Sweet Dreams are Made of This for gluedwithgold
Title: Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
Recipient: gluedwithgold
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Minor language and show level violence.
Word Count: 5600+
Author's Note: A massive thank you to my awesome beta - you know who you are! I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. gluedwithgold, I hope you enjoy this fic which is based on one of your prompts. Thank you also to all the mods for hosting one of my favourite challenges.
“You gonna spit out whatever the hell is bothering you?” Dean's chewing on a mouth full of cheeseburger with extra onions, and he still finds room to cram in a couple of fries.
Sam screws up his nose at the sight, and stabs his folk into a piece of limp lettuce and then kind of moves it around the plate. He's just too nervous to eat; too nervous to talk to his own damn brother, his guts churning.
But Sam does has a back-up plan; it's one of the more practical habits that's become ingrained into his very being after years of hunting and Dad shouting orders. You don't have a plan at all, if you don't have a plan B.
Sam pulls out the envelope that he stuck in his back jeans pocket and then covered with Dean's old khaki jacket that still has some sort of weird stain on the cuffs. He slides the white envelope across the table towards Dean.
Dean's gaze lands on the word Stanford that's printed in huge letters, and then he flicks it up to Sam; his eyes are so wide open that they look mostly white, his eyebrows half way up his forehead.
“Are you shitting me?”
Sam shakes his head, not daring to say a word because this could still go either way; proud delight, or hatred and betrayal.
Dean pushes his plate aside, and starts licking grease and burger juice off his fingers and then swipes them down his jeans just to be safe. He picks up the envelope like it's made out of gold, all caution and care, and reaches inside to pull out the contents.
Sam watches as Dean's eyes track across the text of the covering letter, and sees the moment when the smile starts to creep across his lips and then slowly stretches out across his teeth into a huge grin.
To Sam's horror, Dean stands up, hands still full of Stanford stationery and brochures, and yells at the top of his lungs; “My little brother got a full ride to Stanford!”
It isn't until that moment that Sam lets himself believe that it's true. After all these years; after a nudge from an imaginary friend, and all the hard work and extra classes, assignments on top of assignments; he's finally here. He did it! He's really getting out of the life.
The diner is mostly empty, but a few people turn and stare, and there's a few claps. The waitress comes over and gives him another soda on the house, a soft smile on her motherly face.
Dean leans across the table, and claps a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Congrats, little brother. Who knew you were Stanford smart, huh?!”
He collapses back into the booth, and nudges Sam's knee under the table. “How come you never told me? Shit Sammy, this is freakin' huge news, dude!”
Feeling uncomfortable with so many eyes on him, Sam glances back down at his Caesar salad and slouches down into the booth as far as he can. “I didn't think I'd get in. I mean, the odds were stacked against me, and I just... I wanted to keep it quiet, until I knew for sure.”
“So you're really going away to school in sunny California?”
“That's kind of why I asked you here.” Sam sets down his fork and pushes the plate away. He can't eat any more. “I, er, well I wanted to ask if you wanted, or if you'd like to, well, come with me to Stanford. I was thinking you could bunk with me for a bit, and maybe get a job, or go to school, or you could do a mechanic apprenticeship or something, because you're really good at that stuff, and if you still wanted to hunt, you could, I mean Bobby and Pastor Jim have home bases, and I know you haven't had time to really think about it, but I think you could be happy there, and I-”
“Pump the brakes Sam, and take a breath before you pass out into your rabbit food.”
Sam does take a deep breath, his nerves shaken and frayed. This is just as huge as getting in, and he isn't sure yet if he even wants it all without Dean next to him; where he's been for Sam's whole life. Leaving for Stanford doesn't have to mean leaving his brother behind. “I'm serious, Dean. I think you should come with me. Y'know, if you want to, that is.”
“What about Dad? You know there's no way he's just gonna pack up and head to California. Hell, you'll be lucky if he even lets your ass out of the state!”
“I know. But I'm not talking about Dad, or what Dad wants. I'm asking what you want.”
Dean's expression freezes, like he's being asked to do an impossible task. But really, when does Dean ever do what he wants to do? When is there never an order for him to follow? Or a set of rules to adhere to?
It's only now that Sam realises what he's really asking of his brother. When you strip it all back to the bare roots, Sam's asking Dean to pick between his brother and his Dad; Sam's asking his family-devoted brother, who's always playing the peacekeeper, to pick a side.
“Just, take some time with it, OK? Think about it for a bit. I'm not pressuring you Dean, I just want you to know that if you want to come with me, then I want you there.”
Sam blinks away damp eyes, a ball of emotion wedged in his throat. Dean pulls his gaze away and looks out into the parking lot, and then clears his throat. “What are you gonna say to Dad?”
“Nothing. Not yet anyway. We've got the whole summer.”
Dean nods, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, before dragging his plate back over and taking a huge bite of burger, juices dribbling down his chin. “Y'know it's not a celebration without pie, Sammy.”
“It's Sam.” Sam rolls his eyes, but he can't quite hide the soft smile on his face. He orders two slices of peach pie and the waitress sticks a candle in Sam's slice, and tells him congratulations again. He manages two mouthfuls, and then passes it over to Dean, his stomach still full of nervous energy, even now.
He's not sure what he really expected from Dean, but this feels better than he could have hoped. A lot better. No fights, no arguments, no looks of betrayal or hurt. Honestly, Sam couldn't have wished for it to go any smoother.
Dad misses graduation, knee-deep in a case after a bunch of teenage kids disappear in Missouri, but Dean's there cheering and pumping his fist in the air after Sam's name is called. They head straight to Missouri after the ceremony, and Sam should be grateful that he got to go at all, and that Dean was there, but there's still a bitter taste in the back of his throat that he can't shake.
Dean hasn't said anything about Stanford, not even on the long drive, and as they settle into some sort of family-of-three hunting routine, Dad's around more than usual and there's no time to really talk.
Sam finds himself in some sort of self-inflicted purgatory; stuck in between his old life and his new one, with school officially over and done with, but college still a full summer away. He can't shake the feeling that none of it fits, that no matter where he is, his future just always feels out of reach.
They're staying in a weirdly familiar cabin that they must have stayed in before, but Sam just can't quite connect the dots. It's not just the uneven springs on the pullout cot he's sleeping in, but the lime colour of the painted kitchen cabinets, and the way the front door squeaks. It feels like they've been here months, and not days.
