A Brother's Sacrifice

by ayosb2000

Completely AU. John really did want Dean to have a home and for Sam to go to school. At Sonny's, Dean saw the possibility of another life, but chose family. Sam is chafing under his father's thumb. An exploration of what might have happened if Dean stood up to his father and decided that normal and hunting could co-exist. A large re-write of a previous story I wrote years ago.

14. June 2001

A/N As always, thank you for taking the time to read and review. Thanks to my member reviewers that I can PM with, and also to the guests that leave me helpful feedback. This chapter has a lot of questions and story lines left open. There will be more detail for some of these events coming in the next chapter. Hope you all continue to enjoy the story.

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There's a kind of formula that teachers and advisers suggest when a student is writing a valedictory speech.

Starting with the usual platitudes extolling the virtues of inspirational influences on your academic career. The teachers or other instructors that pushed you and encouraged your educational ambitions. The fellow students that urged you forward with friendly and spirited competition.

Of course, you need to add the obligatory passages of pursuing success, as well as the self congratulatory phrases extolling your own lofty achievements and the hope of continuing on that worthy trajectory so that you can eventually use your education to modestly aspire to make the world a better place.

Maybe you talk about the loss of people along that way that have left enough of an impression upon you to work that much harder, and be that much better of a person, in order to do justice to their memory. Not that it really matters whether or not said people actually had that kind of effect on you, but it is ingratiatingly humbling to throw them into the speech anyway, because it makes you sound like a more sensitive and caring individual.

The audiences at graduation eat that shit right up.

Finally, you might throw in a quote or two from appropriately acceptable role models who helped mold you or spur you on your journey. A favorite literary figure or supportive clergy member. Maybe even a beneficent grandparent or kindly neighbor from childhood. Along with a witty and thoughtful recounting of whatever incident involving them that was wholly and completely responsible for your blossoming from a run-of-the-mill student into the collegiate powerhouse that you became as you stand at the podium.

You also need to be ready to wipe away an aw shucks tear or two from your own emotional walk down inspirational memory lane if you can manage to drum one up for your closure.

Instantly endearing yourself to everyone in the audience.

Except, of course, to the fellow students that will receive disapproving looks and mildly disappointed reprimands from their own family members for not being up to the standards of that darling young man that moved an entire room with his self effaced and uplifting speech.

Sam knew how to play the game.

Taught and skilled from age eight to be a con man, and to be able to present himself as something completely different from who he really was to get the desired result. An acquired talent that was as necessary as a proficiency with weapons when you were a hunter.

For him, it was no trouble at all to devote an entire speech to influences and experiences that actually had nothing to do with his place at the top of the academic achievement ladder.

Because, really, what was he supposed to say?

The truth?

In this particular case, the truth was a world away from being a palatable and family friendly presentation. Spoken about and expounded upon in an overly warm, uncomfortably crowded auditorium of a private school mostly comprised of God-fearing church goers.

How do you casually speak about your goals for academic excellence stemming from years of a deep seated desire to remove yourself far and away from an obsessed and controlling father? A man who has spent practically your entire life pushing you into a war you wanted no part of.

Where the contributing influences in your background to succeed were actually mostly of the negative kind. The inspiration during long years of intense study coming from a need to be completely and utterly different from those around you.

A necessary escape from a literal nightmare existence.

In the past, education had always been an out for Sam when the reality of their lives got to be too intense and frightening. Where losing himself on a project, or in a work of fiction, enabled him to shut out the harshness of his father's mandates and their decidedly unenviable drifter upbringing.

The horror of knowing about and dealing with things too terrible to speak about in the light of day.

To be honest during his speech, Sam would have to drag his father and brother and, basically, their entire existence as a family through the mud, and he simply wasn't prepared to do that.

So he would lie.

And probably lie brilliantly, because he had learned many things at his father's knee. Dishonesty and deception being high among them. Along with how to be a chameleon, blending into the woodwork of life and being the person that no one ever saw coming.

All the Winchester men had their particular talents when it came to getting what they needed on a job.

Dad has this weird mix of gentlemanly charm and underlying raw intimidation that got people talking when they shouldn't. Dean, a careful blend of playful charisma that always preceded his uncanny ability to see through a lie, and then employing his ability to draw the truth out before you even knew what hit you.

Sam?

Well, Sam knew how to capitalize on the innocence factor. The sweet and shy mannerisms that got people to open up to him because he gave the impression that he really and truly cared. And since this earnest boy posed absolutely no threat to you, why not confide in him?

In his defense, Sam really did care about people.

He would be the first one to help out someone in need.

A friend. A neighbor. A complete stranger who might have had a bag of groceries break and be unable to chase down rolling oranges through a supermarket parking lot.

Sam cared.

About Alex. His buddies from study group. Other people he had become friendly with at school.

Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and Caleb.

The people his family had rescued over the years.

His father.

His brother.

The brother that was, even as Sam worked on his speech, busy in the kitchen making Sam's favorite chicken and broccoli casserole for dinner.

Surprising, because Dean hated chicken with the fiery intensity of a thousands suns, and he hated broccoli even more. It was a comfort meal that was usually reserved for times when Sam was either under the weather or having a bad day, as some sort of culinary consolation prize.

Although, in this particular instance, the little brother suspected it was more out of misplaced guilt on Dean's part.

Which was absurd since Dean shouldn't be the one feeling regret right now.

It was Sam that broke his Friday curfew by over an hour and a half last night, being too caught up in honing his skills, after prom night's less than lustrous performance, with Alex in the backseat of his Camaro to answer the four missed phone calls from a very worried big brother.

Even so, it wasn't as if Dean had actually punished Sam for it because, after all, he was trying very hard to respect the kid's adult age now.

You don't ground eighteen year olds.

That's ridiculous.

It had merely been a case where, after a respectful discussion, the two of them came to a mutually acceptable agreement between grown ups that Sam probably should be on lock down in the house for the rest of the weekend for a refresher course on familial consideration and proper phone etiquette.

Just a friendly and concerned instructional reminder from a helpful big brother.

All very calm and civil-like.

Truthfully, it had also been Sam's idea.

If there was one standing absolute rule in the Winchester family, it was that the boys always answered their phones. To not do so, is to give the other family members the troubling impression that there is a physical reason preventing you. Considering some of the things that they found themselves up against, an unanswered phone immediately triggers the panic button.

He didn't need to hear the abject frenzy in his big brother's voice, once Sam finally remembered that he had put his phone on silent during the movie earlier in the evening and called to check in, to realize that he had screwed up.

He also hadn't needed to hear the background noise of the Impala's growling engine either. Already knowing perfectly well that Dean was in full search and rescue mode as he tore through the streets of Sioux Falls looking for his missing brother.

By the time both brothers were back in the house, and Dean could finally assure himself that his little brother was home safe and sound, Sam was wracked with remorse over being the cause of the naked fear on his brother's face. Painfully aware of how badly Dean worried when they couldn't reach their father, Sam hated being the cause of unnecessary anxiety.

Especially since Sam had also endured many sleepless nights when John went radio silent in the past.

Dean hadn't been particularly strict about enforcing the House Rules since Sam's birthday a month ago. They had become more of a courtesy guideline than a mandate. Sam also knew for a fact that his brother wouldn't have had a problem with Sam staying out as late as he wanted to if he had just bothered to call and let Dean know what his plans were.

There had been absolutely no reason to not set his brother's mind at ease with a little consideration.

Feeling pretty awful about his carelessness, it had been Sam's suggestion that he park his butt in the house for the rest of the weekend, because the younger brother had a built-in guilt complex. It being perfectly clear that Dean was still stressed and itching to cuff Sam to a chair in an effort to keep a sharper eye on his little brother, but also unwilling to demand it now that Sam was of legal age.

Considering that Dean hadn't objected to the idea of Sam being on home confinement for a couple of days, it only proved how upset he truly was. Although Sam knew he only had a select few weekends left to go out with his friends and be a normal kid, he was responsible enough to own his mistakes.

Dean never asked for much, and ignoring his calls had been a real dick move.

If being in the house for a while, visibly healthy and unharmed, meant that Dean's internal threat level lowered from the panicked red of sonofabitch-neon-dayglo-holy-crap-sunflare-something-is-trying-to-kill-my-kid-brother to the standard Winchester big brother blue of merely elevated, then Sam would just suck it up and deal.

Eventually, as time went on, Sam was hopefully sure that Dean would grow more accustomed to the idea that his little brother wasn't so little any more, and that he didn't need to be watched over every minute. That going back out onto the road on equal footing with each other would get Dean to gradually downgrade the Watch out for Sammy order that defined his life.

It was one of the only check marks in the plus column of being in The Life, because Dean did grudgingly acknowledge that Sam was becoming a talented hunter in his own right. Sam was strong and fast and capable. He didn't like the job, but that didn't mean he couldn't do it well.

Until they were hunting as equal partners, Sam was willing to do whatever he could to make his transition into adulthood easier on the brother that had practically raised him.

So while Dean was theoretically not assembling a guilt casserole in the kitchen, Sam was curled up on the sofa in the living room with his shiny new laptop instead of being out with his friends at the coffee house on a Saturday night. Coming up with enough pandering words to pad his speech so he could get it past the advisory committee who needed to approve it for the graduation ceremony.

It was still hard to wrap his head around the valedictorian honor in the first place.

To be perfectly honest, it wasn't his just yet.

Technically.

