A/N I do apologize, dear readers. Life kind of got away from me, and chapter 21 is another chapter that…well, my fellow writers may understand when I paraphrase an old African saying originally about a leopard: "a [chapter], when cornered, will jump in 1 of 2 directions — away from you, or at your throat.". I spent equal time chasing this thing and defending myself from it. This is the fifth version, and I hope it works for y'all.

Another time jump in this one, setting the stage for future action. We are in the AU Stanford years, here, heading for the series. For the record, and I know this will annoy some people, I will be following the general timeline once we get to the series (hopefully not later than chapter 24), but with some…not insignificant differences.

At any rate, I live for reviews.

Last thing — to anyone reading this who is themselves, or has friends or relatives, in harm's way…many blessings on you all. May your god, or whatever you believe in, keep you safe in their hand, and may your courage never fail. Remember, too, that removing yourself from danger is also a form of courage.

disclaimer: I still own nothing you recognize, and if you saw my checkbook, you'd know I am definitely not making any money from this.

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Room 416

Soto Building

Wilbur Hall

Stanford University

August 25, 2001

12:45 pm

Sam sat on his newly-made bed, glaring at his brother who was leaning against Sam's desk and glaring back.

"I can't, Dean," Sam repeated for at least the fifth time in the last hour.

"Then you can't stay," Dean decided and reached for Sam's duffle bag.

"Oh, come on!" Sam stood and wrenched the bag out of his brother's hand, tossing it onto the bed behind him. "You were the one all gung-ho about me living in a dorm, and now you want me to come back to the cabin? Give me a break, Dean! It's 4 miles, twice a day, every day. Even John never made us run that."

"I can drive you," Dean shrugged.

"Right. Be dropped off at school every morning, picked up every afternoon. That shit was embarrassing in High School, Dean. I'm not doing it in college!"

"Then use the salt," Dean hissed, mindful of the open door behind him.

"How, Dean? I have a roommate. I haven't even met him, yet. How the hell do you expect me to explain," Sam shot a glance through the open door and lowered his voice, "salt in front of the door and windows? Dammit, Dean, I'm trying to get an education, here, not get locked in a psych ward! I. Can't. Do it. I can't!"

Dean pushed his little brother back onto the bed, and reached again for the duffle, only to have his hand slapped away.

"Then you'll have to skip the dorms and come back home," Dean glared down at him.

"That's your home, Dean, not mine. Assuming you even get the gig."

"I'll get it," Dean assured him, cockily. "Free rent, all amenities, all for night and weekend maintenance and keeping an eye out in the off-season. Best of all, plenty of room for my baby brother to be back where he belongs, where there's salt lines and sigils and safety, not in this…this…undefendable rabbit warren. Besides," Dean smirked, "I thought anywhere I was, was Home."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Remember the whole don't be a dick thing," he growled. "Gettin' awfully close to the line, there, Dean."

"Keep you safe isn't being a dick, Sammy," Dean growled back between teeth clenched nearly as tight as his fists. "It's my job. And if I leave you unprotected, I'm not doing my job. You want me to leave you here? Sure, no problem. Use. The. Salt."

"I can't."

"Then you've only got one other option," Dean shrugged. "Come home with me."

"I can't," Sam tried to explain, again, his voice verging from anger towards desperation. "Dean, it's too late for me to make changes to my housing without endangering my scholarship, man! The deadline to pull out of the dorm has passed. For fuck's sake, Dean, we talked about this the whole way here. Three damn days in the car, and you didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Sammy," Dean said, warningly, and stepped back to close the door. "I want you to get an education, I do," Dean assured him. "But something is after you, dude! Hell, Sammy, you've only been fucking conscious for six weeks after the last attack, and you expect me to just leave you here, with no protection?! Yeah, that's gonna happen!"

Sam sighed, then inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly. "First off, it's Sam," he said, and chose to ignore his brother's eye roll. "And secondly, I'm not unprotected."

"You…"

Sam sighed again and reached into his duffle to pull out a thin white stick, tossing it to his brother. "It's white charcoal," Sam explained. "The trim around the windows and doors, even the baseboards, are all white. I'm going to use that to ward the place. I've got a whole fuckin' book of wards and sigils that I got from Bobby, that'll keep out everything from demons to...to…shifters and vampires."

"Well, that's just peachy, Sammy," Dean practically snarled, deliberately pushing his brother's buttons with the name (being a big brother had a few perks and irritating the crap out your little brother was, to Dean's mind, high up on the list), "but since we don't know what is after you, those wards you're so proud of may be just…spittin' in the wind — messy and pointless."

"I know that," Sam said quietly, deciding his best option was to let the name thing go — for now. "But I can do more than just the sigils, Dean. You know that. I'm going to protect this space. You know I can do it. I did it at Bobby's, for the whole house. I can do it for one pitifully small dorm room."

"Yeah, you did it, pushed out those…Cloud Things out at Bobby's, and kept them out," Dean agreed, "and that's great, Sammy, it is. But you were working against a specific, imminent threat, something that was right in your face at that moment. But now? Here? There's nothing to work against, man! How can you do a spell to keep out something you can't even identify, huh? Tell me that!"

"By doing a spell that will keep out everything. Anything or anyone that my roommate or I don't invite in will be unable to enter. And if we inadvertently invite something inside, I'm doing a second spell that will make anyone who comes into this room with the intent to harm me or Tyson very, very ill."

Dean frowned. "The fuck is Tyson?"

"My roommate. Tyson Brady."

"Wow. That's…that's a third generation snob name, that is."

Sam gave Dean a narrow-eyed bitch face. "Can you meet him before you pass judgment? Or at least let me meet him?"