Checking that the traps, sigils and salt lines are all secure and in place around the perimeter of the cabin has become Sam's unofficial responsibility, but he finds himself enjoying the feel of the outdoors, and the fresh air in his lungs. He still can't seem to shake the nerves about Stanford; his stomach forever in knots and his head pounding with guilt. But he's got a nice running routine going now, which Dad seems to approve of.
He's toeing off a pair of old running shoes at the door after a particularly hard run, when he sees his Dad sitting at the small dining table that only has two chairs. The slightly battered Stanford envelope is just lying there, and definitely not in his duffel bag where he'd been hiding it.
Sam's gaze flicks around the room, but Dean's not in. It's just the two of them; no referee.
“You got something to tell me, son?” Dad's tone is all cool and calm. He scratches at his beard as he stares Sam down like he's some sort of prey.
“I was gonna tell you, but I just-” Sam's heart feels like it's about to hammer through his chest cavity. There's just no words. What's he supposed to say? I'm going to Stanford and Dean might be coming too, but we were keeping it from you until the very last minute?
Sam's been butting heads with his Dad more and more recently, especially since he graduated and Dad started to push him more into hunting; telling him he needs to focus and get his head in the game. Sam's been picking his battles, but surely it can't be a surprise that he wants out of the life after all these years of telling his family that's what he wanted to do?
“My kid gets a full ride to Stanford and he keeps it to himself? What was the plan, Sam? Just head out to California one day; never looking back, no goodbyes to your family?”
“No, sir, I was hoping-”
Dad holds up his hand demanding silence, and all of a sudden Sam can't look away from his father. His eyes look haunted and hurt, like this is the worst ever betrayal that Sam could have committed; a disappointment so huge there's just no words.
Right now, Sam would take a screaming match over this. He'd take an order to pack up and leave and never come back.
“I know I haven't been the best father.” Dad's voice is rough like gravel and cheap bourbon. “I know that I've been tough on you boys. But this life, and the things that we know are out there, the shit that we see every Goddamn day; I had to protect you from all of that. I had to make sure you're prepared for it; that you can fight and claw your way though it all. That you can survive.”
Sam just stands there; all weak and out in the open, feeling like someone just ripped him to shreds. After all these years, maybe he never really got it; never really took the time to understand this from his dad's point of view. There's no out for Dad; not after Mom, not when the thing that killed her is still out there, not when he has two sons that he has to protect. There's no normal life for him, just this one.
“If this is what you want son, if this is who you are, then I can't stop you from going to college. I sure as hell don't like it, but I can't stop you.”
Dad pushes the envelope towards Sam, and they just sort of stare at each other and Sam feels like the worst son to ever walk the earth.
The door bursts open, and Dean enters, pulling off Dad's old leather jacket and hanging it on the hooks by the door. “So, I finally tracked down that guy who owns that big old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, and without saying much about the missing kids, I asked-”
Dean stops when he sees the letter on the table, his whole posture changing as his shoulders drop and he stands tall and straight, ready for orders.
“I'm guessing you knew about this?” Dad's voice is still too calm and Sam fears that he's somehow broken his Dad; opened up a wound that will never heal, just like the one that their mother left after the fire all those years ago.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad doesn't look surprised, and maybe he does know his sons; maybe he knows and understands them more than Sam ever thought he did.
“So you're going with him?”
Dean flicks a panicked gaze at Sam. “I don't...I mean I've been thinking about it, but-”
“Then it's settled. You'll go together, you'll watch out for your brother, and that's the last we'll talk about it until the semester starts. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” They reply in unison, like the good soldiers they were raised to be.
Dad grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and then claps a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder. “Your mother would be proud, she-”
He nods gently, unable to finish the sentence, and then he heads out of the door without looking back. Sam and Dean stay frozen to the spot, both of them jolting at the sound of the truck's engine roaring to life.
“What the hell was that?” Dean looks a little pale, like he's in shock.
Sam knows the feeling. “I got no idea.”
The roar of the truck disappears off into the distance, and Sam feels like he's stuck in some sort of alternate reality, because that can't have just happened. That can't have been his Dad's reaction to Sam getting into Stanford, and his boys leaving him behind, with whatever killed their Mom still out there somewhere.
Sam collapses onto the small sofa. He feels drained; his body weighing more than it should, little black spots dancing in his vision.
Sam's going to Stanford with his brother, and he's going with his Dad's blessing.
They end up staying most of the summer in the cabin in Missouri, the case of the missing teenagers always seeming to lead to one dead end after another. There's other hunts too and they split up in various combinations, but mostly Sam gets to stay at the cabin, and as he's always liked staying in one place, he guesses his Dad figures it's one less fight.
It's Dad that tells them it's time to leave, that they need to give themselves enough time to drive to California.
He hands over a wad of cash that's more than Sam's ever seen in his whole life, as well as a wicked looking bowie knife that Sam immediately wants to give back because where the hell is he going to stash that in his dorm room? But he just doesn't have the heart to say anything, so he ends up putting it in the glove box of the Impala for safekeeping.
“I'll swing by. Check up on you both.”
Dad pulls them into awkward hugs, with hands clapping on backs, and stilted conversations, and then before Sam knows it their duffels are packed, and Dad's watching them leave from the doorway, and Sam knows the image of his Dad all alone, hands stuffed into his pockets, will leave an indelible mark.
Dean's singing off-key to Led Zeppelin, slapping the palms of his hands against the steering wheel as guitar riffs blast out of the speakers.
“You seem, I don't know, oddly chipper about all of this?”
“What's not to love, Sam; beer, college girls, beaches - I'm all in!” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and while that's not exactly an un-Dean-like thing to say, it still makes something in Sam's gut tighten.
“You don't feel weird about leaving Dad behind? About how OK he seems about all of this?”
Dean shrugs. “This is what you want, right? A fresh start at college, a normal life, and no more hunting. Dad's gets that, and now it's happening. Plus your awesome big brother gets to tag along, and decide what the hell he really wants to do with his life.”
Sam nods, dragging his gaze away from Dean who picks up where he left off, his dreadful singing giving Sam a headache. He watches the scenery blur by as Dean sticks to the backroads that he seems to know like the back of his hand.
“Did we ever check out that old farmhouse on the outskirts of town?”
”Come again?” Dean's chewing on a piece of jerky. Sam doesn't even know where he got it from; probably squirrels it away in various hiding spots all over the car.
