

Dean hefted the phone. "Delivery. Pizza or Chinese."

Sam tipped his head back, studied the ceiling while he thought. "Pizza."

Dean punched in the numbers and then stopped. Savored.

A month ago, Sam would have stared at him, panicked at the very idea of choosing. Maybe even last week, he would have asked so many more questions, price and preference and convenience. But tonight he thought and chose, and these were the small gifts. These were the moments Dean had to hold onto when even the good things that he could do with his life didn't seem like enough.

And because he paused, an idea came to him.

He stretched the phone toward Sam. "You wanna make the call?'

Dean knew Sam didn't, even before Sam froze, eyes fixing on the phone like it might bite him. He could tell that just the idea of talking to a stranger that he couldn't see, couldn't even physically take the measure of, brought Sam instantly to the verge of his second panic attack of the day. Dean's instinct to protect Sam from these threats had been honed as strong as his awareness of flickering lights, of someone shifting to touch a weapon under their jacket, but it wasn't doing Sam any favors to keep him in a bubble forever.

And Sam didn't want him to. So this was another step. A baby one, to anyone else, but for them...it made fucking Godzilla look like a garden snake.

Sam took the phone, cleared the partially inputted number, and turned it over and over in his hands. His eyes flickered to the pizza ad's number. "What's the—the a-a-address here?" Dean slid over a notepad with the hotel info printed on top. Sam took a deep, slow breath, like he was going underwater and wasn't sure when he'd get another shot at air. "Yeah, I w-want to."

Dean felt such a rush of pride and triumph that he thought he was going to fist-pump right there. Or kiss Sam until he really did gasp for air. "Okay, let's go over this. I'm a pimply sixteen-year-old, working for minimum wage at Papa John's and bored out of my skull. The only thing I'm thinking about is whether or not I can catch a break with Sally from algebra class and she'll maybe, like, you know, want to watch a Star Wars marathon with me tonight after work."

Sam was almost smiling, his shoulders looking a little less like they'd break if Dean touched them wrong. Pleased, Dean went slack-jawed and mimed answering the phone. "Uh, hi, this is Papa John's, my name's Lance, may I take your order?"

Catching on, Sam raised Dean's cell to his ear. "Can I get two large pizzas—one cheese, one half vegetarian and half meat?"

"Uh, I guess...do you want any, like, soda or girly little cinnamon sticks with that? They've only, like, been sitting on the counter since yesterday, dude."

"Just a two liter of coke."

"Okay...your total will be like, fifty bucks, or something like that, and it'll be there in an hour or maybe two because we're in the armpit of Tennessee and I think I'm gonna smoke a joint before delivering your pizza. Bye, dude."

Sam was grinning at him, bright and unreserved and beautiful, and it was so fucking good to see his hands steady again.

Dean spread his hands. "See? Piece of cake."

"Right." Sam dipped his head and punched in the number. His shoulders became two brittle lines of tension, and his left hand started to lock around his calf, but Dean slipped his hand in between before he could, and Sam held on tight to him instead. His eyes shut tight as Dean heard the muffled sound of Papa John's picking up.

"Uh, hi, yes—I-I'd like to place an order. For pick-up—no, delivery, I mean delivery." Sam was rocking slightly in agitation, and Dean tightened his grip on Sam's hand, trying not to hate himself as Sam stammered the rest of the way through the order. He enunciated the name of their hotel and room number with almost painful clarity, and Dean winced and wanted to go and punch the bastard when the employee hung up halfway through Sam's goodbye.

Sam exhaled without opening his eyes, slowly releasing the phone until it dropped onto the bed. Then he pitched forward, face-first into the pillows.

"Sam." Dean rolled onto his side, rubbing his hand slowly over Sam's spine, checking to make sure he was still breathing, because, fuck, you never knew. "Hey, man, you did it. You got through it, that was good. You're a fucking badass, that weasely little bastard's gonna bring us pizza and he didn't think a damn thing."

"I hate this." Sam's voice was heavily muffled in the pillows, but Dean stopped his hand. Sam turned his head, like he thought Dean hadn't heard him the first time. "I hate how hard this is. It's stupid, I know it shouldn't be hard."

"Says who? No one's making rules about what's supposed to be hard and easy for you. And every time, it's gonna be easier." Dean kept rubbing Sam's back, thinking. "Hey, Sam, you wanna pay the guy when he comes?"

Sam opened his eyes wide, and stared at him. And then he tipped his head back and made a noise that was somewhere between a choke, a laugh, and getting sucker-punched in the abdomen. "No." He shook his head, smiling and hyperventilating at the same time. "No."

And Dean laughed a little with him, because that sure as hell hadn't been a No question, and Sam knew that just the same.