No firm decisions would be made until next week after finals were over. Of course, Sam was the very definition of overachiever and he had racked up more than enough extra credit during the year to ensure he would come out on top of the class. Even if he completely messed up his finals, which he definitely wouldn't, he'd still almost certainly place first.

Not that Sam was desperate for it, but he wasn't going to turn it down either.

After all, it did look good on an application or resume, if he ever managed to make it out of The Life. Truthfully though, he was feeling fairly uneasy since his immediate competitors were his friends in his study group, because Sam wasn't the kind of kid to enjoy getting one over on a buddy.

Without Sam at Holy Rosary this year, the title would have gone to his friend Nathalie, who would now most likely have to settle for Salutatorian instead. Which meant that Sam's closest friend Michael would miss out on being named Salutatorian, and instead would only have the distinction of graduating third in the class.

Not that either Nathalie or Michael were being unfairly penalized by Sam's potential ranking. Nathalie was already comfortably on her way to Yale regardless, while Michael was heading off to Princeton, but Sam still felt a tad remorseful about the whole business anyway.

Especially since, these days, he was waffling about going off to college.

To say that Dean was caught entirely by surprise when Sam informed his big brother that he was turning down the scholarships to both the University of Sioux Falls and Minnesota State was the very definition of understatement.

You couldn't really blame the older Winchester brother for being completely befuddled by Sam's sudden change of heart regarding higher education. Especially after all they had gone through to make it possible. It also wasn't hard for Sam to see just how annoyed his brother was with their father ever since Sam had expressed his disinterest in college after his birthday barbecue.

And why shouldn't Dean be confused?

Or make the obvious assumption that John must have done something further to his youngest son to convince the boy that it was never going to happen?

It wasn't as if Sam was going to come right out and confess to his brother that the decision had been made to ensure that Dean didn't have to rip himself apart between his two family members to keep the peace. That Sam had stood in the shadows of the kitchen that day and overheard his brother state plainly that he was ready to give up a critical part of his life if it ensured Sam's happiness.

Or that part of growing up meant that Sam came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to be the one that forced the big brother that defined himself by the love of the hunt and the love of his family to chose between the two by the person that loved him the most.

Of course, just when Sam had that all worked out for himself, life's irony had decided to come calling.

Immediately after Sam had made his decision to give a regular college experience a pass for the good of his family, fate had to intervene, with lead pipe cruelty, and offer up Stanford on a plate.

Unverifiable parental contribution, was the way that Mr. Hopkins had explained the late scholarship offer.

As if it was news to Sam that his father's income was a mystery.

Stanford University prided itself on the ability to provide financial assistance to anyone that was accepted there and was in need. There were no merit scholarships offered, unless you were an athlete. Sam's impressive GPA, extracurricular activities and dazzling in-person interview got him accepted at one of the best schools in the nation, but they hadn't earned him a scholarship in the traditional sense.

Instead, Stanford offered generous aid for those lucky enough to be chosen to attend, and whose families made below a certain income. With Sam's father having absolutely no income of record, Sam should have immediately qualified for the full shot.

That didn't mean that there weren't real questions about how the family supported themselves on paper. Or how Sam managed to be graduating from a private school that required a paid tuition, when he came from a home that had no reported tax information.

And just to screw with them even further, the fact that Dean had partial legal custody of his little brother had only complicated matters more than they already had been, because there was real speculation about whether or not he had earnings that needed to be calculated into the mix.

In the end, Mr. Hopkins had pulled every string he could access to assure that Sam could attend if he so chose.

And Sam wanted to.

He really...REALLY...wanted to.

Unfortunately, there was still that little matter of leaving his family behind if he went.

A thought that once was a source of attractive relief, but now only made him ache inside. As if to walk away from his father and brother would drive a hole so deep in his heart that he just might never recover from it.

His life was so much different now than it once was, and over the past year he had been witness to sides of his father and brother that either had not shown themselves openly before, or Sam had just been too selfishly preoccupied to notice.

Or maybe both.

Complicating matters even further was the undeniable fact that his resentment of his upbringing was far from gone, and truthfully would probably always remain lurking just below the surface, but it no longer defined him as it once had.

This past year had proven to Sam what he had always known deep down, when he wasn't engulfed in self pity and anger. The simple plain truth that his brother was more than just a hunter and soldier in the Winchester Army, as Sam occasionally and uncharitably saw him. An extremely unfair characterization considering just how much Sam had always relied on his elder sibling to care for him in all the ways that had truly mattered.

While Dean had remained skittish about Dad being out on his own, the older Winchester brother had taken to civilian life with surprising ease.

But should it really have been surprising?

Dean would never be mistaken for anything other than an overly macho and gruff young man by anyone outside their immediate family. Primarily because he worked very hard at maintaining that particular facade, always more comfortable with being feared than being embraced. Intimidation was a good skill to have in their line of work. Dad had certainly encouraged it, and Dean had honed it to a fine science before he was even out of puberty.

But inside their little world, where John and Sam were at the very center of his universe and often in need of a soft touch or comfort, Dean allowed himself to occasionally show glimpses of his gooey emotional center. He fussed over them when they were sick, and tended to them with calm words and soothing hands that gently and expertly made short work of injuries.

It had always been Dean that had done whatever he could to make their temporary homes as livable as possible under difficult circumstances. So it really was no wonder that he easily slipped into domestic living as if it were another craft to acquire and finesse.

And Dad?

Well, Dad was still Dad, but he was something more besides.

It's hard for Sam to explain to his friends who grew up in traditional families about how his father is so completely different from theirs in a million ways that they could never understand. John Winchester regularly vacillated between fearless, driven and hardened hunter of evil to drowning, wrecked shell of a man. Two wild swings of the pendulum that had given his youngest son a lifetime of dizzying vertigo as he watched and tried to judge the rapid fire change of moods.

This past year had changed things slightly. Offering more than one opportunity where Sam had been able to witness short bursts of the brand of fatherhood that Dean had experienced as a four year old, but had always eluded the youngest Winchester. Although they still fought regularly, and lately with potentially lasting damage, Sam had begun to feel a stronger bond with his father since their move.

The dad Sam had always known before could be counted on for orders and rules and discipline. A willing display of affection if Sam was bold enough or fragile enough to ask for it. Training, training and then some more besides, because that is how John had always shown his love to his children.

Keeping them safe by keeping them prepared.

Sam had grown up in a world where his father comforted his fears by giving him firearms and the endless hours of practice to use them with skill and efficiency. His demeanor distant and secretive, which would have been action movie cool if John was James Bond and not Sam's dad.

The Dad of late was still the toughened, hard core, ex-Marine he had always been, but there had been signs of softening around the edges.

Christmas with the Camaro. Regular conversations that didn't involve hunting, showing a willingness on John's part to listen to what his youngest son actually had to say for once. The idyllic days in DC, when the Winchesters were finally a normal family doing the tourist thing. Sam's birthday barbecue where the only things being salted and burned were the burgers on the grill.

Not that it had been perfect by a long shot, because their father didn't change his spots overnight. The fight over college being proof of that.

At the end of the day, Dean was still in worshipful thrall of their father and of the skills he had and the jobs he did, but Sam had just wanted someone to pay attention to him without it being hunt related.

Then Sam realized that someone always had, and it was that plain and simple absolute that was staying his hand as far as going away to school was concerned because it would break his brother if he did.

Sam's new devotion to keeping the peace and doing what was right for his brother's happiness and well being should have had him immediately rejecting the offer from Stanford outright, just so that things were final and uncomplicated.

Unfortunately, so far he hadn't been able to make himself do it, and it was a shameful realization.

Even worse, he hadn't been able to talk to his brother about it.

As if history had not already taught him that he was once again repeating a huge error that had bitten him in the ass twice just this year. Yet he was still foolishly keeping his mouth shut, because he couldn't even begin to decide how to start that particular conversation.

Which only made him wonder if Stanford was as good as it claimed if an idiot like Sam Winchester was getting offered a full ride, because a smarter guy wouldn't be blindly tap dancing down the road to Hell with all of his theoretical good intentions by still not confiding in his brother.

Sam wasn't necessarily in love with the idea of online college.

Honestly, he was still having trouble wrapping his grapefruit around the reality of his father having even given it thought. An absolutely un-John Winchester thing to do in any universe. The Dad that Sam knows is all about responsibility and the family business, and for him to willingly bring up a suggestion of compromise, let alone supply the means for one, was simply mind bending.

There was certainly nothing wrong with the concept of it. Lots of people in the world had difficult schedules and personal lives where being able to earn a degree on the go was a great option.

It was just that Sam had always had a mental picture of his college years as a chance to escape hunting and his father's iron clad control of his life. Last year, before their time in Sioux Falls, Sam would have run off to school without even a blink or a backwards wave in his family's direction. Already plotting and scheming and planning his final exodus from The Life.

More than ready to leave behind a life of transiency and bloodshed.

Things were different now.

Sam was different.

All he had ever wanted was stability and normalcy, and this past year had given both to him.

He was also smart enough to realize that life going forward was not going to be like the past year had been, regardless of any material changes in any of the Winchesters. The boys hadn't actually been on a hunt in months, but it certainly wasn't about to stay like that. The minute he graduated, he had no delusions that his father wouldn't immediately pull the brothers back out on the road to continue the family crusade.

But things would be different from their lives before Sioux Falls.