Dean sighed and sat beside Sam on the bed. "If I have to," he grumbled.

"You have to," Sam assured him.

"Whatever, dude."

They sat in silence, Sam patiently waiting for Dean to digest what he'd said, Dean trying to reconcile this strong, defiant, confident man with the little boy he still saw every time he looked at his brother.

"You're sure you can do this?" Dean finally asked, his voice quiet and a little sad.

"I am," Sam assured him. "Completely sure. I've been working on these spells for almost a year, ever since I got accepted." He turned his head slightly and met his brother's gaze directly. "I know the dangers, Dean. Whether I like it or not — whether I keep hunting or not — I'm still a Hunter's son. And brother. I still know…what I know. And I'm not reckless. You taught me better."

"Damn straight, I did," Dean nodded decisively. He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Hell. I gotta go, got that interview with the cabin owner in half an hour, then the one with the garage at 3."

"You sure two jobs is a good idea?" Sam frowned. "I've got everything including books covered, Dean, you don't have to work to support me."

"Working at the Cabins is pure gravy, a great set up for almost no real work, and they've even got half way decent satellite TV. And I like the look of Iannucci's Auto. They don't work on anything built after you were born, so it's right up my alley. And, if I play it right, I'll have someplace to work on my baby in the bargain. It's all good, Sammy," Dean grinned and clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Besides, since I don't have to carry your ass financially, anymore, I can spend the money on the good life, maybe staying at a hotel with more than 1 star when we hunt, for a change."

Sam laughed and stood with his brother to walk him to the door.

Dean paused a moment, and just stood there, looking at his baby brother with a slightly misty smile. "Well. I'll see you later. College Boy. Damn, Sammy, I am so proud of you."

Sam smiled and pulled Dean in for a quick hug. "Wouldn't be here without you, big brother."

"You got that right," Dean grinned, breaking the hug before it got too girly. "Without me having your back, you'd've been ghoul bait years ago!"

"Like I never saved your ass, Jerk," Sam grinned.

"Whatever, Bitch. Don't forget - tomorrow's Sunday, and dinner is at 5. You can tell me how right I am about Tyson," he added derisively.

"I'll tell you how wrong you are," Sam shook his head. "Get out of here. Go. Get jobs."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean opened the door, gave his brother one last look, and threw the white charcoal pencil at Sam. "Don't forget the wards. Might want to get that done before roomie arrives."

Sam just nodded, then moved into the doorway to watch Dean head across the hall and down the stairs.

With a sigh, he closed his door and got to work.

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Room 416

Soto Building

Wilbur Hall

Stanford University

August 25, 2001

5:45 pm

Sam lay on his bed, his feet pressed against the wall at the bottom of the bed, about six inches above the footboard, allowing his knees to be straight.

In the hours since Dean had left (and between the three 'just checking in' phone calls he'd received from Bobby and the two from Dean), he'd put all his things away. Not that that had been much of an accomplishment. It had taken slightly less than 15 minutes. Stowing his gear had the added bonus of reminding him that he would have to get a part time job on or near campus soon, so he could maybe buy himself a few more clothes. A couple new (to him) pairs of jeans, a few shirts. Maybe even shirts that weren't flannel.

He could almost hear Dean's voice in his ear, "Nothing wrong with flannel, Sammy. Long wearing, nice and warm, easy to sew up when it gets ripped, makes a nice, thick emergency bandage. And in the right colors, bloodstains are practically invisible. Flannel: The Hunter's Friend."

That alone was enough to make him want to buy an actual dress shirt.

Once his few belongings were put away, he'd drawn all the wards and sigils, carefully placing them around the door and window.

He'd been impressed when he moved all the furniture away from the walls to draw sigils on the baseboards, and discovered that there was little dust hiding beneath things, and no unidentifiable stains on the bare wooden floor.

Quite the change from what he was used to. Bobby's place excluded, of course.

Not that there weren't dust bunnies the size of Buicks under some of the heavy pieces of furniture at his surrogate father's house, but spells blew up with enough regularity that the wind from them kept the dust at a minimum (when they were kids, he and Dean had a running joke that when Bobby tried out a new spell, it wasn't for a hunt, it was because he didn't want to dust).

There were also plenty of stains on the rugs at Bobby's, but almost nothing actually unidentified. They all knew where the stains came from. They were either from a potion or spell or, more usually, blood. Occasionally monster blood, or blood of an animal needed for some ritual or spell (and ethically harvested), but mostly their own. If he thought about it, Sam was probably personally responsible for at least a third of the stains at Bobby's, including some impressive bloodstains they've never been able to get out of the wood.

He was reasonably certain there were no residual blood traces in his new room.

Reasonably.

Once the sigils and wards were done, and he'd put the furniture back where he found it, Sam did his spells (relieved that neither threw him across the room or out a window; his experience with spells lately had been… somewhat eventful).

And then Sam Winchester ran out of things he had to do.

That was rare, in his life. BA (Before Asheville, which had become one hell of a demarcation line in his and Dean's lives), there was always either training, or research, or schoolwork to do. PA (post Asheville, because Dean refused to be associated with something even called 'AA'), his time had still been taken up with training and research — training with his new powers, researching both hunts and where his powers could have come from — and school, which he was finally expected to do, and do before anything else, instead of having to fight John for every minute of study time.

But now, today, he had something amazing. Free Time. Time to do what he wanted.