“You know, the missing kids in Missouri. You said you tracked down the owner ages ago and I only just remembered.”
Dean shrugs, eyes pinned to the road. “I don't know. Give Dad a call.”
Sam fishes out his phone from his pocket, but it has no charge, which is odd because he's sure he topped it up last night in readiness for the trip. “Pass me your phone. Mine's dead.”
Dean digs it out and tosses it onto Sam's lap. There's no reception.
Something flickers at the corners or Sam's mind. “Was the farmhouse painted yellow? Paint flaking off, and big wraparound porch? The front door and windows boarded shut? And a huge red barn?”
“Er, I think so. Why?”
“I just.. I don't know. It rings a bell, I guess. Must have seen a picture while researching.” Which is also weird, because their Dad took the lead on that case; despite all the setbacks, Sam realises that he doesn't know all that much about it; not any details anyway, just snatches of conversations.
They stop for gas, and Dean buys so much junk food that Sam's stomach rolls. A few minutes later and the car is covered in nuclear orange dust from a bag of Cheetos.
They end up stopping for the night off some road in the middle of nowhere surrounded by fields and tall trees that reach up into an inky sky that's full of stars. Sam's crammed into the back seat of the Impala, knees and legs pretzeled into a surprisingly comfortable position, his eyes falling closed quicker than he thought they would.
Snapsnots fly past Sam's vision; stacks of research on the table with only two chairs, pictures of the missing kids, and a map pinned onto the wall of the cabin showing last seen locations of each kid, all not far from an abandoned farmhouse that's ringed in black... calling Dean and Dad and not getting through... walking to the outskirts of town with a bowie knife dipped in lamb's blood hidden in a duffel bag.
Sam jackknifes awake, narrowly missing cracking his head on the roof of the Impala.
“What the hell, Sam?! I've been trying to wake you.” In the dim light, Dean's face is a mask of concern and worry.
The air in the car is too thin, and Sam shoves the door open, socked feet stumbling on the dusty side road, the world suddenly feeling more off-kilter than it should. He reaches out his hand for the solid support of the Impala as he tries to blink away the dizziness.
“What's going on? You OK?” Dean's crowding around him, hands gripping his biceps, eyes full of fear.
“It wasn't a dream.”
“What? Dude, you're freaking me out here!”
“The hunt. Those kids, they're in that old farmhouse.”
“OK. OK. We'll keep driving until we get reception, or find a phone or something. And we'll tell Dad and he'll go play the hero. Everything will be fine.”
Sam shakes his head, his guts tightening, and it's only now that he realises he's never really shaken that feeling that's something's off, that he's had it for months; since way back when he told Dean about Stanford in the diner.
But what about before that? What came before that day? He wracks his brain, sifts through every memory, but there's nothing, only a sharp spike of pain in his temples.
“We really were staying in that cabin in Missouri, but I figured out the case, and I went to save the kids in that farmhouse, but you and Dad weren't there, and something went wrong, and I...I mean this can't be real. It's too good to be real. I have to be dreaming.”
“Sam-”
“I'm in there too, aren't I? With those other kids. In that house. It really was a djinn, wasn't it? And this? It's all just a dream; some kind of screwed up wish.”
Sam pushes Dean away from him, and wrenches open the passenger door of the Impala. Reaching into the car, he pops the glove box and pulls out the bowie knife that Dad gave him, holding it out in front of him, not really knowing what he's doing, but needing to do something. He can't trust anything or anyone.
Dean holds out his hands, palms facing Sam, and looks him straight in the eye. “This is everything you ever wanted .A normal life. You get it all, and there's so much more; Law school, a girl that loves you, a white picket fence, a nine to five job, and barbecues with your brother at the weekend. You can have a whole life here and it'll be everything you could wish for and more. We can be happy here. Please, Sam.”
“But it's not real. It won't be real.”
Dean takes a step forward, his tone calm and full of reason. “You deserve this; hell, we both do. You've worked so hard to get here and now everything you ever wanted is right at your fingertips. It's yours to keep.”
Sam shakes his head, and takes a step back, his feet stumbling as the world around him slides out of focus. “My real family is still out there somewhere, and so are all those kids. I can't just leave them there. I won't do that.”
Sam lowers the knife, watching as the reflection of the rising sun bounces off the blade. He swipes a hand across his fever-pink cheeks, and points the tip of the serrated blade at his stomach.
“Sam, what are you doing?”
“Lore says if you die in a dream you wake up. And I need to wake up.”
Dean's eyes are filled with tears, and Sam's never seen his brother look so desperate and panicked. “Sammy, please, I'm begging you. They won't understand your choice to leave, and you know it. Deep down you know that's true. They don't understand you, but I do, I know you, and together we can make a real life here. Please don't do this. Please.”
Sam closes his eyes. “You're not my brother.”
Sam plunges the knife deep into his gut, the pain so real and blinding. He can hear Dean's deafening screams as he wails Sam's name, feels hot thick blood spill over his hands. Then there's nothing but black.
Sam gasps, his lungs tight as he struggles for air that's too thin. He squints at the dim light that's streaming through the boarded up doors and windows of an old house.
He's not alone; there's other people, kids, maybe, some facing him and some with their backs to him, all strung up by their wrists to the timber beams of what must be an old farmhouse, plastic tubing snaking around bodies that hang limp and lifeless, eyes open but unseeing.
There's still time to save them; this can't have all been for nothing.
Hands tied above his head, numb and lead-heavy, Sam struggles against the rope, standing on shaking tiptoes to find some slack. He pulls and twists, the rope burning the skin on his wrists, but it's working. He tries every trick his Dad taught him, until one wrists slips free, followed by the other.
He falls to the ground, his knees taking most of the impact, and he's pretty sure he cries out. He holds his breath, frozen statue-still, waiting to see if he's attracted the attention of the djinn, trying not to think about Dean screaming his name in a dream world that he needs to let go of.
He feels blood trickling down his neck, soaking into his hoodie. He clamps a grubby hand over his neck, expecting to find plastic tubing, but there's nothing there. He must have torn it out when he fell.
Sam pushes himself up onto unsteady feet, his head too light, the room dancing around him. He stumbles forward, trying to shake away the dizziness and nausea; he needs to save them.
Some of the victims are long gone; all sunken flesh and off-white bones, and the smell is worse than any grave he's ever dug. Sam says sorry to all of them as he passes by; sorry he wasn't quick enough, or good enough, or strong enough to escape the djinn's 'wish' quicker.