Dean had already made it perfectly clear to his little brother that they weren't giving up the house, regardless of where their travels took them in the future. Another little Winchester family revelation that knocked Sam back on his ass the minute he was privy to it when his brother casually mentioned it at the dinner table last week.

Dean had apparently unilaterally decided that Sam was done with being homeless, and unabashedly told him so, shocking Sam into silence in the process. Stating plainly that the mindset both Dean and Dad had for their willingness to spend their lives on the open road was not going to be Sam's life going forward.

For some unfathomable reason, Dean felt extremely confident that they would be able to hunt with their father and still have a place to come home to during their down time. As if Dad hadn't made his feelings on the boys maintaining ties to Sioux Falls perfectly clear already.

It was an old argument that Sam had often engaged in with John, usually over Dean's objections and pleas for his little brother to just shut his mouth. The few other hunters they knew all had stable homes, and it had always been hard to accept their father's assurances that somehow their family was different enough to render that choice impossible.

Dean had unfailingly defended Dad's stance on the matter in the past.

Citing as the main reason that it was because the brothers were constantly pulled from school to school, sometimes just one step ahead from CPS. Having a verifiable address, even if it was just on paper, made them too vulnerable to well meaning and prying social workers on the lookout for the signs of neglect and abuse that the boys often sported for reasons that were far different from the usual factors.

Even though Sam had never liked that answer, thinking that it was nothing but a cop out to justify Dad's needs to keep them in motion, he had always understood it to at least partially be the truth. He despised their lifestyle and upbringing, but nothing would have ever compelled him to do anything that would result in being torn away from his brother.

Strangers would have never understood that Dean, as a young child himself, was often more responsible and nurturing than a lot of adult parents when it came to his little brother's health, safety and well being. With both boys knowing all too well that the simple knee jerk reaction of institutional do-gooders would have been to take the brothers into protective custody and immediately separate them.

As they surely would have been, considering that, in the eyes of most offices of Child and Family Services, Sam's big brother was a young miscreant who already had a criminal record to his name, and would obviously be nothing but a bad influence on his younger, shy and more academically successful brother.

A biased and ridiculous assumption that could not possibly be farther away from the truth.

Sam watched through the large archway between the living room and the kitchen as his brother cooked their dinner like he had been doing all their lives. Chopping up stuff for a salad that only Sam would eat, and intermittently checking on the progress of the casserole in the oven. Occasionally making notes on their reminder list of things to do that was clipped to the fridge at all times.

Bopping around the room with his endless stream of energy as he mouthed the words to whatever song he must have playing on the radio on the counter. On low volume, of course, because obviously Sam was working on a project for school right now, even it if was in the next room, and Dean wasn't going to interrupt his little brother's concentration, unless it was to prank him.

Sam's studies had always come first. Not necessarily because Dean personally thought that they were important overall, just that they were important to Sam.

Watching him, and thinking about all that his big brother routinely sacrificed, it suddenly occurred to Sam that he couldn't even remember the last time that Dean had gone out to just have fun. To hit a bar and scare up a game. Maybe possibly hook up with a woman.

Dean faithfully worked at the salvage yard every week day, as well as the weekends they weren't with Dad. Having quickly established a reputation for his craftsmanship, he was solely responsible for the large uptick in business that Uncle Bobby had seen this year. Repairs and routine maintenance, as well as rebuilding a steady supply of classic cars that were being snatched up by interested buyers, faster than Dean could roll them out, and netting impressive profits.

Most of which Sam was seeing the benefit of, because what Dean had was always shared with Sam. When it came to his little brother, Dean was habitually generous to a fault.

He kept their house neat and tidy, which might surprise some who didn't know him well enough to understand that Dean was, by nature, a very organized young man when it came to the important things in life. He had never been one to worry about being a little messy in their temporary motel rooms, but their home was different.

The family had never really had much in the way of material possessions, but now that they were settled, Dean was compulsive about taking care of what they did have in a dedicated and meticulous fashion.

You only needed to look at the Impala as proof of that.

Even when they were much younger, Dean had always made sure that the boys had respectable looking clothes to wear to school every day. Making sure that trips to the laundromat were done faithfully before going out for the night.

Sam may have worn second hand garments, but Dean never allowed either of them to look shabby. Even as a student, he would routinely grumble about kids showing up to classes looking like they had just fallen out of bed. Openly admonishing them and their parents to have some pride.

He'd always made sure that Sam was fed regularly on a schedule, because the younger brother had an annoying and long established habit of easily losing himself in study or a book and not paying attention to the clock if Dean didn't yank his head out of the clouds for meals. An everyday event over their course of their lives when Sam would find his book being pulled out of his hands and a plate of food shoved in front of him, with a scowl on his brother's face as he indicated the time with a jerk of his chin.

No one was ever going to be convinced that Dean Winchester was a soft touch in any way, and he would literally punch anyone in the face that even suggested it, but Sam had always known from a lifetime of care that his big brother was about as close to a mom as Sam was ever going to get.

And, all things considered, Sam was lucky to have John Winchester as a dad, when things could have been so much worse.

A father that, although absent quite often, taught Sam responsibility, decency and respect. To help others, even if, and especially when, it came at a personal sacrifice. John Winchester wasn't just a lip service good Samaritan. He didn't just talk the talk, he walked the walk.

Every single day.

He wasn't a model father, and Sam suspected he hadn't been a model husband either. John self medicated often with a bottle of something or other when he wasn't taking his frustrations out on some fugly. He barked orders and kept them on a short leash, and sometimes hid them away from the world for their safety as well as his own peace of mind, but his boys always knew that he loved them, and at the end of the day, he did more good than he did bad.

Dad had taught Sam tenacity and determination. To go after what he believed in and make a real difference in the world. That actions have consequences, and to take it like a man and accept them. To study and learn, and then use what he had learned to help others.

With startling clarity as he sat on the couch, Sam realized that he didn't need to create fictional inspirational heroes for a speech.

He had lived his entire life among two of them.

"Dinner!"

Dean's voice from the kitchen disturbed his thoughts, and it took Sam a minute to surface from the pool of discovery he had spent the last half hour swimming in. Blinking rapidly, he rubbed a hand down his face and blushed when he saw that Dean was smirking at him.

Knowing that his big brother was amused by catching him once again completely unaware of his surroundings.

Dean thought it was funny, and possibly cute, which only made Sam scowl. Dad would have scolded him and made him run laps, since hunters couldn't afford to become complacent.

He pushes his laptop aside, no further progressed on his speech than he had been when he originally sat down, and lopes to the kitchen. Flopping down in his chair, he leans over and inhales the delicious aroma of the casserole before grabbing the serving spoon and scooping out a huge pile onto his plate. Large chunks of seasoned white meat chicken mixed in with wild rice and broccoli and smothered in bubbling cheddar cheese.

His stomach growls impatiently as he shoves an overloaded forkful into his mouth and sighs with pleasure.

Grinning, Dean hands him a bowl of salad and Sam just about spits out his food when he sees that his brother has a bowl of cucumber slices for himself. Not that cucumbers have a lot of nutritional value, and whatever they do have will probably be canceled out by the enormous blob of blue cheese dressing covering them, but it's a start.

"Shut up," Dean grumbles, catching the dumbfounded look his little brother sends him, before pointedly stuffing a forkful of cucumber in his mouth.

Standing back up, Dean leans over into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer. Sees the pleading look of his brother's puppy dog face, and then grabs another.

It's not like Sammy's going out tonight.

By his own design for crying out loud, the geeky little martyr.

Kid can have a damn beer if he wants one, Dean decides. He's rewarded with a megawatt Sammy smile with all the dimples as he uses his ring to pop the top off both before taking his seat again. He hands the second beer to his brother and they amiably clink their bottles together before taking a simultaneous swig.

For a few minutes they're quiet, the only noises being forks scraping against plates and the happy little hums of appreciation that Sam subconsciously lets out as he eats. Sam realizes, as he swallows his food, that he's really going to miss his brother's significantly improved cooking while they are on the road.

"We're going to the mall tomorrow," Dean announces with his mouth half full. Still not one to pay much attention to table manners when its just the two of them in their home.

Sam frowns and sips his beer, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Neither of the brothers have ever really enjoyed shopping. Dean especially. Like their father, the older brother would prefer to stay away from crowds full of people that he distrusts on principle alone.

"I'm still on lock down tomorrow," Sam reminds him. "And you hate the mall. Why?"

"I don't have time to go during the week," Dean states casually, throwing his little brother one of the warm dinner rolls that aren't too bad, even if they're the frozen kind. "Besides, spending an afternoon shopping at Satan's Butt Hole is more than enough punishment for anyone."

The perturbed look on Dean's face makes his little brother snicker, and Sam scoops a chunk of butter out of the dish and slathers his roll with it before popping the whole thing in his mouth. At some point he suspects he will eventually stop growing, but until then, he's perpetually starved.

"You need a new suit, Sasquatch," Dean explains. "I know your old one has to be way too short by now."

Of course, Sam thinks, already resigning himself to falling back into The Life. The whole point of getting his last suit was to allow him to pretext alongside Dad and Dean. Then biology had taken over, rendering him a practical giant now, so a new suit was obviously going to be necessary.

He doesn't know if Dean sees something on his face that gives away his thoughts. Or maybe it's just because his big brother could always read him like a book.

"For graduation, Sammy," Dean says quietly. "Can't have my little brainiac not looking his best on his big day."