He'd wandered a bit through the dorm, to the central commons area, where he found what would, he had no doubt, grow to be his favorite part of dorm life: an entire bookcase of non-school books, with a beautifully lettered sign: "Wilbur Hall Library" on the wall and, below that sign, a second smaller sign in small typed letters, "Like it? Read it and bring it back! Love it? Keep it, and donate one of your own!"

He'd snatched up a copy of Steven King's Salem's Lot — a book he'd taken out of at least a dozen Public Library's nationwide, but never got to read because even Dean used to tease him about it ("honestly, Sammy, it's so…inaccurate. I mean unless you're reading it as comedy…") and John had forbidden him from reading it at all ("this kind of misinformation is why people die, Samuel, and I won't have you polluting your mind with bad lore").

After he'd grabbed the book, he'd rushed back to his room, half expecting someone to object, and settled down to do the miraculous: Read a book. For FUN.

Not a textbook, not required reading, not a book on lore, or the journal of some long dead Hunter. Just…a book.

And yeah, it was wildly inaccurate, but that was the point. He could pretend, just for six hundred and fifty plus pages, that he was just a normal kid (no, he corrected himself, a normal college student) who didn't know how completely ludicrous the lore (no, not lore, the story's depiction of vampires) was. He could just be normal.

Come Monday, when classes would start, he figured time for this would be in short supply, so he decided to read the entirety of the book over the weekend.

He was well over half way through and already planning on grabbing a second book later that night, when the door opened, and in swept a family. Like, an entire family. Mom, Dad, Little Sister — complete with attitude and braids — and what Sam could only assume was his new roommate.

"Everybody relax!" the young blonde man grinned and spread his arms wide. "I'm here!"

"Yeah, like that'll make anybody relax, you big doofus," Little Sister grumbled, dropping the large canvas bag she was struggling to hold in the middle of the room, before she turned immediately to their mother, who was putting a pair of suitcases down by the foot of the empty bed across from Sam. "I get his room now, right?" Little Sister whined, and Sam kept the book in front of his face to hide his grin.

"Not now, Sarah Jane," Mother Brady (Sam presumed) said calmly, and turned to her (presumed) husband and son, who were setting several boxes and milk cartons each on Tyson's desk. "You boys get the rest of the bags and boxes from the car. I'll get the bed made."

She turned away towards the bed, pulling a bed-in-a-bag set out of the bag Sarah Jane had dropped, and Sam held back the snicker as the man she presumed to be Father Brady gave a half salute and headed out into the hallway, his son following behind.

Sam dropped the book and scrambled to sit up when Sarah Jane plopped down on his bed, and turned to sit cross legged facing him.

For a minute or more, the room was silent except for a soft humming from Mother Brady, while Sarah Jane just flat out stared at him, her look a bit more appraising — a bit more adult — than Sam was expecting and he mentally revised his guess at her age from 10 to 13. Old enough to notice boys, not old enough to do anything about it.

He hoped.

"I'm Sarah," she said finally. "You must be the roommate," she deduced and held out her hand, palm towards the floor, fingers slightly curved down, like a Southern Bell from an old movie.

"Sam," he replied, and carefully took her hand in his, turning it so the obvious request for a kiss on the hand became nothing more than a handshake, and a brief one at that. "Nice to meet you, Sarah."

Sarah pulled her hand into lap and tipped her head slightly. "You say that now," she grinned, "but you haven't really gotten to know my brother, yet." She straightened one leg and let it dangle off the bed, swinging it idly. "Most people who get to know my brother tend not to like me so much afterwards."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know how that can be," he said solemnly. "I have a big brother, too."

"Really?!" Sarah's grin morphed into a mock scowl. "Isn't being the youngest such a drag? Like, how do you stand it, always following along behind? Once, just once, I'd like to start a school year without a teacher saying 'Oh, Miss Brady! Are you Tyson's sister? He's such a good student'," Sarah simpered, batting her eyes. " 'You're soooo lucky to have such a brilliant brother'," she finished and rolled her eyes with a little tsk. She leaned closer to Sam, as if that would prevent her mother from hearing anything. "I'm so glad he's gone. I mean, I'll still hear it, but at least he's out of the school, and not coming around to meet up with his friends, and flirting with the teachers."

"Sarah Jane," Mother Brady said quietly, but firmly, as she smoothed the comforter over the sheets. "Give the nice boy a chance to make up his own mind about your brother, dear, without you saying nasty things first."

"I said he was a good student and brilliant, Mother," Sarah responded with an eye roll at her parent that would've probably cost Sam a couple teeth if he'd given it to John. "How is that nasty?"

"It's the tone, dear, not just the words." Mother Brady turned to face them, self-consciously running her hands over her white-on-white polka dot shirt to smooth any non-existent wrinkles (Sam was pretty sure Mother Brady's shirt wouldn't dare wrinkle), before stepping forward to shake Sam's hand. "I'm Emily Brady," she said and Sam stood to shake her hand, nodding politely.

"Ma'am," he said, and tried not to notice how her eyes — and Sarah's — widened as he stood and she had to tip her head back to look him in the eye. "I'm Sam."

"I heard," she said and forced a smile to cover up the blatant stare. "You're a freshman, too?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam nodded. His shoulders rolled a little forward, his knees flexed a tiny bit to minimize his height. He wasn't even aware he'd done it, it was a reflex he'd developed when he'd first reached 6'-1" that had just gotten more natural as he grew to his full height.

Behind him, he heard Sarah's whisper. "All leg," she breathed. "Right up to that…WOW."

Sam swallowed, and hoped he wasn't blushing as much as he thought he was.

He was saved from terminal embarrassment when the Misters Brady, father and son, returned with a few more boxes and another two suitcases.