How long has he been here? It was months in the dream, but looking at his watch, it can't be more than hours in the real world. Sam wonders if he's been missing long enough for Dean and Dad to come looking for him. He's pretty sure he left a garbled phone message when he headed on foot to the farm.
The girl has fire-red hair that curls in greasy limp strands around her pale face. Her lips are dry and cracked, and her eyes are open but are a milky colour. Sam's pretty sure he goes to school with her. Annie. Yeah, that's her name.
“I missed you.” It's no more than a whisper; a single tear carving a path through the dirt on her face. Sam can't help but wonder what kind of dream wish she's trapped inside as the djinn has been slowing feeding on her blood.
Sam carefully slips the needle out of the artery in her neck, wincing at the bright red blood that bubbles to the surface. With shaking hands he unties her wrists, his heart beating too fast. “It's OK. I've got you. We're getting out of here. We all are.”
Annie falls like a dead weight into his arms, eyes still open but unfocussed. Sam stumbles across what was once a living room, and heads to the back door in the kitchen; flowery wallpaper peeling off water-stained walls, and a sink that's covered in thick rust. If his memory is correct, he picked the back door open. The djinn must have jumped him right in the doorway.
Annie moans in his arms, but doesn't struggle, and Sam carries on walking; his sole focus is on taking one step at a time, eyes pinned to the back door, and the bright light seeping in from around the battered door frame. He can do this.
A flash of bright blue catches the corner of his eye, and then something solid slams into Sam's left side with the force of semi, and he can't do anything to stop or break his fall, as he and Annie hit the floorboards in a plumb of dust.
Head still spinning, all Sam can see is the eerie blue glow of a pair of eyes and tattoos that shine like Vegas illuminations.
The djinn leers as he stalks towards Sam. “Teenagers; so full of life and big dreams. You taste so much sweeter for it too.”
Sam's gaze darts around the room, looking for a weapon. He sees his duffel, still by the backdoor where he must have dropped it. He scrambles towards it, hoping that the bowie knife is still hidden inside, fingers scraping across the material, but the djinn grabs hold of his ankle and drags him away, the bare skin of belly scraping across the floorboards as his hoodie lifts.
He kicks his free foot out, hard. It connects with something and so he kicks out again and again, until the hand disappears. Sam throws himself at the duffel, fingers yanking it open as he searches for the knife.
Annie hasn't moved from the floor, but the djinn has pulled itself to its feet, its nose bloody as it heads straight towards Sam.
“You can't escape, boy. No one gets to leave.”
Sam's fingers finally collide with cool metal, and he focuses all his energy into a charge towards the djinn, the lamb's blood-dipped bowie held firmly in his hand.
He runs towards the djinn, its features blurred from blood loss and exhaustion, but Sam won't let it win. He brings his knife back and then shoves it forward, plowing it into the djinn's chest all the way to the hilt. They collide with each other, hitting the floor hard in a tangle of limbs.
Scrabbling to his knees, Sam reaches for the bowie, pulls it out from the djinn's chest and stabs it back in. With a crackle of blue electricity and a shallow exhale, the blue light in the djinn's tattoos and eyes disappears, its head falling lifelessly to the side.
There's a crash at the back door, and a tall black silhouette holding a shot gun heads towards him.
“Sammy!” Dean yells, rushing towards Sam, who lets himself sink towards the floorboards. It's over. Dean's here. But he never reaches the floor, Dean's hands wrapping around his biceps.
“It's over. I've got you. You're OK.” Dean says it over and over in a well-rehearsed mantra, his hands the only thing holding Sam upright. Sam can practically feel his brother's gaze flicking over him; looking for an injury, or for anything that's out of place.
Then Dad charges in, eyes full of terror until he sees Sam, the tension in his body disappearing like a deflated balloon. Sam watches his father access the room; there's Annie who's trying to pull herself up, the dead body of the djinn, and a house full of victims. Sam can see his Dad's military-trained brain already forming a plan of action.
“Did it get to you, Sam?”
Sam's ready to tell him everything; how he figured out the case, how he got here but the djinn got the jump on him, how it granted Sam a wish that was ultimately too good to be true, how all he really wants is to go to school and be a lawyer, to help people, just in a different way; how he just can't do this any more; how he needs out of this life. But the words just don't come.
“No, Dad. I'm OK.”
Sam feels Dean's fingers grip his arm tight enough to bruise, a deep frown cutting into his forehead. Sam pushes his brother's hands away, and pulls his sleeves down to cover the rope burns. He pulls himself to his feet, and wills the dizziness away but Dean's still hovering close by, like he's waiting for Sam to pass out.
“Dean, take the girl to the car.” Dean startles at the order, his mouth opens a little like he's about to protest, eyes still pinned to Sam's pale face.
“Now, Dean,” Dad barks. “Sam, we're gonna check every body in this damn house and look for any more survivors.”
“Yes, sir.” They say it in unison, falling in line like the good little soldiers they are.
They search the house and the barns, but there aren't any more survivors; just a house full of reminders of why Sam shouldn't be hunting. They take Annie to the hospital and make sure she's taken care of before leaving to pack up the car, and heading out of town as fast as they can. Dad leaves an anonymous tip about the farmhouse with the local sheriff's office and the djinn's body is stashed in the Impala's trunk. They'll bury the djinn once they've crossed the state line.
“What really happened in that farmhouse, Sam?” Dean's fingers grip the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the red taillights of Dad's truck ahead, the speedometer steadily climbing.
Sam looks out of the window, but there's not much to see this time of night. He realises he doesn't know where they are, or where they're heading. He has no say about anything. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”
A few weeks later, Sam's looking at a large white envelope, with the word Stanford printed on the top. He picked it up from his PO box this morning, and he's read everything inside at least 20 times.
A full ride. Just like he wanted; just like he wished. But this time, it's all real.
They won't understand your choice to leave, and you know it. Deep down you know that's true.
Sam takes a deep breath, pushing the words into a double-vaulted lock at the back of his brain. That Dean wasn't real, and that Dean didn't know what he was talking about.
Sam buries the envelope at the bottom of his duffel, underneath his boxers and socks, where not even his brother would go rummaging.
He'll give himself a few days, formulate some sort of plan, and then he'll tell his family about Stanford. Yeah they'll be upset, but they'll understand, and everything will be just fine.
