Sam thumbed open his textbook and settled into the desk in the lecture hall. They were always too small for him and he had to splay his legs awkwardly out in front of him. He was breathing heavily from his mad dash through campus. Sometimes getting to places on time was difficult without a car. A green pulp of mulched grass fell onto the page and Sam noticed that his tan arms, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, had bits and pieces of lawn stuck to them. He hadn't had time to change after his landscaping job. He felt awful showing up to class sweaty and probably smelling like gas-powered lawn mower fumes so he'd taken a seat in the back of the lecture hall away from as many people as he could. He brushed the grass clippings onto the floor and thought about how hungry he was. And now tired.

His vision swam for a moment as he tried to pull focus on the text. The band-aid on his forearm scraped against the book edge and started bleeding again, judging by the widening red stain. This morning he'd nicked himself on the brush trimmer and the worried old lady client insisted on covering it with a large adhesive strip. Sam had gone back to work and didn't have time to tend to it before class.

He noticed a speck of blood ping onto the table and Sam blinked, examining his arm. It took him a minute to register that the blood wasn't from his lawn care wound. He felt something warm and wet on his upper lip. It was a damn nose bleed.

He blinked and stood up, trying to keep crouched down so his tall form didn't block anyone's view as he worked his way toward the exit to use the bathroom.

The professor gave him a cursory nod as he left. He wandered into the hall in time for a blinding wave of pain to lance through his head. He winced and pushed his hand against his temple, staggered over to the wall and sagged against its immovable strength.

He stayed there, bracing his weight on his elbow, teeth gritted, waiting for the pain to abate. Instead, he got a flash of Dean's face illuminated by flame as he wrestled Sam away from the inferno.

His heart sped up. Was Dean okay? And then the movie reel in his mind unspooled and he was standing in Stanford once more.

Sam hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a wad of tissue from a toilet roll and stanched the bleeding. It ebbed to a stop finally and he sighed with relief, ran his hands under some cool water, then splashed it on his face. He looked up at himself. He looked terrible, sweaty, dirty, his bangs awry. He just had to power through class and get some sleep.

He headed back to sociology, still tired, and sat down-a little shaky from not having had time to eat. The topic was disadvantaged youth in modern society. Sam scratched down his notes, feeling his body tense as they moved into alcoholism. How it affected the family. The kids became defensive, withdrawn, combative or unable to express emotion. Para-alcoholics...a disease, a pathology somehow bestowed upon a family member even when they'd never taken a sip of alcohol.

Sam's shoulders tightened.

There was the message. Again and again. You can't be normal if your parent drank. Damaged goods. Tainted. Doomed to fail. An impossible cycle to escape.

Sam raised his hand.

The professor nodded in his direction. "Mr. Winchester."

"This sounds to me as if it's essentially giving the message to people who have had to deal with a parent with alcoholism that you can't be functional if it's touched your past."

The professor paused and raised an eyebrow. "That isn't essentially what the studies are saying though, Sam. Statistically you are unlikely to remain unaltered by such an experience."

"Have they ever bothered looking into how the message we're given affects the people learning it? If you tell people they have no chance, does that affect how they go about their lives? Does it affect what they think they're capable of? I'd argue that it does."

The professor stepped up in front of his desk and looked and Sam's face.

He snorted. "Are you and child of an alcoholic, Sam?"

Sam's jaw tightened a little. "I'm not certain how that is relevant."

"I would say your questioning of this discourse shows that it's quite relevant to you."

Sam wasn't thrown off his stride. When his mind was set to verbal debate, he knew where he was going. It drove his father and Dean, neither who were particularly verbally dexterous, crazy. "I would say with the way the studies are set up- there is a bias that they are written with. They pathologize character traits that most people have; there's no way to win. If I sit back and listen to the information and take it as fact, then I'm accepting my role as a scapegoat. If I challenge the information like I'm doing now then I'm a Para-alcoholic reacting defensively to new information. If I withdraw socially and take in information before adding my own input, then I'm a people pleaser reacting based off my victimhood status. If I jump into debate right away and do my own thing, then I'm antisocial and a rebel looking to defend my ego." Sam was just winding up. "So ironically, the study of disenfranchised social groups further disenfranchises them by: One..." he raised his finger, "putting it in their mind that they most likely can't rise above their birth circumstances. And two..." he held up another finger, "it sets up society's expectations that they can't either. How does this affect employers? How about people entering relationships?"