The next half hour was full of much arranging and bustling and unpacking, a brief introduction from Mr. Brady ("Tyson Marlowe Brady III, Sam, pleased to make your acquaintance") until, apparently, Sam's new roommate couldn't take it anymore.

"OKAY!" Tyson yelled. "That's enough. Mom, I love you, I appreciate all you're doing, but this room is barely big enough for me and the sasquatch over there, so…time to go!" he decided, picked up his mother's purse, handed it to her and literally herded his family out of the door to cries of "call us tonight", "I will," "be sure to eat, dear, and not just pizza, I know what boys are like,","Mother leave the boy alone" and (from Sarah) "sooooo nice to meet you, Sam!" until Tyson closed the door on his family and leaned back against it, eyes closed and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Tyson stood there for a moment before straightening from the door and crossing to where Sam sat, perched on his desk, trying very hard not to laugh. "I am so sorry about that," Tyson shook his head, laughing. "My family can be…a bit much. You know what it's like," he presumed and Sam decided not to correct that notion. "Anyway, Tyson Marlowe Brady, the fourth," he said with an eye roll. "Call me Brady."

Sam stood and took the offered hand with a smile. "Samuel Winchester. Call me Sam."

"Good to meet you, Sam."

"You, too. Um, if you don't mind…why Brady? Why not your first name?"

Brady shrugged and settled on his (perfectly made) bed. "My dad goes by Marlowe and my Grandfather uses Ty. My great-grandad, the first, used Tyson. I did, too, until like, eighth grade but I switched to Brady after the Holyfield fight. The chicken jokes were bad enough, frankly, but the ear biting jokes…man you gotta draw a line somewhere."

"Ugh. I get it," Sam nodded.

"Because Sam is so easy to make dumbass jokes about," Brady scoffed.

"What, you never read Dr. Seuss?" Sam deadpanned.

"Ooh," Brady winced.

"There's a reason I skipped breakfast at school," Sam nodded. "It got to the point where if one more person asked me if I liked green eggs and ham..."

"Or called you Sam I Am?"

"Oh god," Sam laughed. "A couple of teachers even used that one."

"But, I mean…kids grew out of that, right? I mean, what teenager wants to admit he's ever read Dr. Seuss!"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, the Dr. Seuss references stopped," he admitted wryly. "And then they changed to calling us the Lose-chesters. I swear, man, every bully thought they were the first one to think of that."

Brady frowned. "They couldn't come up with something more original? I mean, if it had been used by one bully, you'd think the rest would want to find something new. And anyway, who would bully you?! You're a giant. And, uh…sorry…about the sasquatch thing, back there," he a dded and, Sam noted, had the grace to blush.

Sam laughed. "You're not the first to call me that, either," he admitted. "As for bullying me…I actually was 5'-6" until the summer after my sophomore year. Which, coincidentally, was the first time I ever finished the year in the same school I started in. So, less an issue with uncreative bullies, more a problem with new bullies every year."

"Moved around a lot, huh?"

"Yeah. Until I was 15."

"Military Dad?"

Sam shrugged. "My father had been a Marine. I think he just never got used to staying in one spot, so he moved us around a lot," he explained, and was able to suppress the tiny bit of guilt he so often felt when (not) telling people about his family. After all, it was actually a lie. John had been a Marine, after all, and there was no denying the restlessness that his obsession to find the thing that killed Mom caused.

Brady nodded. "I hear ya. I had a friend at boarding school whose dad was in the Navy. He always said that the only stability in his life was getting to come back to the same school year after year. A couple of years, he started the term with his parents in one place, and when we had winter break, he was not only going to a new house, but to an entirely different country, to see his folks. I mean, my family may be annoying, but at least I always know where they are."

Sam shrugged again. "They didn't seem that bad," he countered. "I mean, they were here, they're clearly supportive of you."

"Yeah," Brady gave him a crooked smile. "Maybe. They drive me nuts, but…I guess they're not that bad. BUT," he continued, clapping his hands together, "enough of this family talk, let's get down to business!"

"Business?" Sam said warily.

"Ground rules, Sammy!" Brady told him with a wide smile. "Something I learned in six years of boarding school. The secret to being roommates with somebody you just met, and not driving each other nuts? Ground rules."

Sam narrowed his eyes slightly, and raised one eyebrow. "Okay. Here's a ground rule. You don't call me Sammyever — and not only will I call you Brady, but I won't cluck like a chicken every time you enter the room."

Brady stared at him for a full thirty seconds, then broke out into laughter. "You know, Sam. I think we're gonna get along fine!" he decided and Sam couldn't help grinning back.

Maybe this roommate thing wouldn't be too bad.

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Bay View Cabins

Palo Alto, CA

November 15, 2003

3:00 a.m.

It happened like that sometimes. It always had, since the first time Dad had left them alone in some motel room somewhere to go on a Hunt. Something moved, or groaned, or there was an unfamiliar sound and suddenly, Dean was fully awake, his hands rock steady as he trained the gun he kept beneath his pillow on…whatever woke him.

Except this time, there was nothing in front of him. No foe, no friend, nothing.

So what woke him?

He looked around the now-familiar bedroom of the cabin he'd been granted in return for being the weekend, overnight and off-season handyman/security guard at Bay View Cabins. No one — no thing — was standing at the foot of the king sized bed. No shadow lurked next to the tall free-standing wardrobe in the corner beside the bedroom's one window, nor was there anything suspicious near the low dresser on the wall opposite the bed. Not that he expected there to be, given the wards he'd carved into the sides of the door jambs and window frames, to say nothing of the salt that still lined the windowsill, glowing faintly in the light of the three-quarter moon filtering through the gaps in the wooden blinds.