The End
Recipient: gluedwithgold
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Minor language and show level violence.
Word Count: 5600+
Author's Note: A massive thank you to my awesome beta - you know who you are! I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. gluedwithgold, I hope you enjoy this fic which is based on one of your prompts. Thank you also to all the mods for hosting one of my favourite challenges.
“You gonna spit out whatever the hell is bothering you?” Dean's chewing on a mouth full of cheeseburger with extra onions, and he still finds room to cram in a couple of fries.
Sam screws up his nose at the sight, and stabs his folk into a piece of limp lettuce and then kind of moves it around the plate. He's just too nervous to eat; too nervous to talk to his own damn brother, his guts churning.
But Sam does has a back-up plan; it's one of the more practical habits that's become ingrained into his very being after years of hunting and Dad shouting orders. You don't have a plan at all, if you don't have a plan B.
Sam pulls out the envelope that he stuck in his back jeans pocket and then covered with Dean's old khaki jacket that still has some sort of weird stain on the cuffs. He slides the white envelope across the table towards Dean.
Dean's gaze lands on the word Stanford that's printed in huge letters, and then he flicks it up to Sam; his eyes are so wide open that they look mostly white, his eyebrows half way up his forehead.
“Are you shitting me?”
Sam shakes his head, not daring to say a word because this could still go either way; proud delight, or hatred and betrayal.
Dean pushes his plate aside, and starts licking grease and burger juice off his fingers and then swipes them down his jeans just to be safe. He picks up the envelope like it's made out of gold, all caution and care, and reaches inside to pull out the contents.
Sam watches as Dean's eyes track across the text of the covering letter, and sees the moment when the smile starts to creep across his lips and then slowly stretches out across his teeth into a huge grin.
To Sam's horror, Dean stands up, hands still full of Stanford stationery and brochures, and yells at the top of his lungs; “My little brother got a full ride to Stanford!”
It isn't until that moment that Sam lets himself believe that it's true. After all these years; after a nudge from an imaginary friend, and all the hard work and extra classes, assignments on top of assignments; he's finally here. He did it! He's really getting out of the life.
The diner is mostly empty, but a few people turn and stare, and there's a few claps. The waitress comes over and gives him another soda on the house, a soft smile on her motherly face.
Dean leans across the table, and claps a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Congrats, little brother. Who knew you were Stanford smart, huh?!”
He collapses back into the booth, and nudges Sam's knee under the table. “How come you never told me? Shit Sammy, this is freakin' huge news, dude!”
Feeling uncomfortable with so many eyes on him, Sam glances back down at his Caesar salad and slouches down into the booth as far as he can. “I didn't think I'd get in. I mean, the odds were stacked against me, and I just... I wanted to keep it quiet, until I knew for sure.”
“So you're really going away to school in sunny California?”
“That's kind of why I asked you here.” Sam sets down his fork and pushes the plate away. He can't eat any more. “I, er, well I wanted to ask if you wanted, or if you'd like to, well, come with me to Stanford. I was thinking you could bunk with me for a bit, and maybe get a job, or go to school, or you could do a mechanic apprenticeship or something, because you're really good at that stuff, and if you still wanted to hunt, you could, I mean Bobby and Pastor Jim have home bases, and I know you haven't had time to really think about it, but I think you could be happy there, and I-”
“Pump the brakes Sam, and take a breath before you pass out into your rabbit food.”
Sam does take a deep breath, his nerves shaken and frayed. This is just as huge as getting in, and he isn't sure yet if he even wants it all without Dean next to him; where he's been for Sam's whole life. Leaving for Stanford doesn't have to mean leaving his brother behind. “I'm serious, Dean. I think you should come with me. Y'know, if you want to, that is.”
“What about Dad? You know there's no way he's just gonna pack up and head to California. Hell, you'll be lucky if he even lets your ass out of the state!”
“I know. But I'm not talking about Dad, or what Dad wants. I'm asking what you want.”
Dean's expression freezes, like he's being asked to do an impossible task. But really, when does Dean ever do what he wants to do? When is there never an order for him to follow? Or a set of rules to adhere to?
It's only now that Sam realises what he's really asking of his brother. When you strip it all back to the bare roots, Sam's asking Dean to pick between his brother and his Dad; Sam's asking his family-devoted brother, who's always playing the peacekeeper, to pick a side.
“Just, take some time with it, OK? Think about it for a bit. I'm not pressuring you Dean, I just want you to know that if you want to come with me, then I want you there.”
Sam blinks away damp eyes, a ball of emotion wedged in his throat. Dean pulls his gaze away and looks out into the parking lot, and then clears his throat. “What are you gonna say to Dad?”
“Nothing. Not yet anyway. We've got the whole summer.”
Dean nods, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, before dragging his plate back over and taking a huge bite of burger, juices dribbling down his chin. “Y'know it's not a celebration without pie, Sammy.”
“It's Sam.” Sam rolls his eyes, but he can't quite hide the soft smile on his face. He orders two slices of peach pie and the waitress sticks a candle in Sam's slice, and tells him congratulations again. He manages two mouthfuls, and then passes it over to Dean, his stomach still full of nervous energy, even now.
He's not sure what he really expected from Dean, but this feels better than he could have hoped. A lot better. No fights, no arguments, no looks of betrayal or hurt. Honestly, Sam couldn't have wished for it to go any smoother.
Dad misses graduation, knee-deep in a case after a bunch of teenage kids disappear in Missouri, but Dean's there cheering and pumping his fist in the air after Sam's name is called. They head straight to Missouri after the ceremony, and Sam should be grateful that he got to go at all, and that Dean was there, but there's still a bitter taste in the back of his throat that he can't shake.
Dean hasn't said anything about Stanford, not even on the long drive, and as they settle into some sort of family-of-three hunting routine, Dad's around more than usual and there's no time to really talk.
Sam finds himself in some sort of self-inflicted purgatory; stuck in between his old life and his new one, with school officially over and done with, but college still a full summer away. He can't shake the feeling that none of it fits, that no matter where he is, his future just always feels out of reach.
They're staying in a weirdly familiar cabin that they must have stayed in before, but Sam just can't quite connect the dots. It's not just the uneven springs on the pullout cot he's sleeping in, but the lime colour of the painted kitchen cabinets, and the way the front door squeaks. It feels like they've been here months, and not days.
