As Sam has gotten older, he's changed far more than Dean did at his age. His cheekbones sharpen and his voice deepens, his hair growing rapidly and his height increasing exponentially. His eyes narrow more and he seems to be scanning everything, his lips pursed and gaze sharp like a hawk's. He laughs less and argues more, and only relaxes his tense, ever-growing muscles when it's the dead of night and no one's eyes are on him. The nickname 'Sammy' is used sparsely now, and though Sam still loves his brother with an unbearable familial ache, he grows more and more wary around their father. John Winchester is well into his forties now, tiring more easily than he used to, and Sam seems to forget the times where he called him Daddy and trusted him with his whole heart.
One night, as Dean sauntered into their motel room, still in a jovial mood from his latest bar jaunt, he noticed his little brother, leafing through informational college brochures with an uncertainty pushing his eyebrows downward and pulling his lips into a frown. "How's it going, Sammy?"
"Sam," the younger corrected on instinct, though it was under his breath and hardly audible. After a small sigh, he shifted in his seat and set his eyes on Dean hesitantly.
"Dean...," he trailed off, finding it hard to pick the right words. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nostrils noisily and exhaling the same. "What would Dad say if I told him I might want to go to college?"
"He'd be pissed, that's what," Dean answered almost immediately. His tone was belligerent; it sounded as if he was on John's side, when in fact it was quite the opposite. Why the hell, he thought, does Sam keep trying Dad like this? Is he desperate to get yelled at? Dean just did not understand.
Sam bit the inside of his cheek softly and looked down, knowing Dean was right. Their dad would be pissed, probably a little more than that since college meant Sam leaving John's ever-watchful eye. "But say...say I talk to him a bit. What if he listens? What if he lets me go?" He's aware of how much the phrase 'lets me go' sounds frighteningly similar to a prisoner being released—and how much he knows it's all too alike.
After a long night of drinks and girls, Dean finds all the prestige of normalcy, of happiness, slowly drain away as he sighs long and hard, "Look, kid-"
"I'm not a kid," Sam snaps savagely, and his brother blinks at him in surprise.
"Yeah," he continues softly, almost as if not to scare a wild animal, "I'm just trying to say, Sam...this can be a hard life, but man, with what's out there...who knows how long we'd last alone, without contact or weapons or-"
"I'm not saying we'd be out of contact!" Sam cries, showing a glimpse of desperation and petulancy. Forcibly slowing his breathing and calming himself, he went on. "But you and I both know it, Dean, I can't live like this much longer. I just wasn't made for this stuff like you and Dad seem to be. I...I go on a hunt with you guys, and I know, every time, that there's a chance one of us could die out there. And that...that is no way to live." Colors were dull at that moment, and the brothers' lungs seemed papery and thin. Sam shuffled the pamphlets into a messy pile and went to bed early, knowing that, until he spoke up, everything would seem silent. Even the crickets seemed muted in their songs as Dean laid down that night and began to sleep, but slumber only granted him more nightmares.