For some reason, a warm bubble of affection fills his chest simply from the idea that Dean cares about what Sam will wear under his graduation gown. He hadn't even given it much thought other than to assume he would wear his button down shirt and school khakis, since they are the nicest clothes he owns that still fit.

"And you're getting a haircut while we're at it," Dean says sternly, glaring in his brother's direction.

All warm and pleasant thoughts immediately vaporize as Sam's bitch face makes an instant appearance, and their dinner table is suddenly a verbal cage match between gladiators.

"No, I'm not," the younger brother snaps, back up and hackles raised. "I like it just like it is."

Dean's not backing down this time. Sam's unruly mop of hair is fine and dandy on a day to day basis, but the kid isn't going to look like an unkempt street urchin in an auditorium full of people.

Not on Dean's watch.

"It'll grow back," Dean says as calmly as he can, even as he crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow. "You'll thank me in thirty years when you can look back at your photos and see a good looking guy instead of some kind of nerdy hybrid psychotic sheepdog."

"It's my hair, Dean," Sam snaps, holding his ground and taking another large bite of his dinner. Intent on ending this line of conversation. "I'm a big boy now. I can decide how long I want my own damn hair to be."

Dean sets his jaw and leans back in his chair. Arms still crossed and mouth taut as he stares. It's a contest now, and the victor will be the one that doesn't blink. Digging his heels in, because it is his own damn hair after all, Sam continues to eat nonchalantly and ignores his brother. Dean can sit there and stare all he wants, but Sam isn't changing his mind.

Until a full minute passes.

When the glare of laser hot intensity from his sibling finally convinces Sam that he'll get his damn hair cut if it just makes his brother shut up. Even if the annoying little voice inside him unhelpfully points out that is brother isn't actually saying anything.

If it was Dad demanding it, Sam would already be neck deep in an argument right now, fighting for every overgrown strand, but somehow, when it's Dean, Sam finds himself backing down.

He wanted to get a trim anyway.

Or at least that is what he is suddenly trying to convince himself.

"Fine," he seethes, viciously stabbing a cherry tomato and shoving it into his mouth before he says something that really will get him in trouble. Dean might not be going all guardian on him lately, but his big brother will still kick his ass if Sam gets mouthy.

"Fine," Dean responds cheerfully, enjoying the victory he never doubted and grinning a mile wide smile as he turns his attention back to his own dinner. Fishing broccoli florets out of his mound of casserole and flicking them onto his brother's plate triumphantly.

Sam, with a supreme amount of self control, resists the urge to kick his brother under the table, but he also doesn't turn down the cast off veggies.

Stupid, pushy, obnoxious, mother hen of a big brother.

No longer in the mood for amiable conversation, Sam broods as he picks his way through his dinner in silence until the sound of his phone ringing comes from where it is perched on the counter and connected to his charger plugged into the wall.

Out of habit, Sam begins to get up from the table to answer it when he stops himself, belatedly remembering that part of his continuing ed lesson on phone etiquette means that his beloved cell is off limits for the weekend. Not for the first time today he mentally kicks himself for imposing his own sentence.

At least he knows it's not Alex, because he's already informed her that he's not grounded at home all weekend, and it's okay because her parents weren't entirely thrilled with her late arrival either. Any of his other friends can wait until Monday when he's back in school.

Resigned, he goes to sit back down when his brother rolls his eyes and jerks his head in the direction of the counter. Wordlessly giving consent that the agreement can be broken, but with a raised eyebrow that cautions Sam that this concession has a short shelf life, and Sam nods his understanding even as he leaps for the phone before it goes to voice mail.

He notices, very briefly, that the number is unknown, but he answers it anyway, studiously ignoring his brother's casual interest in the caller.

"Hello?"

"Sam? It's Mr. Hopkins, from school. Am I disturbing you?"

"No, sir," Sam responds, shaking his head at Dean when his brother mouths Dad? "Not at all."

"Good. Good. I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but I haven't seen you this week in my office or heard back from you about Stanford's offer. You remember that there is a deadline?"

Sam pushes back the feeling he gets that his adviser sounds a bit overanxious as he fumbles a bit with his phone trying to act as casually as possible.

"Um...yes, sir. I'm still giving it a lot of thought."

There's a brief pause and a clearing of a throat on the line, and Sam suddenly realizes that he's holding his phone in an iron clad grip as he struggles to keep his composure under his brother's obviously interested disinterest.

"Sam...I don't want to pressure you, but you have to realize what an incredible opportunity this is. It would be a shame to pass it up."

Sam shifts slightly, so that his back is turned away from his brother. Dean can read him like a book and if he can see Sam's face, he will immediately know that something is up.

"Yes, sir. I understand. I just haven't decided which direction I'm going in just yet," he answers, as noncommittally as possible.

Another pause. A deep sigh, and Sam almost has a mental picture of the man on the other end of the phone pinching the bridge of his nose like Dad does when he's frustrated with youngest.

"I know it's a big decision, Sam. But don't wait too long. Their offer is generous. Thousands of other students would be honored by the chance to have what Stanford is giving you."

Sam swallows hard and pushes back an urge to fidget that would give away the unease that is hanging over him with every second that passes. He knows that it's only a matter of time before he has to come clean with his brother, but he simply isn't ready today.

"Yes, sir. I know," he answers, trying to sound casual. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Dean is up and grabbing another beer, decidedly not looking at Sam, but the younger brother knows by the lack of Dean's reminder that Sam should not be using his phone right now that his big brother is more than interested in the conversation taking place.

"Very well, Sam. You have a bright future ahead of you. I hope that I haven't misjudged your commitment to your continuing education."

The inference is all too clear, Sam thinks to himself. Mr. Hopkins has pushed and stuck his neck out for Sam, and is probably regretting all of his efforts due to Sam's lack of decision and enthusiasm.

"No, sir," he chokes out. "I appreciate all of your help. Really."

"Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything further. I'm always available. Good night."

"Thank you, sir. Good night."

The line clicks and Sam ends the call, ignoring his brother's inquisitive look as he replaces his phone on the charger and returns to the table.

"That was my adviser," Sam offers voluntarily as he butters another, now cold, roll. "He's waiting on my draft speech for graduation."

Dean looks directly at him, and Sam knows from years of experience that his brother is mulling it over in his mind as to whether or not he's going to call Sam out on his lie. After a few seconds, he sees Dean sigh deeply and stab his fork back into his bowl of cucumbers, and they both know that there is again another secret between them.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says tiredly, as he continues to eat. It's obvious that he's not planning on pursuing this conversation any further.

Sam should, right this very minute, confess all and talk to his brother, but once again he keeps his mouth shut. Even though he knows there is simply no reason for it. Dean has been nothing but surprisingly supportive through all of this. Ready, willing and able to reorganize his life and potentially alienate their father in the process to give Sam what he wants.

But that's just it.

Sam doesn't want his brother to bend any further than he already has. The minute Sam even hints that there is still a scholarship on offer, to Stanford of all places, the gears in Dean's mind will start whirring again.

After all, this is the school that Sam skipped off to, knowing that his duplicity could fracture their brotherhood, but going anyway. The place that caused two months of their lives to be engulfed in secrecy, mistrust and hurt feelings. Where Sam was coming back from when the two of them had the worst fight they ever had between them.

Dean won't take the news that Sam still has a chance to study there very well, and when he does find out, Sam is half afraid that his brother will start looking for rentals in Palo Alto in another selfless attempt to keep them together. Leaving behind his job with Uncle Bobby and the house he takes such good care of, without hesitation if it means Sam's happiness.

Giving his little brother the college life he wants, as well as the family he loves.

And Sam is more than half afraid that he will want his brother to do exactly that.

/

His hands are shaking on the dove gray leather wheel of his Mercedes as he ends the call.

The steady traffic above him makes a continuous thundering noise as the vehicles traverse along the slick overpass in the heavy shower, and every gunning of a semi's diesel engine rattles his already jangled nerves. His breathing is stuttering, coming in fits of hard pants and shaky exhales, but he grinds his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw ache as he fights to regain his composure.

"I'm doing the best I can," he asserts with more confidence than he feels. "I can't physically force him to go if he doesn't want to."

In the passenger seat lounges an impressively beautiful woman. She has long dark hair that she is idly twirling around a pristine manicured finger as she gazes distractedly out the window, where sheets of rain from the electrical storm that routinely follows her pound relentlessly to the ground.

The smooth expensive leather of the seat underneath her creaks as she shifts, moving to cross one shapely leg over the other. The new position causes her exceptionally short black skirt to ride higher up her thigh, and she takes her free hand and slowly runs it seductively up between her legs before giving him a sultry stare as her glossy lip curls up over a row of even white teeth like a predator.

He knows that it's meant to be an enticement. That every motion is calculated for maximum effect and impact, but they only serve as another sick reminder of what kind of evil and depravity he is really consorting with.

"That's not good enough, baby," she croons, leaning over to rake her blood red nails through his thinning strawberry blond hair. "We need to make sure that he's going to be alone and on his own, or it's no deal."

She arches her head closer to his own and he chokes back a wash of bile that crests in his throat. Her breath is heavy on him. An overpowering stench of spearmint gum unsuccessfully masking an undertone of rotting eggs. He cranes his head away and closes his eyes tightly, feeling his skin prickle with revulsion from the intimacy of their contact.

"I can't do any more than what I've done already. It's not like I can put a gun to his head and make him take the offer."