Checking that the traps, sigils and salt lines are all secure and in place around the perimeter of the cabin has become Sam's unofficial responsibility, but he finds himself enjoying the feel of the outdoors, and the fresh air in his lungs. He still can't seem to shake the nerves about Stanford; his stomach forever in knots and his head pounding with guilt. But he's got a nice running routine going now, which Dad seems to approve of.
He's toeing off a pair of old running shoes at the door after a particularly hard run, when he sees his Dad sitting at the small dining table that only has two chairs. The slightly battered Stanford envelope is just lying there, and definitely not in his duffel bag where he'd been hiding it.
Sam's gaze flicks around the room, but Dean's not in. It's just the two of them; no referee.
“You got something to tell me, son?” Dad's tone is all cool and calm. He scratches at his beard as he stares Sam down like he's some sort of prey.
“I was gonna tell you, but I just-” Sam's heart feels like it's about to hammer through his chest cavity. There's just no words. What's he supposed to say? I'm going to Stanford and Dean might be coming too, but we were keeping it from you until the very last minute?
Sam's been butting heads with his Dad more and more recently, especially since he graduated and Dad started to push him more into hunting; telling him he needs to focus and get his head in the game. Sam's been picking his battles, but surely it can't be a surprise that he wants out of the life after all these years of telling his family that's what he wanted to do?
“My kid gets a full ride to Stanford and he keeps it to himself? What was the plan, Sam? Just head out to California one day; never looking back, no goodbyes to your family?”
“No, sir, I was hoping-”
Dad holds up his hand demanding silence, and all of a sudden Sam can't look away from his father. His eyes look haunted and hurt, like this is the worst ever betrayal that Sam could have committed; a disappointment so huge there's just no words.
Right now, Sam would take a screaming match over this. He'd take an order to pack up and leave and never come back.
“I know I haven't been the best father.” Dad's voice is rough like gravel and cheap bourbon. “I know that I've been tough on you boys. But this life, and the things that we know are out there, the shit that we see every Goddamn day; I had to protect you from all of that. I had to make sure you're prepared for it; that you can fight and claw your way though it all. That you can survive.”
Sam just stands there; all weak and out in the open, feeling like someone just ripped him to shreds. After all these years, maybe he never really got it; never really took the time to understand this from his dad's point of view. There's no out for Dad; not after Mom, not when the thing that killed her is still out there, not when he has two sons that he has to protect. There's no normal life for him, just this one.
“If this is what you want son, if this is who you are, then I can't stop you from going to college. I sure as hell don't like it, but I can't stop you.”
Dad pushes the envelope towards Sam, and they just sort of stare at each other and Sam feels like the worst son to ever walk the earth.
The door bursts open, and Dean enters, pulling off Dad's old leather jacket and hanging it on the hooks by the door. “So, I finally tracked down that guy who owns that big old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, and without saying much about the missing kids, I asked-”
Dean stops when he sees the letter on the table, his whole posture changing as his shoulders drop and he stands tall and straight, ready for orders.
“I'm guessing you knew about this?” Dad's voice is still too calm and Sam fears that he's somehow broken his Dad; opened up a wound that will never heal, just like the one that their mother left after the fire all those years ago.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad doesn't look surprised, and maybe he does know his sons; maybe he knows and understands them more than Sam ever thought he did.
“So you're going with him?”
Dean flicks a panicked gaze at Sam. “I don't...I mean I've been thinking about it, but-”
“Then it's settled. You'll go together, you'll watch out for your brother, and that's the last we'll talk about it until the semester starts. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” They reply in unison, like the good soldiers they were raised to be.
Dad grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and then claps a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder. “Your mother would be proud, she-”
He nods gently, unable to finish the sentence, and then he heads out of the door without looking back. Sam and Dean stay frozen to the spot, both of them jolting at the sound of the truck's engine roaring to life.
“What the hell was that?” Dean looks a little pale, like he's in shock.
Sam knows the feeling. “I got no idea.”
The roar of the truck disappears off into the distance, and Sam feels like he's stuck in some sort of alternate reality, because that can't have just happened. That can't have been his Dad's reaction to Sam getting into Stanford, and his boys leaving him behind, with whatever killed their Mom still out there somewhere.
Sam collapses onto the small sofa. He feels drained; his body weighing more than it should, little black spots dancing in his vision.
Sam's going to Stanford with his brother, and he's going with his Dad's blessing.
They end up staying most of the summer in the cabin in Missouri, the case of the missing teenagers always seeming to lead to one dead end after another. There's other hunts too and they split up in various combinations, but mostly Sam gets to stay at the cabin, and as he's always liked staying in one place, he guesses his Dad figures it's one less fight.
It's Dad that tells them it's time to leave, that they need to give themselves enough time to drive to California.
He hands over a wad of cash that's more than Sam's ever seen in his whole life, as well as a wicked looking bowie knife that Sam immediately wants to give back because where the hell is he going to stash that in his dorm room? But he just doesn't have the heart to say anything, so he ends up putting it in the glove box of the Impala for safekeeping.
“I'll swing by. Check up on you both.”
Dad pulls them into awkward hugs, with hands clapping on backs, and stilted conversations, and then before Sam knows it their duffels are packed, and Dad's watching them leave from the doorway, and Sam knows the image of his Dad all alone, hands stuffed into his pockets, will leave an indelible mark.
Dean's singing off-key to Led Zeppelin, slapping the palms of his hands against the steering wheel as guitar riffs blast out of the speakers.
“You seem, I don't know, oddly chipper about all of this?”
“What's not to love, Sam; beer, college girls, beaches - I'm all in!” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and while that's not exactly an un-Dean-like thing to say, it still makes something in Sam's gut tighten.
“You don't feel weird about leaving Dad behind? About how OK he seems about all of this?”
Dean shrugs. “This is what you want, right? A fresh start at college, a normal life, and no more hunting. Dad's gets that, and now it's happening. Plus your awesome big brother gets to tag along, and decide what the hell he really wants to do with his life.”
Sam nods, dragging his gaze away from Dean who picks up where he left off, his dreadful singing giving Sam a headache. He watches the scenery blur by as Dean sticks to the backroads that he seems to know like the back of his hand.
“Did we ever check out that old farmhouse on the outskirts of town?”
”Come again?” Dean's chewing on a piece of jerky. Sam doesn't even know where he got it from; probably squirrels it away in various hiding spots all over the car.