The professor blinked and laughed dryly. "Well I'd say you're definitely showing how relevant your past is just in that selection of statements."

That's it? Sam thought. That's his answer? I'm thinking this way because I'm a child of an alcoholic?

"My questions aren't relevant then?" Sam countered.

"Oh they're relevant. It's just that you aren't capable of seeing things objectively, so engaging in discourse with someone who has a vested interest in the subject is counterproductive."

"So my questions are dismissed because I'm the child of an alcoholic."

"I'm not dismissing them. I'm just doubting the efficacy of discussing it because of who you are."

"Thus demonstrating my point, Prof Beek. Dismissing what I say because of who I am is an ad hominem attack, by the way."

Sam saw the expression shift from open amusement at Sam's impertinence to annoyance at having his authority questioned. "Would you like to teach the class, Mr. Winchester?"

"No, sir." Sam shrank a little at the rebuke. He should have kept his mouth shut. But he was sick of every class telling him he couldn't succeed because of who he was. It was bullshit. He felt invisible. Deflated.


Sam limped back to his dorm. He needed a Tylenol and a drink. Open beer bottles weren't allowed on campus but he didn't care about the fucking rules right now. Must be from his para-alcoholism, he thought bitterly.

He felt a text ping in on his phone. It was Jess.

:Hey? Wanna meet at Zach and Rebeccas? I made cookies.:

He paused, torn. He could take a nap there he supposed. He looked like hell but he had long ago mastered 4 minute showers. He could pause in the communal bathroom and freshen up, change clothes, without it hardly delaying him at all. He unlocked his dorm room, grabbed a new set of clothes and headed back out.


"Hey!" Jess greeted him with a happy smile when he walked through the door.

"Hi." He said tiredly, his face brightening for a second when he saw her.

"Oh, Sam." She studied him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm so tired," he said. "I hope you aren't looking for conversation." He flopped himself down at the kitchen table. "Do they have beer?"

Jess got some out of the fridge and slid the bottle to him. He could smell chocolate chip cookies on the air. He shook his head, his hair still damp.

"You've been working like a dog," She said. "Haven't seen you all week."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Jess sat down across from him and her gaze settled on his forearm. The band-aid had peeled off in the shower and the jagged cut that ran down from his elbow was on display. He saw Jess' eyes light on it.

"Oh Sam! What did you do?"

He frowned and twisted his arm to peer at it. "Um. I weed whacked my arm hair."

"Jeez." She stood up and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam heard her open the medicine cabinet and rummage around. "It's gonna get infected if you leave it." She told him from the other room

He sighed, looked up at her with puppy eyes as she came back out with supplies. "Jess. I'm okay. Really."

"You are not." She sat down and carefully took his wrist and rotated it, he winced a little. "Jeez, Sam. This is really bad."

"It's not that bad," he told her, studying it himself dispassionately.

She dabbed at it with a cotton ball and peroxide. The formula made made a fizzing sound as it bubbled against the open wound.

Sam winced a little.

"Stings?" She asked.

"Yeah." He grimaced.

She slathered Neosporin on it and covered it with a gauze pad and some tape. Then got up and tossed the trash under the sink before she washed her hands.

"You're danger prone. My mom used to lecture me about being danger prone when I skinned my knees as a Kid. I was always falling off my stupid bike. I had one of those pink ones with the dumb as pom poms on the handle bars." She wiped her hands on the striped barcloth hanging on the cupboard. "You know moms."

Sam bit his lip and said nothing. He had no point of reference. No bike as a child and no mom to tend his wounds.

Jessica took the plate of chocolate chip cookies off the stove and set them down in front of him with her sweet smile.

Sam's breath caught at it and he had to blink back a sudden surge of tears. She grabbed one, not noticing and munched on it, nibbling around the chips. "I always like the chips better than the dough...mom would be mad because I left half the cookie uneaten. Anyway I wanted to make you a batch."