The television he'd treated himself to after his first bonus at his "day job" at Iannucci's sat on the dresser, dark and silent.

He was just about to chalk it up to the tail end of a nightmare he couldn't remember having — wouldn't be the first time his subconscious had been too big a bitch to let him sleep — when it came again.

A faint fluttery, scratchy noise from the main living area.

Quickly, quietly, he slipped from bed, still holding his Colt steady as he moved silently to the bedroom door.

Two measured breaths, and he eased the door open on hinges he kept very well oiled, stepping through to the short hallway beyond. He briefly turned right and cleared the cabin's single bathroom, grateful that Tracy, the Bay View's owner, had let him upgrade the shower to a glass enclosure rather than a curtain that would have both blocked the view of the shower stall and made noise when opened.

Turning back, he took the familiar twelve paces down the hall and sighted into the kitchen across the open living space.

Empty.

He glanced quickly to his right, clearing the area in front of the french doors that led to the deck outside, confirming the door was closed and locked and the salt line unbroken, before he swung left into the living room, instantly sighting on the figure huddled on the beat up couch.

"It's just me," a soft voice reassured and Dean relaxed and slightly lowered his gun.

"Sammy?"

"I didn't mean to wake you. Just go back to bed."

Dean frowned and moved slowly into the room, every sense still on high alert at the timbre of Sammy's voice.

Anyone else would've heard exhaustion, apology, dismissal.

Dean heard all that, and something more that put his teeth on edge, some basic wrongness in his baby brother's tone that had him holding the gun down by his side instead of putting it in the pocket of his sweatpants. He slipped silently forward, until he was standing in front of the couch, frowning at his brother as Sammy lowered himself to lie on his side on the couch, his knees curled nearly to his chest as he pulled the Jayhawks blanket Dean kept on the back of the couch over himself.

"I'm fine," Sam said flatly, before Dean had a chance to speak. "Too much noise in the dorm tonight. Couldn't sleep, so I came to crash on your couch. Just go back to bed, Dean."

Dean lowered himself to sit on the edge of the rustic wood coffee table, reflexively glancing over to check the salt lines at the doors and windows.

It was a logical, reasonable answer, and wouldn't be the first time Sam had abandoned the dorm on a weekend night to take refuge in the quiet of Dean's — of their — little home.

Dean didn't buy it for a second.

"You're lying," he said calmly. "What's wrong?"

In the moonlight reflecting in from the back deck, he could see Sam shake his head slowly.

"It's fine. Go back to bed, Dean," Sammy repeated and pulled the blanket higher up, over his shoulder, nearly obscuring what little of his face was visible beneath the annoyingly shaggy hair cut.

Dean frowned, and looked his brother — what he could see of him — over. He could just make out Sammy's eyes in the dim light, saw the tension at the corners, the way the kid was frankly hiding under the old blanket.

"Sammy? Are you hurt?"

"No, Dean, I'm not hurt," Sammy said with a sigh and an eye roll Dean could hear. "I told you. I'm fine. Go. Back. To bed."

Fine my ass, Dean thought, and made himself go still, holding his own breath for a moment so he could listen to Sammy's. There'd been something…

There it was. A faint hitch in the breathing, the slight swish of the blanket as Sammy's fists tightened in the fabric, then let go in what Dean was sure was a deliberate attempt at relaxation, only to tighten again.

Sammy really wasn't hurt, he realized. What he was, was…scared. Damn near terrified by the sounds of it, and Dean knew all too well how hard it was to scare his baby brother. It had to be something pretty damned heavy duty to scare the kid, he knew. Not even John scared Sammy anymore, and they both silently agreed that nothing they'd ever Hunted had ever been as scary as the man who first taught them to Hunt. Nothing really frightened Sam these days, except maybe girls or a low grade.

Or…

"Are they back?" Dean demanded. "Did they follow you here, to Stanford?"

"Dean…"

"The Cloud Things, Sammy. Are they back?"

"I knew what you meant, Dean, and no," Sammy assured him, his voice growing sharper with irritation. "There's been no sign of them since Sioux Falls, the summer before we came here. I already told you, there's nothing wrong," he repeated, his voice catching slightly on the last word of denial. "Please," he said quietly. "I'm fine, okay. I just…I just needed to crash here tonight, that's all. Really. Just…go back to bed, Dean. Please."

Silence stretched, and Dean waited, more or less patiently.

Well, yeah. Less. Sue him.

He was just about to speak, when Sammy beat him to it.

"Why are you still sitting here?" Sam sighed.

"I'm waiting," Dean shrugged.

"For what? An engraved invitation?" Sam snapped. "Dean Winchester, you are cordially invited to go back to bed and leave me the fuck alone! Now, go away!"

"Yeah, we both know that's not gonna happen," Dean scoffed.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Sam half-yelled, and sat up, pulling the blanket further around him. "There's nothing wrong. I'm fine. I just want to sleep."

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. "Okay," he said, his voice deliberately quiet, an old technique he'd often used when they were kids to defuse Sammy's anger. At least, when Sammy's anger didn't just piss Dean off. "You're not going to tell me what's bothering you, what has you so upset, I get that. And you can tell me you're fine all you want, Sammy," he added before Sam even had a chance to voice the protest, "but I know better."

"Really?" Sam snarled. "How? How do you know better, Dean? Are you psychic, now? Reading my mind?"

Dean shook his head. "Don't need to read your mind, kiddo. I can read you just fine."

"Seriously."