“You know, the missing kids in Missouri. You said you tracked down the owner ages ago and I only just remembered.”
Dean shrugs, eyes pinned to the road. “I don't know. Give Dad a call.”
Sam fishes out his phone from his pocket, but it has no charge, which is odd because he's sure he topped it up last night in readiness for the trip. “Pass me your phone. Mine's dead.”
Dean digs it out and tosses it onto Sam's lap. There's no reception.
Something flickers at the corners or Sam's mind. “Was the farmhouse painted yellow? Paint flaking off, and big wraparound porch? The front door and windows boarded shut? And a huge red barn?”
“Er, I think so. Why?”
“I just.. I don't know. It rings a bell, I guess. Must have seen a picture while researching.” Which is also weird, because their Dad took the lead on that case; despite all the setbacks, Sam realises that he doesn't know all that much about it; not any details anyway, just snatches of conversations.
They stop for gas, and Dean buys so much junk food that Sam's stomach rolls. A few minutes later and the car is covered in nuclear orange dust from a bag of Cheetos.
They end up stopping for the night off some road in the middle of nowhere surrounded by fields and tall trees that reach up into an inky sky that's full of stars. Sam's crammed into the back seat of the Impala, knees and legs pretzeled into a surprisingly comfortable position, his eyes falling closed quicker than he thought they would.
Snapsnots fly past Sam's vision; stacks of research on the table with only two chairs, pictures of the missing kids, and a map pinned onto the wall of the cabin showing last seen locations of each kid, all not far from an abandoned farmhouse that's ringed in black... calling Dean and Dad and not getting through... walking to the outskirts of town with a bowie knife dipped in lamb's blood hidden in a duffel bag.
Sam jackknifes awake, narrowly missing cracking his head on the roof of the Impala.
“What the hell, Sam?! I've been trying to wake you.” In the dim light, Dean's face is a mask of concern and worry.
The air in the car is too thin, and Sam shoves the door open, socked feet stumbling on the dusty side road, the world suddenly feeling more off-kilter than it should. He reaches out his hand for the solid support of the Impala as he tries to blink away the dizziness.
“What's going on? You OK?” Dean's crowding around him, hands gripping his biceps, eyes full of fear.
“It wasn't a dream.”
“What? Dude, you're freaking me out here!”
“The hunt. Those kids, they're in that old farmhouse.”
“OK. OK. We'll keep driving until we get reception, or find a phone or something. And we'll tell Dad and he'll go play the hero. Everything will be fine.”
Sam shakes his head, his guts tightening, and it's only now that he realises he's never really shaken that feeling that's something's off, that he's had it for months; since way back when he told Dean about Stanford in the diner.
But what about before that? What came before that day? He wracks his brain, sifts through every memory, but there's nothing, only a sharp spike of pain in his temples.
“We really were staying in that cabin in Missouri, but I figured out the case, and I went to save the kids in that farmhouse, but you and Dad weren't there, and something went wrong, and I...I mean this can't be real. It's too good to be real. I have to be dreaming.”
“Sam-”
“I'm in there too, aren't I? With those other kids. In that house. It really was a djinn, wasn't it? And this? It's all just a dream; some kind of screwed up wish.”
Sam pushes Dean away from him, and wrenches open the passenger door of the Impala. Reaching into the car, he pops the glove box and pulls out the bowie knife that Dad gave him, holding it out in front of him, not really knowing what he's doing, but needing to do something. He can't trust anything or anyone.
Dean holds out his hands, palms facing Sam, and looks him straight in the eye. “This is everything you ever wanted .A normal life. You get it all, and there's so much more; Law school, a girl that loves you, a white picket fence, a nine to five job, and barbecues with your brother at the weekend. You can have a whole life here and it'll be everything you could wish for and more. We can be happy here. Please, Sam.”
“But it's not real. It won't be real.”
Dean takes a step forward, his tone calm and full of reason. “You deserve this; hell, we both do. You've worked so hard to get here and now everything you ever wanted is right at your fingertips. It's yours to keep.”
Sam shakes his head, and takes a step back, his feet stumbling as the world around him slides out of focus. “My real family is still out there somewhere, and so are all those kids. I can't just leave them there. I won't do that.”
Sam lowers the knife, watching as the reflection of the rising sun bounces off the blade. He swipes a hand across his fever-pink cheeks, and points the tip of the serrated blade at his stomach.
“Sam, what are you doing?”
“Lore says if you die in a dream you wake up. And I need to wake up.”
Dean's eyes are filled with tears, and Sam's never seen his brother look so desperate and panicked. “Sammy, please, I'm begging you. They won't understand your choice to leave, and you know it. Deep down you know that's true. They don't understand you, but I do, I know you, and together we can make a real life here. Please don't do this. Please.”
Sam closes his eyes. “You're not my brother.”
Sam plunges the knife deep into his gut, the pain so real and blinding. He can hear Dean's deafening screams as he wails Sam's name, feels hot thick blood spill over his hands. Then there's nothing but black.
Sam gasps, his lungs tight as he struggles for air that's too thin. He squints at the dim light that's streaming through the boarded up doors and windows of an old house.
He's not alone; there's other people, kids, maybe, some facing him and some with their backs to him, all strung up by their wrists to the timber beams of what must be an old farmhouse, plastic tubing snaking around bodies that hang limp and lifeless, eyes open but unseeing.
There's still time to save them; this can't have all been for nothing.
Hands tied above his head, numb and lead-heavy, Sam struggles against the rope, standing on shaking tiptoes to find some slack. He pulls and twists, the rope burning the skin on his wrists, but it's working. He tries every trick his Dad taught him, until one wrists slips free, followed by the other.
He falls to the ground, his knees taking most of the impact, and he's pretty sure he cries out. He holds his breath, frozen statue-still, waiting to see if he's attracted the attention of the djinn, trying not to think about Dean screaming his name in a dream world that he needs to let go of.
He feels blood trickling down his neck, soaking into his hoodie. He clamps a grubby hand over his neck, expecting to find plastic tubing, but there's nothing there. He must have torn it out when he fell.
Sam pushes himself up onto unsteady feet, his head too light, the room dancing around him. He stumbles forward, trying to shake away the dizziness and nausea; he needs to save them.
Some of the victims are long gone; all sunken flesh and off-white bones, and the smell is worse than any grave he's ever dug. Sam says sorry to all of them as he passes by; sorry he wasn't quick enough, or good enough, or strong enough to escape the djinn's 'wish' quicker.