She laughs, and the sinister ring to her amusement flips his stomach. Even her pleasure, especially her pleasure, is unsavory and unholy to his ears.

"Do better. Or it's no deal."

His blood goes cold from the overt harshness of her words. Knowing that she's not casually making a veiled threat. These past months of blood chilling terror and shame from making deals with devils has wreaked havoc on the existence of a formerly good and decent man.

"Please."

Desperation clinging to him like a second skin as he endures her touches and lascivious stare, he forces himself to look at her and pleads with the last remaining shards of self respect falling away like cinders on the wind.

"I have a boss to answer to, baby," she coos, stroking the hair away from his forehead. "We've made you a fair offer, but once Sam Winchester is back on the road with his family, you're no good to us anymore."

The clock is ticking in his world. Each passing minute ringing out like the blow of a hammer as the days fly away towards graduation. When his influence over the kind and whip smart young boy will come to an end, and his own life will collapse into a death spiral if he fails.

"Why him?"

The demon in the shotgun seat smiles wide as she plays with the buttons of his dress shirt. Her touch forces an involuntary flinch that she ignores.

"He's already ours. Your pretty, pretty wife isn't the only mommy that made a deal for her son," she purrs, slipping her fingers in between the folds of his shirt to rake her nails on his chest. "You're lucky. Usually we wouldn't even need you. We've been guiding him for years just fine. But that school of yours? Well, let's just say it's made our job a little harder this year than it normally is. The big boss wants to see what happens when Daddy and Big Brother aren't around."

The man pulls in a sharp intake of breath, considering her words. Every fiber of his being wants to know the details of why a demon wants Sam away from his family so badly, but the loving husband and father that he is knows where his loyalties lie. He hisses when she abruptly pulls her claws away from his chest harshly enough to leave a thin trail of blood behind.

"Do your job," she warns him, playtime clearly over, as her eyes flash red. "Or your wife's contract comes due in less than a year and we drag her screaming straight to Hell. And your boy? He might just get crushed by a bus crossing the street one day."

A second later, she is gone. The seat next to him empty with only a faint residue of yellow powder left in her wake. Her final words have left behind a cold, petrifying terror, enough to make him visibly shake with chills. Although the storm that had been raging around them is now clearing up, his entire body is absolutely frozen.

With shaking hands he pulls his wallet from his suit pocket and extracts a photo of his beautiful wife and fourteen year old son. They are his whole world, and there is nothing he would not do to protect them. Especially after the heartache they had gone through when their only child was dying of leukemia at the age of five.

He had actually laughed at first, when his wife told him about the deal she had made, still giddy with relief when the doctors told them that their little boy was going to make it.

After all, the idea of selling your soul was just so Faustian that it was ridiculous.

As time went on, he pushed it to the back of his mind, intentionally ignoring his wife's increasing unease as the years passed by. Their son grew strong and healthy, like any other regular child. Their livelihoods were successful enough to afford them all the comforts in life and they were a loving family.

It was only when he was first approached by the black haired she-devil seven months ago, and shown real proof of what had occurred to facilitate the miracle of his son's recovery, that he had begun to believe.

His wife's contract would be voided if he did what they told him to do and pushed young Sam Winchester towards a life away from his family. Her soul safe from damnation, and their son free to grow up without fear.

It hadn't really been a hard choice to make.

/

A psychic ability, sometimes even considered a gift, often manifests itself during the onset of puberty.

A spiritual awakening to coincide with a sexual one, perhaps. When hormones begin to rage and the body changes in a thousand molecular ways.

Always ahead of the curve, Pamela Barnes had her first experience with clairvoyance when she was eleven years old.

Spirits spoke to her. Usually whether or not she wanted them to. They came into her room at night while she slept, desperate for her to act as their conduit to the living world. She didn't mind it, at first. They didn't really scare her, and after having been raised by a great aunt who also had the gift, Pamela already knew the score on the supernatural world.

As she grew older, her gifts surged in size and frequency. Sometimes too overwhelming to deal with, since the ability to tune out every single sensation she got from practically every item she touched was threatening to make her insane.

As a teenager, she found that she could deal with the blaring needs of the other side infiltrating her every waking moment by living her own life out loud.

Music cranked, at high volume, drowned out the constant mutters and desperate pleadings of restless dead. With The Ramones warbling at incredible decibel levels, practically rattling the windows of the house she inherited from her aunt, she could find peace for a while, when she didn't feel like every nerve she had was on fire.

Roaring down the highway, her Harley throaty and vibrating between her legs, she found freedom from the things that would chase her and bully her into doing their bidding.

Wild nights between the sheets with Jesse, her tattoo artist boyfriend. Drunk on tequila and engaging in energetic sex acts that could possibly be illegal in some more prudish states, her voice pealing with laughter and lusty commands for again and more.

Over time, she learned to understand and embrace her talents. Controlling them, without being controlled by them. They were of use now. Not only as a source of income, but for the help they gave her to assist those in The Life.

Pamela was sound asleep the night she was pulled from her slumber with a force that she had never felt before.

Still slightly buzzed from an evening of partying, and sore from hours spent straddling Jesse's work bench. Drunk with lust and Jose, curvaceous and completely nude while his needle inked her back as he claimed her as his forever.

The spirits were restless that night, and they badgered her with an intensity she had not felt since her first year of her psychic awakening. They came at her in numbers and mentally tore at her until she was left with no choice. Until finally, nauseous and head throbbing she punched in the numbers of her main connection to the hunting community.

"Bobby? It's Pam. You need to find John Winchester. Bring help."

/

"He'll be here."

Standing in front of his dresser mirror, Sam finished knotting his tie as he huffed derisively. Dean was already dressed in his own pretext suit and leaning in the doorway, a cocky grin on his face that didn't quite meet up with the worry in his green eyes.

"Yeah. Sure he will," Sam muttered, cinching it tightly under his freshly starched collar. "Not like he ever promises to do something and then doesn't bother to show."

It had just been the hopeful naivete of a loving son that had convinced Sam that his father would actually ensure his presence at his youngest's high school graduation. The only graduation of a child that John Winchester would have the chance to see, and that son being the valedictorian besides.

Even crappy parents usually managed to make it to once in a lifetime events like that, but no.

Not Sam's dad.

Surprisingly, Dean didn't bother to try to say anything further in Dad's defense. Sam knew it was pretty bad when the good soldier couldn't drum up an excuse for their father's chronic absenteeism.

"You about ready, kiddo?"

It was already stifling hot, so Sam didn't bother putting on his new suit jacket, let alone the heavy, pale blue gown that he would be wearing for an hour in the sweltering auditorium. With his rapid fire metabolism, he tended to sweat a lot anyway, so why do anything to encourage it early.

"Yeah. Just let me grab my stuff."

A little frazzled, he darted around his room and collected his jacket, cap, gown and Honor Society sash. Taking one last look in the mirror, he ran a quick comb through his recently clipped hair and declared himself good enough. Together, the brothers descended the stairs and headed out to the driveway after locking the house up well behind them.

"It's your day, Sammy," Dean smiled indulgently. "You wanna drive? Or be chauffeured?"

Sam did want to drive, actually.

As just another indication that he was an adult now and could navigate his own way through life. But one look on his brother's face made him realize that Dean was just as vested in the journey that had led to today as Sam was, and suddenly it seemed fitting that his big brother guide him the rest of the way to the end of his high school days.

"Nah," Sam answered, grinning at his brother and heading to the passenger side of the Impala. "You drive in all that crappy traffic. I'm just gonna sit back and relax."

Dean didn't say anything to contradict his little brother's statement, more than happy to take the wheel as always, although he couldn't help but feel something disturbingly final about the way they pulled out of the driveway and made their last car ride to Holy Rosary together.

/

Every female head in the parking lot turned as the Winchester brothers made their way towards the school. Some male heads too, to be honest. As the handsome young men strode through the crowd, there was more than one jealous muttering of how it wasn't fair that some families had all the luck to win the grand prize in the genetic lottery.

Sam and Dean Winchester in henleys, flannel and blue jeans were a pleasure to look at. Sam and Dean in nicely pressed and slim fitted suits were enough to take your breath away. They walked along the sidewalk and towards the front door, oblivious to the overt swooning following in their wake. Both of them too preoccupied by the absence of their father to really notice much else.

Once inside, Sam had to veer off towards the gathering area for the graduates, giving his brother a good natured punch on the arm as he smiled and trotted off. Uncomfortable around a large crowd of people, Dean instinctively went into defensive mode as he scanned the immediate surroundings.

Although he wasn't actually expecting any trouble, his Colt was tucked securely in the waistband of his suit pants, well hidden under his jacket. A silver knife was neatly nestled in the ankle sheath, snug against the skin of his left leg. His inner pockets were seamlessly concealing two flasks. One of holy water, and one of whiskey.

In his right jacket pocket, he also had a clean handkerchief, just in case.

Not that Dean was going to cry or anything, no matter how proud he was of his kid brother kicking ass and taking names today, but he was a gentleman after all, so he was prepared in the event someone else got all emotional over their ridiculously smart little geek.

It also seemed to be quite dusty in this cavernous space, so who could blame him if he happened to get some in his eye at some point?

With Sam being the valedictorian, their family had reserved seating right in the front row, and as disdaining as Dean was about being center stage of anything, he couldn't help the little flit of pride that passed over him as he took the first chair. There were three more seats reserved for Dad, Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim which, hopefully, would be filled before the ceremony started.