"You know it's true," he said, and his frustration started to seep into his voice. "I know you, Sammy. Every tick, every trick, every tell. Every tone, every twitch. Fuck it, every breath. I know you. And right now, you're so far from being fine, Sammy, you ain't even in the same hemisphere. You can deny it all you want, little brother, but you're treading in deep water, and you're maybe a whole second from going under. You don't wanna tell me why? Fine. Don't." He paused and reached out to place a hand gently against Sam's cheek, not in the least surprised to find it damp under his palm. "Just tell me what I can do, Sammy," he said, his own voice breaking even as he felt Sammy's breath hitch, and wiped his baby brother's tears away. "I can't stand…just let me help," he begged and slipped his free hand around to cradle the back of Sammy's head, pulling their foreheads together. "Let me help," he repeated, his voice barely a shaking breath.

Sammy's hands met at the nape of Dean's neck and his shoulders started to shake. "I…." he gulped and shook his head slightly.

"What? What do you need, Sammy? What do I need to do?"

"I just…can we…I…"

"Shh. Shhshhshh." Dean shifted to the couch and found himself with an armful of crying little brother. "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here, little brother. I got you. I've always got you."

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's back, and buried his face against the side of his brother's neck, the familiar warmth, smell, feel making him feel safe for the first time since he'd awakened, shaking, in his dorm what had to be hours ago, now.

"Promise me," he whispered.

"Anything. Whatever you want, Sammy. Whatever you need."

"You can't use this," Sammy gulped. "Never. This is…you can't…"

"Aw, Sammy," Dean tipped his head to rest his cheek against the tousled head that was trying to burrow further into him. "Done. Never gets mentioned again. I promise. This cabin is a torment free zone, one night only. Okay?"

Sam nodded jerkily.

"What else, Sammy? Huh? What else do you need me to do?"

Slowly, Sam pulled back, wiping his face with the palms of his hands, his eyes firmly planted on the knees of Dean's sweats. "I just…can I…could we…" He rubbed his forehead and shook his head, unable, or unwilling, to ask.

"Course," he shrugged. "No problem." Dean stood slowly, and reached down to take Sammy's hand, pulling the sniffling boy to his feet. "Let's go to bed," he said quietly and led the way back to the bedroom, never letting go of Sammy's hand.

Dean tucked his brother gently into bed — on the side furthest from the door, of course — covering him up carefully, smoothing the hair out of the wide blue-green eyes that shone wetly up at him in the faint moonlight.

He rounded the bed and climbed back under the covers, rolling over to face his brother, who rolled over to face him in the near dark.

"Better?" Dean asked quietly, and smiled gently when Sammy gave a couple quick, nervous — or embarrassed — nods. "Okay," Dean nodded and made himself close his eyes. "Good night, Sammy."

"Night, Dean."

Dean smiled to himself as Sammy's breathing leveled out, slowed and his baby brother drifted off to sleep beside him.

I still got it, Dean smirked to himself. No Sammy-fear can withstand Big Brother. And he let himself drift back into slumber.

=========SPN=======SPN=====SPN======

Bay View Cabins

Palo Alto, CA

November 15, 2003

5:41 a.m.

Dean was an expert in Sammy's nightmares, had been since his baby brother was all of four years old and figured out that Dean was a much more reliable source of middle-of-the-night comfort than their Dad had ever been.

It took only a small sound — a tiny whimper that had always sounded, to Dean, like a kitten in distress — to bring Dean from the depths of his own dreams to the very surface of Sammy's.

He cracked one eye half-open to look at his still sleeping brother, and took in the slightly pursed lips, the frown lines on the forehead, the particular crinkle of the nose. With a sigh, Dean opened his other eye and pulled himself fully back from the land of nod, to wait for what came next.

This could go one of two ways. Either Sam would calm himself, roll over and keep sleeping more or less peacefully, in which case Dean would wait ten or twenty minutes and then go back to sleep himself; or…the nightmare would get worse, Sam would call out in his sleep and Dean would have to intervene.

He'd learned long ago that waking Sam up from a dream too early, nine times out of ten, resulted in Dean getting punched. That was fine, when Sam was four, five, even ten or eleven. At 20, and 6'-4" to boot — well, Dean would hate to have to go to the garage Monday and explain (another) black eye.

So, he waited in the moon shadowed darkness, hoping that Sammy would get himself out of whatever horror was in his dreams, and just…stay asleep.

If not, he'd have a good idea of what he was dealing with by whatever word the kid blurted out in his sleep.

He'd heard them all, by now, the words that his brother half-shouted from the depths of fear.

Sometimes the word was Dean's own name, calling for help or, if rendered as "Dean, No!" or "No, Dean!" it was a warning or a prayer as an unknown phantasm hurt Sammy's big brother before the kid could stop it.

The word might be "Dad!" and, a very long time ago, that could've been a cry for help or a warning, too. It had taken Dean far, far too long to realize that "No" with "Dad" had a context entirely different than for his own name, and it still made him a little sick to think back on that realization, to wonder how much sooner he could've saved Sammy if he'd understand the darkness "Dad, No!" was hiding.

There'd been some memorable miscellaneous cries, over the years. "The Clown!" had accompanied a night terror that plagued Sammy regularly from the age of about seven to thirteen or so. That one still made the occasional appearance, although neither Winchester would ever admit it (Dean was the first to tease his brother about pretty much anything, but nightmares had always been, and still were, off limits. Daytime mentions of clowns, on the other hand? Fair game.)

Once, when Sammy was about five, Dean had found a televised version of The Nutcracker on TV one Christmas Eve, and he'd been rudely awakened to screams of "Mouse! MOUSE!" echoing down the hallway in the pre-dawn Christmas morning. Who knew friggin' ballet would scare a kid?