How long has he been here? It was months in the dream, but looking at his watch, it can't be more than hours in the real world. Sam wonders if he's been missing long enough for Dean and Dad to come looking for him. He's pretty sure he left a garbled phone message when he headed on foot to the farm.
The girl has fire-red hair that curls in greasy limp strands around her pale face. Her lips are dry and cracked, and her eyes are open but are a milky colour. Sam's pretty sure he goes to school with her. Annie. Yeah, that's her name.
“I missed you.” It's no more than a whisper; a single tear carving a path through the dirt on her face. Sam can't help but wonder what kind of dream wish she's trapped inside as the djinn has been slowing feeding on her blood.
Sam carefully slips the needle out of the artery in her neck, wincing at the bright red blood that bubbles to the surface. With shaking hands he unties her wrists, his heart beating too fast. “It's OK. I've got you. We're getting out of here. We all are.”
Annie falls like a dead weight into his arms, eyes still open but unfocussed. Sam stumbles across what was once a living room, and heads to the back door in the kitchen; flowery wallpaper peeling off water-stained walls, and a sink that's covered in thick rust. If his memory is correct, he picked the back door open. The djinn must have jumped him right in the doorway.
Annie moans in his arms, but doesn't struggle, and Sam carries on walking; his sole focus is on taking one step at a time, eyes pinned to the back door, and the bright light seeping in from around the battered door frame. He can do this.
A flash of bright blue catches the corner of his eye, and then something solid slams into Sam's left side with the force of semi, and he can't do anything to stop or break his fall, as he and Annie hit the floorboards in a plumb of dust.
Head still spinning, all Sam can see is the eerie blue glow of a pair of eyes and tattoos that shine like Vegas illuminations.
The djinn leers as he stalks towards Sam. “Teenagers; so full of life and big dreams. You taste so much sweeter for it too.”
Sam's gaze darts around the room, looking for a weapon. He sees his duffel, still by the backdoor where he must have dropped it. He scrambles towards it, hoping that the bowie knife is still hidden inside, fingers scraping across the material, but the djinn grabs hold of his ankle and drags him away, the bare skin of belly scraping across the floorboards as his hoodie lifts.
He kicks his free foot out, hard. It connects with something and so he kicks out again and again, until the hand disappears. Sam throws himself at the duffel, fingers yanking it open as he searches for the knife.
Annie hasn't moved from the floor, but the djinn has pulled itself to its feet, its nose bloody as it heads straight towards Sam.
“You can't escape, boy. No one gets to leave.”
Sam's fingers finally collide with cool metal, and he focuses all his energy into a charge towards the djinn, the lamb's blood-dipped bowie held firmly in his hand.
He runs towards the djinn, its features blurred from blood loss and exhaustion, but Sam won't let it win. He brings his knife back and then shoves it forward, plowing it into the djinn's chest all the way to the hilt. They collide with each other, hitting the floor hard in a tangle of limbs.
Scrabbling to his knees, Sam reaches for the bowie, pulls it out from the djinn's chest and stabs it back in. With a crackle of blue electricity and a shallow exhale, the blue light in the djinn's tattoos and eyes disappears, its head falling lifelessly to the side.
There's a crash at the back door, and a tall black silhouette holding a shot gun heads towards him.
“Sammy!” Dean yells, rushing towards Sam, who lets himself sink towards the floorboards. It's over. Dean's here. But he never reaches the floor, Dean's hands wrapping around his biceps.
“It's over. I've got you. You're OK.” Dean says it over and over in a well-rehearsed mantra, his hands the only thing holding Sam upright. Sam can practically feel his brother's gaze flicking over him; looking for an injury, or for anything that's out of place.
Then Dad charges in, eyes full of terror until he sees Sam, the tension in his body disappearing like a deflated balloon. Sam watches his father access the room; there's Annie who's trying to pull herself up, the dead body of the djinn, and a house full of victims. Sam can see his Dad's military-trained brain already forming a plan of action.
“Did it get to you, Sam?”
Sam's ready to tell him everything; how he figured out the case, how he got here but the djinn got the jump on him, how it granted Sam a wish that was ultimately too good to be true, how all he really wants is to go to school and be a lawyer, to help people, just in a different way; how he just can't do this any more; how he needs out of this life. But the words just don't come.
“No, Dad. I'm OK.”
Sam feels Dean's fingers grip his arm tight enough to bruise, a deep frown cutting into his forehead. Sam pushes his brother's hands away, and pulls his sleeves down to cover the rope burns. He pulls himself to his feet, and wills the dizziness away but Dean's still hovering close by, like he's waiting for Sam to pass out.
“Dean, take the girl to the car.” Dean startles at the order, his mouth opens a little like he's about to protest, eyes still pinned to Sam's pale face.
“Now, Dean,” Dad barks. “Sam, we're gonna check every body in this damn house and look for any more survivors.”
“Yes, sir.” They say it in unison, falling in line like the good little soldiers they are.
They search the house and the barns, but there aren't any more survivors; just a house full of reminders of why Sam shouldn't be hunting. They take Annie to the hospital and make sure she's taken care of before leaving to pack up the car, and heading out of town as fast as they can. Dad leaves an anonymous tip about the farmhouse with the local sheriff's office and the djinn's body is stashed in the Impala's trunk. They'll bury the djinn once they've crossed the state line.
“What really happened in that farmhouse, Sam?” Dean's fingers grip the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the red taillights of Dad's truck ahead, the speedometer steadily climbing.
Sam looks out of the window, but there's not much to see this time of night. He realises he doesn't know where they are, or where they're heading. He has no say about anything. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”
A few weeks later, Sam's looking at a large white envelope, with the word Stanford printed on the top. He picked it up from his PO box this morning, and he's read everything inside at least 20 times.
A full ride. Just like he wanted; just like he wished. But this time, it's all real.
They won't understand your choice to leave, and you know it. Deep down you know that's true.
Sam takes a deep breath, pushing the words into a double-vaulted lock at the back of his brain. That Dean wasn't real, and that Dean didn't know what he was talking about.
Sam buries the envelope at the bottom of his duffel, underneath his boxers and socks, where not even his brother would go rummaging.
He'll give himself a few days, formulate some sort of plan, and then he'll tell his family about Stanford. Yeah they'll be upset, but they'll understand, and everything will be just fine.
The End