Sam didn't know, but Bobby, Jim and Caleb had all taken off yesterday once John had failed to check in after his poltergeist job out in Amherst, New York.

The fact that all of them felt the need to go in search of his father was making Dean's nerves singe, even though he was desperately trying to keep his hands from shaking and his voice from cracking when talking to Sam. It was a strength in numbers that was practically unheard of in the hunting community unless shit really had hit the fan.

As far as Sam knew, Bobby was called away on a quick job elsewhere, and Jim was expected in the auditorium as planned.

Dean had chosen to keep the full truth from Sam, not out of cruelty, but out of concern. It was hard enough for Dean to stay quietly on the sidelines when his dad was out there somewhere facing who knows what. Only the steady assurances of both Bobby and Jim that everything that could be done, was going to be, kept Dean from racing towards Amherst in the Impala at top speed.

Only that firm promise, made by men that Dean trusted with the lives of both his family members, had allowed the firstborn Winchester son to bottle up his feelings and physically be there for his little brother's big day.

Sam had worked far too hard to get here to have to either abandon it, or be abandoned, and Dean knew that his dad's oft repeated command of watch out for Sammy took precedence over everything else.

Including their father.

As much as his little brother liked to fight with their dad and pretend that he didn't worry for John's well being on a hunt, Dean knew that Sam would have willingly walked away from his big day to jump in the Impala with Dean and go in search of their missing father, without even blinking, if they truly suspected he was in trouble.

But that couldn't happen this time.

Before Dad left on this particular hunt, he had made it perfectly clear that Dean's job was to keep an eye on his little brother, no matter what. To steer them both clear of the hunt that John had undertaken alone, for reasons that he wasn't willing to share or explain.

It was an order that really didn't sit well with Dean all things considered right now, but a lifetime of doing exactly what his father always told him to was a hard thing to start ignoring, no matter what his gut was screaming.

If Dean didn't have the utmost faith in the three men who were going in his place, three men that had covered his father's back in the field on numerous occasions, he would never have been able to put on his suit today and paste a smile on his face for his little brother's benefit.

If there was one thing that Dean and his father had always agreed on, it was that Sammy came first.

Which is why Dean was also digging in his heels about maintaining the house here in Sioux Falls. Sam needed some normalcy in his life, and if the kid was willing to put his collegiate dreams on hold, it was the least that Dean could do for him.

The auditorium was filling up and the young man that only liked noise in the smokey atmosphere of a bar began to fidget under the steady buzzing and humming of chatty, happy families. Because of his preferred placement, and the lack of others occupying the chairs near him, at least he was spared the jostling and oft times rude shoving of strangers sitting next to you in public places.

He kept his gaze wandering around the room. Always alert of his surroundings and exits

Like Dad had taught him.

Thankfully it wasn't too long before the ceremony started, because he was beginning to climb the damn walls. It wasn't helping that the chairs next to him remained accusingly empty. Their expected guests worryingly still absent, and no reassuring phone call to let him know that all was well.

He forced himself to focus his concentration on the parade of graduates making their way in an orderly fashion. A steady stream up the center aisle as they awkwardly marched along to the music. The school band was playing a decidedly amateur rendition of Pomp and Circumstance, with a lead trumpet that was doing his best to outplay the rest of the musicians.

Probably a good thing considering that there was more than an occasional register squeak from the woodwind section, and a less than enthusiastic bass drummer that kept skipping a beat and throwing everyone's timing off.

Dean could see him before he was anywhere even remotely near. The hazards of having your last name beginning at the end of the alphabet meaning you were perpetually at the end of a line. Several inches taller than the majority of his classmates, Sam was a dark tower bringing up the rear of the procession. All chestnut curls tucked under that ridiculous cap, tassel swaying as he strode along.

A smile that was bursting with happiness and dimples so deep you could swim in them.

By the time Sam had made it to the front row of the audience, on his way to climb up the center stairs to the stage, he took a quick glance at where he knew his family and friends should have been seated, and the grin immediately faltered and didn't recover.

Dean tried not to be hurt when his little brother realized that his elder sibling was the only one in attendance to witness the culmination of all his years of hard work, but it was a difficult task.

Sam climbed the stage, the very one where he had made his theater debut a few months ago, and hardened his heart against the lack of familial support. That his father hadn't managed to make it today shouldn't have surprised him, but sadly, it still did. The additional absence of Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim, the other two adult role models that had always been present in his life, only complicated matters even more.

It was painfully difficult to accept that almost no one in your life cared about supporting you on such an important day. So many hours worked on his studies. So many fun activities given up over the years so that he had the necessary time to dedicate himself to achieving top grades under the least optimum circumstances.

How many times had Sam put aside his school work to do research for Dad? For Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim, for that matter? And Caleb? Well, shamefully Sam hadn't even thought about inviting Caleb, to be honest.

Although he really should have.

Sitting in his chair of honor, as the class valedictorian, Sam couldn't even put a finger on why he hadn't thought about the man that was almost like another older brother to him. Maybe because Caleb was too much like Dad, and some subconscious part of Sam knew without being told that John's protege wouldn't make the time for something as frivolous as a high school graduation.

Or it could have been the discomforting fact that Caleb was almost like another son to John. A son, like Dean, committed to the cause and willing to snap to whenever Sam's dad barked an order.

Unlike Sam.

The rebellious and continuous disappointment of the family that didn't even rate his father's presence here today.

In Sam's hands were a small stack of papers that he had been allowed to march with, given that he had a speech to deliver. For days he had worked on the version that he submitted to the advisory committee for approval. Somehow, his slick tongue had managed to craft the wholesome inspirational words that he first knew would be what was expected and required by him. Drawing upon random incidents that sounded good on paper, but had no actual meaning in his life.

Expounding on encounters with, and advice given, by people that Sam honestly couldn't care less if he ever saw or spoke to again.

But at the bottom of those pages was a second version.

The one that the committee had never seen, and would not have the chance to stop Sam from delivering should he so choose.

The one that was honest and sincere, where Sam genuinely commended and gave thanks for the men in his life that had truly made him the person he had become. Even if the stories he had to tell about them were a little darker and grittier than family friendly fluff. Without disclosing their true professions as he spoke of them, the contents might be a tad on the disturbing side for the general audience, but they would have real meaning for Sam and the men he was honoring.

The father that molded him in a million different ways. Some good, and some bad, but Sam really only wanted to concentrate on the good today. The surrogate uncle that taught Sam the love of research and a hundred and one uses for a bottle of whiskey. The clergyman who had always been a source of spiritual guidance as well as a reminder that you could love your fellow man and still kick some ass.

And, of course, his big brother.

Who meant so much, and had done so much, and was loved so much, that were just no words to adequately describe the influence he had on Sam's life.

It was this part of the speech that Sam was still unhappy with, even after several drafts. Simply because, no matter how he phrased it, the sentiments never seemed to do his brother enough justice. Words frustratingly failed the mostly eloquent young scholar, exactly when he had needed them the most.

This was the kind of place where decent people didn't cause a scene if it could be helped, and an unapproved, altered valedictory speech that wasn't in any way offensive wouldn't start a ruckus before Sam could finish it.

In a daze, Sam sat through the opening prayer. The gratuitous ramblings of the invited speakers, and the droning of the customary anecdotes by the administration. The songs that were warbled out by the school choir, and another slow tempo and off key offering from the band.

All fuzzy and muffled in his mind because his focus was solely on the empty seats in the front row.

When the time came for Sam to step up to the podium and do honor to the true influences of his life, still hurt by the absences, he made a last minute decision to deliver the safe speech. Of course it was well received, because Sam knew how to play the game. Knew who to flatter and amuse with his humility and witty anecdotes.

And he studiously avoided the confused look on his brother's face as Dean failed to recognize these unknown random people that Sam was waxing poetic about.

Afterwards, there was the loud applause of a polite audience, including his brother. No longer frowning his confusion, but just looking genuinely proud, regardless of the nonsense Sam had just spouted. Sam hadn't failed to notice that his brother had taken several camera shots during his speech, and even as he retook his seat he wondered if he would ever be able to look at them and not feel sadness and regret.

After almost an hour of ceremonial drivel, when the graduates were to the point of melting on the stage from the warmth and suffocation of their polyester gowns, they finally came to the end of the program where they were called in turn to receive their diplomas.

Third to last, which was not uncommon when your name was Winchester, Sam's name was announced and the polite crowd once again clapped their approval for the dear young man who had stirred their emotions with his fraudulent words.

It was only when Sam made the obligatory turn forward, photo ready with his diploma in one hand, while his other shook the principal's, that he saw that his brother was on his feet and cheering wildly for him, camera flashing madly in his hands.

Shouting out enough love and enthusiasm to make up for two full rows of family members.

Only then did Sam stop to think that Dean, and the rest of the audience, had deserved to hear the words that Sam had to say in regards to the most important person in his life.

Sadly, it was just too late.

/

The first thing he experiences is the sound of excruciating torment.

He feels himself striding along a dark tunnel surrounded by screams and whimpers. Pleas for release and absolution, and even though he doesn't quite understand what is going on, somehow he knows that salvation will never come to the wretches who choke out the sounds.

It's stifling hot and the air is heavily weighted with the stench of fire, smoke and sulfur. A dusting of ash falls in every direction without letting up and it coats him briefly until the next gust of putrid air washes over him. There is a crunching noise under his feet that he ignores for the most part, but it doesn't even seem to phase him when he gives the ground a cursory glance to notice that he is treading on a pathway of skulls and other human bones.