He pretty much knew every word or sound that Sammy ever made when his little brother's subconscious was being a bastard.

Nothing had ever surprised — or disturbed — him more than the soft, pitiful, tear-choked word that came that night.

"Mom?"

Dean sat up beside Sammy, staring down, heart suddenly hammering in his chest, waiting to see if he could possibly have heard that right.

Because he couldn't have.

Sammy couldn't be calling for Mom. He couldn't. Why would he? Sam had no memories of their mother. None. Nada. Zip. She was a word, a concept, a photo furtively shared between brothers, a drunken story from their father, rare as a vampire, a topic both brothers knew not to mention outside of the endless Hunt for her killer.

Even Dean had few memories of their Mom. A warm, fresh pie. A hug so tight he couldn't breathe. The smell of sunshine and some flower he'd never been able to name. Her laugh, the one that Dad had once (and only once) said Dean had inherited. Winchester Surprise, the casserole he'd adored as a child, and had tried time and again to recreate for his brother with inconsistent flavor and consistent disastrous results.

(The nightmare image that he steadfastly had refused to admit he'd seen on that cold autumn night that had destroyed every happiness he'd ever known, when he was only four years old.)

There was no way…

"MOM!"

Dean closed his eyes for a split second, then leaned down to whisper in his now trembling brother's ear. "Sammy?" he said quietly. "Sammy, wake up."

Another of the heart-breaking whimpers that Dean had learned by the age of ten to hate with all his soul. The nose crinkled more, the hair flopping as Sammy quickly turned his head towards his brother. To anyone else, they'd be signs that the nightmare was deepening.

To Dean it was reassurance that, on some level, Sammy knew Big Brother was near, and Dean could start shaking the boy awake with no (or at least very little) fear of getting punched out for his effort.

"Sam," Dean shook Sammy's shoulder. "Sammy, wake up, now. Wake up, Sam."

And that fast (faster than Sammy had even managed when he was having the dreaded Clown Dream at age eight or nine), Dean's arms were filled with crying, gasping, shaking little brother for the second time that night.

Probably a new record. Not one he'd wanted to set, really.

"It's okay, it's okay," Dean assured him, and began to rock them slowly, pulling Sammy more securely into his embrace, half onto Big Brother's lap as Dean leaned back against the sturdy wooden headboard. "I'm here. It was just a dream, Sammy," he promised, and lightly stroked the too long hair. "You're safe now. It was just a dream. It's all over now. You're okay. It was just a dream."

"Jus' dream," Sammy muttered against Dean's chest, and the fists holding tightly to Dean's t-shirt relaxed slightly as the gasping breaths slowed to deep, shaking breathing. "Just a dream," he repeated over and over, nodding to himself in an effort to accept the truth until, five, maybe ten minutes later, Sammy pulled away from Dean's protection, roughly wiped his eyes and shifted to sit up, leaning back against the headboard, still trying to get his heart rate and breathing back under control.

"It was just a dream," Sammy told himself. "Just a dream. Nothing more. Just a drea…" Sam screwed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a soft grunt of pain. "Just…"

"Sammy?!"

This was wrong. This didn't happen after a nightmare. This wasn't the way Sam reacted after a nightmare, not at all. He'd be embarrassed, but still loath to let go of Dean, typically barely disentangling himself from Dean's comfort for a good twenty minutes, and even then, he'd usually keep hold of the hem of Dean's shirt.

"Sammy, what's going on?" Dean wondered and his eyes grew wide as his baby brother grunted softly again, and blood began to drip down Sam's chin and onto his shirt.

"Sam?! SAMMY!"

Dean pushed Sam's hand aside and took in the blood flowing entirely too freely from his little brother's nose. "Son of a bitch!" Dean vaulted off the bed and damn near pole vaulted across the hall and into the bathroom, where he grabbed a hand towel, briefly wet it under the sink and flew back across the hall to land on the bed at his brother's side.

Dean gently tilted Sam's head back and pressed the towel under Sam's nose, sopping up the still-flowing blood and trying to wipe it from Sam's chin and neck.

Sam gave a pained grunt and screwed his eyes more tightly shut.

"Easy," Dean said quietly, and brushed his free hand over Sam's hair. "Easy, Sammy. It's okay. Gonna be okay." He kept his voice and touch gentle and soothing, when what he really wanted to do was punch whatever had upset his brother and caused the nightmare and what he knew would prove to be a near-migraine level headache.

Dean made himself take a slow, deep breath. Seeing Sam in pain always sucked, but at least there didn't seem to be imminent danger, and he knew — more or less — what he was dealing with. "Here," he said quietly, and moved Sam's hand to hold the towel in place, "hold this a minute," he instructed and jogged back out the door to the bathroom, grabbing the bottle of extra strength Tylenol out of the medicine cabin and filling the glass he kept by the sink with water. "Here," he said again, offering him the pills and the glass.

Sam frowned and looked up at him, slightly suspicious.

"It's just plain Tylenol," he assured Sam and held the glass for his brother when Sam tossed the pills back and took a quick sip of water before collapsing back against the headboard once more.

Sam had reached the panting stage, and Dean tried to calm himself. They were almost out of this, now. Another 15 minutes or so, and it would start to ease off. Then the pain killers would kick in and Sam would be okay again in half an hour or so.

In the meantime, Dean kept the towel against Sammy's nose, and sat beside Sam, pulling his kid into the safety and warmth of Big Brother's arms, murmuring little reassurances.

Sure enough, 35 minutes later, Sammy nodded and patted Dean's chest lightly before pulling away, as his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate slowed.