She looked up at him, her mouth full. A crumb of chocolate on one of her pouty lips. She studied his expression and swallowed. "Hey. What's wrong? Don't you like chocolate chip?"

"I love chocolate chip." He replied, his gaze falling to the plate of cookies. He reached out and snagged one, held it between his fingers before he took a bite. It was really good. He wasn't sure he'd ever had freshly baked cookies, except that one time he and Dean grabbed the ready-made Pillsbury log of dough to cut up and throw in Bobby's ancient oven. They'd managed to burn them and piss Bobby off when they set off the smoke alarm.

Bobby.

Dean.

Sam teared up again and tried to blink it back down.

Jess cocked her head. "Sam. Hey, what's wrong?"

He averted his gaze, throat tight with the effort of keeping a rein on his emotion.

"The cookies that bad?" She joked.

He snorted a laugh. "No one has ever baked me cookies before." His voice was soft.

She brushed her hair behind her shoulder and said nothing. But he saw the hesitancy in her eyes. Was she wondering just how damaged he was?

Maybe the sociology professor was right. Maybe there was something irreversibly broken about him. Something spoiled and irreparable. Maybe normalcy was going to hurt as much as the abnormal had. Maybe more because Sam wasn't used to it. Would never be. Would try to sabotage any happiness because he didn't deserve it.

He sat quietly...warring with himself.

"I can bake more where this came from you know." She joked. "It's just cookies." Jess elbowed him on the shoulder. Sam went with the motion then took a swig of his beer.

"I'm not usually like this. I'm just so...tired." he replied. "I'm really...overwhelmed at the moment."

"Okay," Jess replied. "That's obvious. Maybe you should sack out on the couch and get some sleep."

"I'm kinda big for the couch." He countered.

"If you scrunch up you'll fit."

"Jess...thanks for the cookies." He said softly.

She turned and looked at him. "You're welcome."

He traced a cookie before him absently with his pointer finger before he finally committed to taking it. "They really are good."

"I'm a good baker. Not the best chef but I'll cook the hell out of a pie."

"If only my brother heard you say that." Sam choked up again and berated himself mentally for being a fucking moron. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and swallowed.

He could feel Jessica's concerned eyes on him. He was probably scaring her a little. "Dean isn't...nothing bad happened to him recently, right?" She asked hesitantly.

"Yeah." Sam replied still managing to keep the tears at bay. "He's fine. We just haven't spoken in a while."

He breathed out slowly and took another cookie. He ate it in a few bites. "These are really good." He said finally mastering himself.

"You can talk to me, you know.: She told him.

He nodded, unsure if he could trust his voice. He looked away from her, knowing he really couldn't talk to anyone about his past. Ever. That it was his burden to carry. His secret to keep.

"Sam." Jessica took his hand.

"Jess." He closed his eyes. "Please..."

He ached so badly. Everything ached. His heart. His body. His mind.

Her delicate hands squeezed his fingers. "It's okay."

He nodded and swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to set you off."

"What?" Sam asked. "No. You didn't. My whole day is just... I've been working a lot." He decided to open up with what he could. "And I was in class and we were talking about alcoholism and it just made me think about my dad. "

"He's a drinker too, huh?"

Sam nodded. "He just. He never got himself together after my mom died. He couldn't... he wasn't there and even when he was, he wasn't. A lot of shit fell on Dean that shouldn't have and..." Sam paused. "I feel like I..." he broke off, painfully aware he was revealing too much.

"You what?" Jess pried gently.

"I..." Sam let out a slow breath through his mouth. He'd reined in his tears but his hands were trembling. Her warm palm felt like a life line. Like something to grab onto. He shrugged, out of words, pulled his hands away and wiped them on his jeans.

Sam felt his eyes well with tears. He blinked and tried to swallow them back down.

"Oh, hey." Jess' expression went soft with compassion. She reached out and touched his handsome face, a gentle brush of her hand against the high plane of his cheek bone. The gesture made the young Winchester catch his breath in pain. He scrunched his eyes shut, nose wrinkling in distress.

"Oh, Sam."