He just keeps walking.

Dark, shadowy figures begin to appear in his peripheral vision, but he pays them no mind.

They are beneath him.

Existing only to serve him and follow him wherever he decides to go. A steady stream of sallow supplicants bowing and scraping. Shielding their faces from his gaze because they know they are not worthy of his recognition, and to have that sort of presumption will only anger him and bring pain and suffering upon themselves.

It's an endless walk along the path of skeletons. The crowd behind him increases and swells as he treads his way into the blackness. The hum of his legion slowly beginning to overtake the futile cries of the damned in his ears. With him setting the tempo, their gait becomes steadily more uniform, building as it reaches the militaristic formation of an army regiment. Until it eventually becomes a sea of faceless soldiers marching to his leadership.

He sees it now.

The gate that he somehow knows is the barrier between his world and the one he is meant to conquer.

Striding forward, no fear, a sneer on his face that denotes the feeling rushing through him that is a mixture of exhilaration and pleasure.

He wants this.

No. He needs this.

This is what he was born for. This is what he has trained for.

One last surge as he pushes closer to his destination. His blood pumping hot and fast as his heart rate thrums and adrenaline shoots pure electrical energy through his veins.

He's almost there.

Muscles tightening, preparing for combat. He's every bit the warrior his father has taught him to be. Every bit as lethal and brutal, the killing machine his training has carved him into. He's an unstoppable force of deadly intent, and woe to those that oppose him.

The gate is close enough to almost touch it. Within his grasp if he stretches his hand just a little further.

He's ready.

He's primed, and it's time to show everyone that ever doubted him exactly what he is made of.

And then he stops.

Sees them lying bloody and battered in front of the gate.

Crumpled in a heap of entangled limbs and covered in bruises and ash. One figure motionless and prone, lying strewn across the lap of the other. Held in a tender embrace, with the head of the other bent and shaking.

He stares.

Vestiges of memory intruding in his mind and muddling his concentration. He doesn't know why their presence halts his progress.

They are nothing.

He is everything.

Unstoppable and uncaring, and how dare they impede his progress?

Then the bowed figure slowly looks up, and to his horror he recognizes the beaten face of his own father. Bereft and broken as he futilely gathers the other body closer to his chest. In the motion, the face of the other lolls enough to reveal the pale, freckled visage of his brother. Awash in rust colored streaks, his lifeless green eyes stare blindly at nothing, because he's just an empty shell now. His brother is long gone.

"Why?" his father asks, desolation and anguish heavy in his throat. "We always loved you."

He realizes then, that he has done this.

Somehow, his actions have served to destroy his family. His brother's gruesome end, firmly at his own hands, and suddenly he can't control the impulse that comes over him to do what he needs to and bring about his father's demise as well.

He moves without forethought. His motions steady, strong and determined as he shoves his brother's corpse off to the side like so much garbage as he reaches for his father and wraps his large corded hands around the man's neck.

Feeling nothing, he squeezes until his father's eyes, so similar to his own, bulge out of their sockets and he watches with satisfaction when the man takes his last breath and the lights go out. Without remorse, he shoves the body away like it's diseased and he straightens up and cracks his neck.

This is how it was always supposed to end. He has always known that he is different.

Tainted and unclean.

An abomination. Dirty and foul, no matter how much he prayed or how hard he tried to be kind and decent. Unworthy of the love of his family or anyone else. It is his destiny to be here among the depraved and the filth.

There had never been another choice.

Off to the side, almost out of view, a pair of yellow eyes shimmer in the blackness.

"You're my favorite, Sam."

/

"NO!"

Sam shoots upright in his bed like he's been launched from a cannon. His bedroom is pitch black in the moonless night. His breathing is harsh and making his chest ache as he gasps for air. Drenched in sweat, his t-shirt is plastered to his skin and the bed covers are bunched and tangled in his long legs.

On cue, he hears the frantic pounding of his brother's footsteps in the hallway a second before his door bursts open. Dean has his Colt held steadily in his right hand as he sweeps the room for any dangers. Once he's satisfied that they are not being attacked, he flips the safety back on and lays it down on Sam's dresser before striding across the room to where his little brother is trembling in his bed.

"Sammy? You okay?"

Still attempting to calm down, Sam nods shakily, feeling equal measures of embarrassment and fear under his big brother's scrutiny. It's been over a year since he had this recurring nightmare. Long enough that he had felt that it might be gone for good. As if the comfort of their home was enough to keep the darkness at bay.

Dean takes a deep breath, his face clouded with worry. He recognizes it for what it is. Sam has always been prone to night terrors since he could walk, which is one of the reasons why Dad decided to keep the nature of the family business a secret for as long as he did from his youngest. Surprisingly, knowing the truth had actually helped to ease some of the fear from Sam's sleeping mind.

Eventually, it was just the one recurring, truly horrific nightmare that remained. The one that Sam would never share the details of with his father or brother.

At one point, when Sam was about thirteen, the frequency and intensity had gotten so bad that both John and Dean gave actual consideration to the idea of Sam seeing an expert about it. Not a licensed mental health professional, mind you, because they weren't the average people after all. But there were certain individuals in their line of work that specialized in dealing with this sort of thing.

A shaman that John had worked with in the past, and trusted, spoke with Sam on two occasions and eventually provided the dream catcher that was hung over every bed that Sam slept in for years. It seemed to work well enough, and the frequency of the nightmare tapered off until it became a very rare occurrence.

Rare enough that they had never even bothered to install it in the bedroom in Sioux Falls. Instead it hung on the false bottom of the Impala, just above the grenade launcher, and traveled with them when they met up with Dad, just in case it was needed.

Sam shuffles back so that he is leaning against the headboard and studiously attempting to avert his brother's probing stare. It's not that he doesn't realize that Dean is just worried about him, but after years of being the family freak with the night terrors, he had been hoping that they were gone for good.

"I'm fine, Dean. Just go back to sleep."

Dean huffs and shakes his head. Kid can be so damn stubborn, and there's just no need for it. Sammy can't help it if this happens, and Dean knows that his little brother is going to keep himself up all night in an attempt to stay awake so that he doesn't have to suffer through it again tonight.

"Yeah, sure. C'mon, tough guy. Let's go put one of your crap movies on for a while."

He reaches down and grasps Sam by the forearm and yanks him to his feet, fully expecting Sam to follow him downstairs, which he does with an obligatory show of resignation.

Down in the living room, Dean pushes his little brother to sit on the couch, grabs The Empire Strikes Back video tape and puts it on. After years of coping with Sam's nightmares, Dean knows that nothing relaxes the kid like some classic Sci-Fi, and Empire is a favorite of both brothers. Sam's preferred genre of film is dark fantasy, but he can't handle them when he's already a cauldron of fear.

Dean darts into the mud room long enough to grab a clean tee from the basket of folded laundry. It doesn't matter that it's Dad's stuff. In fact, tonight it might help. He strides back into the living room and holds it out for Sam to take, which he does after a second of hesitation.

Sam pulls off his own soiled shirt and replaces it with his father's USMC tee, blushing slightly since it's no secret to any of the Winchesters that this is Sam's comfort shirt, and the reason Dad has kept it as long as he has, as Dean throws the other off to the side.

Still tense, Sam curls up on the couch, tucking his long legs underneath him and wraps his arms around his torso. He can't seem to stop shivering, and after a second of contemplation, Dean grabs Dad's hand-me-down leather jacket from the hall closet and tentatively offers it, knowing that in all likelihood, Sam will reject it like he has many times in the past.

Surprisingly, Sam grabs it and covers himself, muttering a quiet thank you, unable to look his brother in the eye. It speaks volumes about how shaken up the kid is if he willingly takes the coat, which doesn't do anything good for Dean's unease.

Not wanting to stand there and stare at Sam, Dean heads into the kitchen, taking the sweat soaked shirt with him to throw in the mud room, and pulls a gallon of milk out of the fridge. He pours some in a small pot and puts it on the stove, adding some sugar and cinnamon to it.

While he waits for it to heat up, he ponders Sam's episode, not entirely surprised. The nightmare tends to occur when Sammy is especially upset and overly tired. More often than not, some conflict with Dad is also a contributing factor.

Quite frankly, Dean was expecting this the night of the big college fight, but it didn't happen. He had chalked it up to the fact that the fight took place in the early morning, and by nightfall, Sam wasn't upset, he was just pissed off. With Dad, Bobby and Jim missing graduation today, which was clearly devastating to his little brother, it was no wonder the kid was having a restless night's sleep.

Just before it scalds, he turns off the heat, adds a generous measure of bourbon and swirls it in the pot to mix it before pouring it in Sam's favorite coffee mug. By the time he returns to the living room, Sam is scrunched up under the coat and leaning far back into the couch, his eyes betraying a few stray tears.

Shit

Sammy only cries if the nightmare runs its full course. A hazard of having his own room, because Dean can interrupt its progress when they are sleeping side by side. Since his little brother refused to talk about it, Dean didn't know exactly what it was about the big finale that terrified his kid so much, but apparently tonight Sam got the full showing.

"Dad's sleepy time cure-all," he says sympathetically, making no reference to Sammy's red eyes as he passes the mug over. "Guaranteed to knock you so far on your ass, you don't care what your dreams do."

