Sam can feel the envelope in his backpack, which is impossible because the thing weighs barely anything, while he's loaded with bags that make him hunch over as he walks to the bus station.
But he can feel it, and more than the clothes stuffed in his bag or the books right next to them, more than anything it makes his feet drag and the ties harder to break.
Which is also absurd, if anything it should be dragging him along, towards Stanford, not back to the crummy motel where he left his dad glaring at his back and his brother gaping after him.
The harsh words still echo in his head, and he doesn't know if he should be angry or sad that his dad had the nerve to say that to him.
John should've known better, after all, no matter how smart Sam was or how uninterested he was in learning how to fire a crossbow, Sam is still a Winchester, and stubbornness is a key ingredient of their family's blood, among other things.
When John yelled at Sam, loud and so sure, "If you go you better stay gone!" John should have known that Sam wouldn't turn around.
But then again, if Sam thinks about it, since when had John Winchester ever known much about his sons?
Sure he knew that Dean was into muscle cars and rock, Sam was into books and research. Dean was the obedient son, Sam was the rebellious one. He knew those things, things that everybody else that knew them for more than two weeks could've figured out, but he didn't know much else.
John's time was spent hunting, researching, drinking, sleeping, driving, and giving orders.
Sam wanted to say that Stanford was his escape from hunting, from a life he never asked for and never took to.
He wanted so badly to believe it was to get out from under John's thumb, and it partially was.
But it was more important to see what Sam didn't want to believe was the cause.
It wasn't because Sam had started looking at his brother differently.
It wasn't because Sam wanted to crawl out of his bed at night and into Dean's, or because he wanted to touch when it wasn't his right to.
Definitely wasn't because every time he saw Dean with a pretty girl hanging off his arm he wanted to rip her hands off his brother and send her home with an icy stare.
Sam wanted so badly to think it wasn't because of those things, but he almost had a heart attack when he got the acceptance letter.
Now here he was, walking down an empty highway towards a bus station that never seemed to get any closer.
He already wanted to turn back, but it didn't work that way.
He could keep going, or turn back and walk through the motel door with his tail between his legs, get grounded for a month, watch his dad throw away the letter and give him extra workouts for weeks.
Not to mention the fact that he would still want to touch his brother in ways that brothers did not touch.
So Sam just adjusted the strap on his backpack, slung the duffel over his shoulder and kept walking.
It got even harder ten minutes later when he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala behind him, Dean calling out at him to get in the car because Sam walks like a fucking granny.
Sam definitely didn't want to kiss his brother then.
He also didn't cry when Dean pulled away from the bus station while Sam watched, bus ticket to Palo Alto crumpling in his hand.