"Ya all right?" Dean asked quietly, knowing too well how sensitive Sammy could be to sound (or light, for that matter) right after one of his…whatever-it-was.

Sam nodded. "I'm good," he assured his brother.

Dean smirked at him. "You're a mess, is what you are," Dean told him. "That shirt needs to soak in the shower," he decided and grabbed the hem to pull it off his protesting little brother.

"I'm not five, Dean!" Sammy reminded as Dean tugged the shirt off, then returned again to the bathroom

"Yeah, and those aren't your sheets, dude," Dean reminded him and ran a little cold water into the bottom of the shower and over the blood streaked tee-shirt. "Did you bring a change of clothes?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed and slid down to lie limply on the bed. "Bag's by the couch."

"Okay, I'll get you a shirt," Dean decided.

Sam nodded and started to relax a little more, before Dean's last words finally penetrated the fog of the dissipating headache. "Shit!" He launched himself across the bed and into the hall. "I don't need you to wait on my Dean!" he protested. "I can get my own…"

He skidded to a stop at the end of the couch, watching his brother's back stiffen as Dean straightened up from the bag he'd dropped carelessly back to the floor, holding the evidence in his hand as he turned slowly to face his little brother.

"I—I was going to tell you," Sam assured him, and swallowed at the fury on Dean's face. "That's why I brought it, to — to talk to you about…that," Sam said quietly, and nervously wiped a hand over his mouth.

"What the fuck is this?" Dean demanded, shaking it in Sam's general direction, his voice a harsh whisper.

"It's…it's mine," Sam admitted reluctantly.

"Well, it's not exactly the sort of thing you'd be just holding for a friend, now, is it?" Dean snapped.

"No. I…it's not what…I - I didn't…I didn't mean for you to just…find it like that, man."

"What did you mean?" Dean challenged, stalking over to Sam, his anger enough to make him somehow loom over the little brother who was 3 inches taller. "No, forget that," he decided a second later, "I don't care about that. Where the Hell did you get this?"

"I told you," Sam frowned. "It's mine," he explained again and reached for it, trying to snatch it from Dean's hand.

Dean pulled it away, but not quite quickly enough, and Sam tried to tug it away just as Dean yanked it back. It tore at the corners, one piece in each brother's hand, and they watched the bulk drift slowly down to land right side up on the coffee table.

Dean stepped back as if afraid it would strike, and just stared at it, covering his mouth with one hand to stifle the small sob that tried to escape.

Sam looked down at it for a moment, then glanced up at Dean, only to look back down again, unable to handle the shock and pain written so plainly on his brother's face, reflected so clearly in the stormy green eyes. "You saw," Sam said quietly and Dean just inhaled sharply. "You saw it that night, didn't you? Dad always said you didn't, but…you did."

Dean nodded slightly and swallowed hard, trying to hold his gorge down.

"Is that it?" Sam asked, his voice a bare, broken whisper. "Is that what it looked like?"

Again, the reluctant nod, behind the sheltering hand.

"That's her, right?" Sam said and bent to almost reverently pick up the pencil sketch.

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, sinking slowly to sit on the edge of the coffee table. "Yeah," he breathed the truth, at last, as the tears began to fall. "That's what I saw. That's her," he admitted, his voice breaking.

"That's Mom."

=============SPN=========SPN========SPN=======

A/N to quote a famous cartoon rabbit: "ain't I a stinker?"

Tyson had issues with his name for two reasons. One, the chicken jokes, because Tyson is a very popular brand of chicken and chicken products. Two, the U.S. boxer and former world heavyweight champion Mike Tyson fought Evander Holyfield in 1997. Tyson was disqualified for biting Holyfield's ears, the right one with enough force to actually remove a piece of Holyfield's ear. (I am not kidding. Look it up.)

Sam's issue with teasing regarding his name come largely from the Dr. Seuss book Green Eggs and Ham where the famous "Sam I Am" tried to get his friend to eat Green Eggs and Ham. I trust everyone reading this will recognize the LoseChester reference.

When Sam indicates he skipped breakfast at school, he is referring to the National School Lunch Program established in 1946, so that U.S. schools could provide free lunches to students from low-income families. Free breakfasts were added to the program by the School Breakfast Program in 1966. Canonically, there's no indication that Sam and Dean ever used the program, and in fact probably never did, because John didn't want the boys to draw attention to themselves. It makes sense to me, however, that at some point, John was gone longer than expected, and they ran out of money and food (we see this in a flashback in Something Wicked [1x08] when Dean gives Sammy the last of the Lucky Charms. In Bad Boys, [9x07], Dean was sent to Sonny's as penance for stealing bread and peanut butter). When faced with no way to keep Sammy fed, I can easily see Dean forging John's signature and enrolling Sam in the programs. In my AU, Dean did sign Sam up in one school district, to save money so that if John came back later than expected, they'd still be able to buy food. When John found out, he berated Sam for being weak and not being able to "suck it up like Dean" when he was hungry. Dean did it a second time a few months later, and when this was discovered, John yelled at Dean, forbade him from ever signing up for any assistance ever again, and then beat Sam for, basically, needing to eat. When Dean told Sam, in their next school district, that he couldn't sign up for free meals, Sam's response was that he was sick of being asked if he wanted Green Eggs and Ham anyway. This was a lie, but if a kid tells a lie long enough, they come to believe it themselves. Hence the story to Brady which, while absolutely false, Sam has come to view as 100% true.

Also, I will endeavor to post more quickly, but honestly the next several months are just stupid for me, so...hang in there and I promise I'll get more to you. (Also, I do find reviews HIGHLY motivating so...)