"Thanks," Sam sniffs, as he takes the mug and sips from it.

Their father, in one of his many non-parenting group approved moves, always answered restless nights with spiced milk and bourbon. It probably wasn't the healthiest method to get his boys back to sleep, but Dean had to admit that it had always worked. Sam was big enough and old enough to handle the double shot of the bourbon that it was obvious he was going to need tonight.

On the screen, they watch Han slice open the belly of the tauntaun and shove Luke inside to keep him warm.

"Man, that's just gross," Dean says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "If that ever happens to us? Let my ass freeze. Okay?"

It works, drawing out the tiniest smile and a nod from his little brother as he takes another sip, and they don't talk for awhile as the movie plays.

Once Sam is finished with his mug, Dean sees his eyes become heavier, and it's about time too, considering how much he doctored the drink. He's not going to push the kid to go back upstairs until Sam decides for himself. If little brother wants to stay downstairs all night and watch cheesy eighties fantasy movies, then that's what they are going to do.

By the time the movie almost finishes, a slightly tipsy Sammy is listing towards Dean, and the older brother shifts slightly so the kid can relax against his shoulder and stretch out those ridiculously long legs down the length of the couch. He almost doesn't hear it when Sam finally breaks the silence.

"You think he's okay?"

Dean knows who he is. It's been eating him up inside all day, and truthfully he wasn't even asleep when he heard Sam's cry of distress earlier. Dean's at least been expecting an update from either Bobby or Jim, and the fact that none of them are answering their phones is enough to drive the older brother directly up the wall.

He really and truly hates unanswered calls.

"He'll be fine, kiddo," he soothes, forcing himself to keep his voice from breaking up. "He always is, isn't he?"

Dean feels Sam's head nod against his shoulder, and thankfully little brother isn't able to see Dean's face because he's pretty sure that the worry he's trying to mask is glaringly apparent. He's never been able to hide his emotions from his brother like he can with everyone else. An inevitable consequence of living in close quarters their entire lives.

Sam's not willing to go back upstairs, and Dean doesn't suggest it. When Empire ends, Dean mentally rejects putting on Return of the Jedi. The last thing either of them need right now is to watch a movie where the absentee father dies at the end just as he makes peace with his son. Instead he grabs Highlander and gets that started while he makes Sammy another milk and bourbon.

Halfway through the second mug, just around the time that the Highlander is drunk and getting repeatedly stabbed during the duel for calling a man's wife a bloated warthog, a bleary, slightly drunk Sammy lists enough that he is dangerously close to falling into Dean's lap.

A comfort position that the younger brother reserves solely for his dad.

Dean grabs the mug before it makes an unscheduled descent to the floor and deposits it on the coffee table. He pulls the throw pillow from behind his own back, lays it on his lap and guides Sam's flopping head down until he is resting on it. Sam resists feebly for a minute, before he gives in, shifting his lanky body around until he is lying the length of the couch.

Pride be damned, Dean decides. Both of them are worried, stressed and hurting. An exception can be made.

As the movie progresses, Dean is sure that Sammy is thisclose to falling back to sleep, so he's surprised when he hears his little brother's quiet voice.

"I would never hurt you. Or Dad."

The remark shocks Dean into silence, and he sits for a few seconds blinking hard and wondering just what prompted that.

"Of course not, Sammy. Why would you even say that?"

Sam rubs his face tiredly into the pillow, and Dean can tell from the tension in his body that the kid is agitated, so he rubs Sam's back like he did when his little brother was so much tinier and freaked out from his terrors. It seems to calm Sam enough for him to relax a little more and he sighs deeply.

"I swear. I wouldn't. You have to believe me."

On top of his already abused bundle of nerves, Dean doesn't know how to deal with this disconcerting line of conversation right now. Sammy is the most kind and gentle person Dean knows, so why the kid could even think he needed to vocalize an assurance to Dean that he wouldn't cause him injury is just a little more than the older brother can mentally process right now. All he wants to do is get his kid back to sleep.

Without the terrors this time, thank you very much.

"I believe you, Sammy," he soothes, as he continues to rub the knots of tension out of his brother's back. "Shhh, kiddo. Go back to sleep now."

And thankfully, Sam does just that.

The brothers are still asleep on their couch as Saturday morning dawns. Somewhere, during the second showing of Highlander, Dean finished Sam's milk and bourbon and then lost his own battle against impending slumber.

Exhausted, with a little booze miring his consciousness, it takes Dean a minute to realize that his phone is vibrating in his pocket. He manages to retrieve it, but not without waking his brother, and is too drowsy to look at the Caller ID. Sam stirs just enough to hear the sound of Dean answering his phone.

"Hello? Oh, thank God."

/

The boys are waiting anxiously by the front door when Bobby drives the Sierra into their driveway. The minute they hear the black truck's engine roaring to a halt they are both on their feet and rushing out the door to assist their father lying battered in the passenger seat.

Between the two of them, it only takes a few minutes to get Dad into his basement suite since they have gone in through the lower back entrance that avoids the stairs in the house. John is terribly bruised. Obviously the worse for wear, but somehow he still manages to embrace both of his children before collapsing on his bed. Dean does his best to divest his father of his soiled clothes while Sam kneels to work the knots out of John's boot laces before tugging them off.

For the next several hours, they take turns standing watch as John sleeps. He's about as damaged as the boys have ever seen him when a hospital wasn't involved. Bobby, as always, refuses to impart any details about what has taken place, other than to assure them that their father will recover after a few days of rest. Dean wants to throttle the salvage man and force him to give them information, but he knows it won't do any good. Bobby may not always agree with John, but he generally will respect their father's wishes if he thinks it's for the boys' own good.

The day and the night pass quietly without much being said. As if the brothers are waiting silently for their father to regain alertness enough to talk to them about what has been going on, although they both know that it is unlikely that the details will ever be forthcoming. It's enough to set Sam's teeth on edge, because he truly hates being left in the dark like some incapable child who can't be trusted with the family secrets.

It makes him even more irate when Dean doesn't seem to exhibit the same need to know. Blindly accepting their father's elusiveness and secretiveness as simply facts of life.

During the night, John has stirred into consciousness twice. Enough so that Dean can help him use the bathroom before shuffling back to bed and then immediately back to sleep. This isn't a new occurrence in their world unfortunately. The drill already learned and practiced over the years. He keeps his dad hydrated as best as he can until John can handle a little bit of nutrients, but it won't yet be for a while.

In the morning, Dean leaves his father's bedside long enough to slip upstairs for some coffee. He's surprised to find that Sam is already there with a freshly brewed pot, along with some eggs and bacon that he serves Dean on a plate. Dean throws his brother a surprised look because Sam never cooks for them.

Ever

The younger brother just shrugs and pushes the plate towards him with a little more insistence, not saying anything because he would never voice the true reason for making his big brother breakfast today to Dean.

It would be uncomfortable for both of them.

Dean's not one to look a bacon gift horse in the mouth, so he happily takes the plate and devours it in record time, surprising himself with just how hungry he actually was. Thinking back on it, he doesn't really remember eating the day before. His only time in the kitchen being the two times he had put together some sandwiches for Sammy.

Sam smiles and pushes Dean towards the couch, knowing that his brother is practically dead on his feet with exhaustion. With Dad home, and relatively okay, and Sammy safe and definitely okay, Dean can finally lower his guard and get some rest.

He's asleep under the blanket Sam throws on him before Sam even makes his way back to the kitchen.

Standing at the stove, Sam puts together another plate of eggs and bacon and carries it downstairs to his father's room, just in case. Seeing his dad still out for the count, face marred with abuse that Sam can't even begin to comprehend the origins of, and looking too much like the night terror of two nights ago, Sam shoves the breakfast plate onto the dresser by the doorway before he darts into the bathroom and throws up his own meager breakfast into the toilet as quietly as he can manage.

He sits on the cool floor of the bathroom and rests his head against the glass panel of the shower until he is sure that the waves of nausea are gone before he climbs onto to his feet and pads back over to his father's side. Dad hasn't been disturbed by the noise, which is worrying enough, since even when John is injured, his guard remains up.

Feeling sad and tired in a way that he can't begin to describe, Sam slides down the wall next to his father's bed and sits on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. He looks up at his dad's battered face and feels his blood run cold, and it's all he can to do keep from climbing into John's bed and clinging to his father like he did when he was small and scared.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad."

/

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be a routine hunt. Just a quick job to ease the boys back into the hunting life. A simple salt and burn because John's still recovering from his time in New York. They're just cleaning out the resident restless spirit of an old Victorian home where the workmen restoring it were getting killed by their own power tools.

A job the Winchesters had done a thousand times. Something almost mundane in their world, if you could call anything that they did mundane.

It wasn't supposed to happen with Sam distracted and too angry over another argument he had with Dad on the trip down to remember to check his blind spots.

I wasn't supposed to end with Dean in the back of an ambulance being revived for the second time while Sam cowered in a corner, arms curled around his head in anguish amid the mess of medical equipment, shaking from the knowledge that it was all his fault.

/

Hanging up his phone, Richard Hopkins exhaled loudly enough that his wife could hear him in the next room and concernedly ask if he was okay.

Everything was fine, he assured her.

He took her in his arms and practically sagged with relief as he held her tight enough to threaten her own air supply. Feeling a giddiness that he hadn't felt since he was told that his son would live.

Sam Winchester had just informed him that he was going to Stanford after all.

Everything was just fine.

/