He felt her arms encircle him. She pulled him into her embrace. He stiffened and then went sideways with the movement and found himself pressed against her chest. Her heart under his ear, the soft roundness of her breasts against his cheek.

It triggered something unfamiliar in him. Some old inexpressible pain. He gritted his teeth against it, tense, unyielding.

Jess remained soft and tender, but strong, pressing his ear against her. She leaned down and ghosted a kiss over the top of his head. Her long blonde hair soft, tickling the slope of his nose.

Her warmth felt safe, reassuring, but the pain rose in him again and he couldn't swallow the lump in his throat. It hurt. Everything hurt so badly suddenly. All of it. Everything. Dean's anger, his family abandoning him, being misunderstood, having to go it alone. Knowing he couldn't go back. Yet not wanting to. Brady changing and lost innocence and ghosts and knowing things he shouldn't have ever had to know. He even felt bad he'd never had a mother.

Sam broke with a soft hiccuping sob of breath.

Jess pressed him tighter to her. "Shhh. It's okay, Sam."

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

"No. Don't be." He wondered if he should pull away but she seemed content to hold him and most of him wanted to stay right there.

The female affection felt foreign to him. Weakness like this had always been dealt with through the lens of men. By Dean's joking put downs, calling him a pansy, changing the subject. Or Dad's expectation that he suck it up and do what he had to do. At best he'd get a rough hug from Bobby and an affectionately grumbled "get it together, ya idjit."

This. This distinctly female reaction to nurture, to just hold him, to soothe him was completely beyond his experience. He didn't know what to do. It made him WANT to break. To indulge his weakness.

He sighed into her. Comforted for a minute, but the swell of her breasts beneath his cheek started to make his body react, even if his mind was still unsettled.

He broke away and cleared his throat.

Jess touched his jawline. "You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

Sam scrubbed away the remnants of his tears with his hand, he measured his breathing, pushing for control. He huffed and smiled shyly, he gave a small shake of his head.

Jess studied him. "What? You don't have to be embarrassed in front of me, Sam."

"I'm just..." he shrugged, his dimples showing as he tightened his lips for a second. "This just feels weird, you know."

He read the hurt on her face.

He realized what it sounded like. "No! Jessica, not like that! I'm just..." he trailed off and slanted his gaze sideways. "I'm... well I guess I..." he paused trying to figure out what he was trying to vocalize. "I'm... wow." He broke off.

"Hey." She reached for his hand again and clasped it in hers. "What?"

His fingers tightened around her smaller palm for a moment before he let his grip go lax. "I grew up with men... like all men. Just my dad and my brother, my uncle Bobby...just guys."

Jess smiled at him sweetly. "Lot of testosterone."

"Yeah..." he didn't understand how he could have such an education under his belt and yet still be stuck for words most of the time.

Jess stood up and brushed her fingers through his soft brown hair. "What are ya trying to tell me?"

Sam shrugged. "This is new for me. I guess."

"Being allowed to fall apart?"

"Yeah." Sam gave a half nod. "Yeah. I'm... Dad wasn't one for emotional displays."

"Well you know what?" Jess' hand stilled in his hair.

"What?"

"You're away from that now and I'm never gonna judge you for tears, Sam."

Sam felt himself fighting the urge to well up. He swallowed it and cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said past the lump.

"You're doing fine. You're all on you own and you're kicking ass in school. You're a good man. There's a lot to be proud of. You're a super amazing guy."

Jess ruffled his bangs and knelt down to take his face in her hands. "I'm proud of you."

He flushed shyly but when he met her eyes he could feel himself responding to her touch.

She leaned in to kiss away his half dry tear tracks. Her lips on his cheek made his breath catch.

"Jess," he asked, pulling away, his gaze intense and searching. "Is this more than friendship?"

She gave him a bright smile and stood up. "If you want it to be." She responded.

Phew. Long chapter. Thank you for the Reviews, Michele, WaitingforAslan, ShadowHuntingDD, Dom Darkwolf and ncsupnatfan. I'm sorry I didn't respond to all the reviews earlier. For some reason the notifications aren't getting to me and I'm having trouble with PMs. There are boogey men in the ff system this week. Thank you to everyone who reviews!