Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam has always wanted to be normal, you know? Live a regular life like the ones he saw on TV or in books. He wanted the full cliché, the stereotype, the big family that had its share of messes and issues but at the end of the day they were happy and together. He wanted the picket fence, the regular school, the dog, the sibling who annoyed him but loved him, and the two parents that never fought. Just a normal family.

He’d been normal once. He thinks he was normal at least. It’d been so long ago, and he’d been a baby, barely three when his mom split with his older brother. Not many memories of that time, and his dad never told him any stories to help prove that once upon a time Sam Winchester was a normal baby with a normal dad and a mom. And a big brother who looked after him.

Then all of that went up in flames on a demon’s command, and Sam lost any chance of normal.

Except no, Sam wouldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t going to be a freak for the rest of his life. He was going to choose his own path. Screw his family and the burnt remains of his old life. He was getting out.

He just had to last the month. Just one more month than he was free of John, free of his constricting, obsessive father and his endless rules and requirements. Eighteen and only answerable to himself. May 2^nd marked the beginning of his new life. A life free of hunting.

Ellen would let him stay, and if she didn’t, he’s sure Bobby might, though he would be a last resort since he kept in better touch with them. Someone would take him in at the very least. Sam may have inherited some of John’s antisocial traits, but he had a few friend and associates in the life. All he needed was a room during the school year. He’d work the bar to pay his way if needed. Once he had his diploma, he’d be gone. He already had half a dozen schools he wanted to apply to, all that required a stable address to send back their responses. One of them had to accept him, had to want him. He didn’t care what it cost him. He’d pay any price to get out of this life, out from under his father’s thumb.

The engine to the impala died dropping from a roar to silence quickly. Sam stepped out into the gravel lot ignoring the twinge of his pain from his ribs. He reached into the backseat and only grabbing his duffel bag after a second of consideration. He’d come back for his book bag later, carrying both out of the question at the moment, for now he’d just settle his clothes in Ellen’s guest room while he made his pitch.

Sam dragged his duffel further onto his shoulder. A quick glance at his watch confirmed the time at fifteen til noon. The roadhouse was closed, but he knew Ellen would be opening soon. She was probably already setting up the bar for the scant lunch crowd they usually grabbed. Hunters were always drifting in and out, John and him among that crowd. Sam would just be a slightly more permanent patron, at least for the next year.

It’d only been a week since he’d last seen her, but fuck, did that week feel so much longer. John had dumped him on her for two months while he fucked around the Midwest chasing a wolf pack. Sam had been more than happy to see the taillights of his father’s truck fade away. Less happy when he’d seen the headlights lighting up the drive just when he was actually settled in, at school and in Ellen’s home.

Sam scoffed quietly under his breath. John had dragged him out of here, disrupting his life again, just to leave him in a motel a week later with orders to complete an easy salt-and-burn and no mention of when he’d be back. Just another punishment because John had probably felt how happy Sam had been and just couldn’t let that happen on his watch.

The door swings open easily. Sam doesn’t pause to consider that. Most hunters know better than to come before Ellen allows. She unlocked her doors when she was near ready to open up and kept a shotgun ready for those stupid enough to test her. Sam had come face to face with said shotgun more than once before.

“Ellen?” Sam ducks his head slightly when he walks through the entryway. The main area of the bar was empty. “Jo? Ash? Anybody home?”

A quiet groan from behind the pool tables answered his question. Sam laughed under his breath. He dumped his duffel bag on an empty chair. Hurrying over, Sam’s boots thumped loudly against the wood floors enough warning that Ash had just managed to open one of his eyes.

“Sam-o!” Ash groaned. He paused squinting. “Did you get taller? You look different.”

“Good to see you too, man.” Sam shook his head, hair hanging in front of his eyes. Resting his arms against the edge of the pool table, he watched Ash’s eyes close again. “Ellen down here?”

“Somewhere.” Ash rolled his head away from Sam, a clear sign he wasn’t going to get anything else from the man. A second later he was snoring utterly dead to the world.

Sam rolled his eyes but left Ash to it. He’d catch up with Ash once he actually rose for the day, probably when Ellen got sick of him hogging one of her pool tables for a bed or started pouring beer. Ash had to have some stupid story from the last week that would be entertaining to listen to if more than bit odd.

“Ellen?” Sam called out heading for the bar. He could hear some shuffling back in the kitchen. Setting his hands on the bar, Sam called out again. “Anybody home?”

“Sam?” Ellen’s voice yelled back, muffled.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Sam said, a touch of cheer coloring his voice. “Miss me?”

He turned back around now leaning against the bar. It let him watch the front door with a good angle of the rest of the room. He was turning his back to Ellen’s entrance, but he hated turning his back to an unlocked door. Even Ash’s snores put his teeth on edge when he wasn’t facing them. He didn’t like to feel pinned in, hated it in fact. Standing like this relaxed him.

It was better for him to have this conversation with Ellen relaxed.

Sam ran through his prepared argument, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He’d worked on it the entire drive back. It was simple, designed specifically to suit Ellen. She was a parent with a kid only a couple years younger than him that she wanted to keep out of the hunting life. Sam felt bad preying on that, but whatever got him a roof over his head, right?

If she brought up finances, he’d offer his own savings, meager as they were. He’d work the bar, clean up the kitchen, do any job she wanted him to do. Hell, he’d even tutor Jo if that won her over though he knew Jo would hate it.

If she brought up school, he’d remind her that he hadn’t technically withdrawn from the local high school yet. He’d just called in sick all week while he planned everything out. There wouldn’t be an issue there.

If she brought up John…

He’d convince her it wouldn’t matter. Sam had a month, just one last month. Then he’d finish out his junior year. John wouldn’t notice he was gone until then. After May 2^nd, it wouldn’t matter what he thought, Sam wouldn’t be beholden to him anymore. Once he got through his senior year, he’d be gone, dust kicked up behind him.

He could do it. He could convince her.

The door to the kitchen swung open, squeaking just so. Sam turned his head back glancing over his shoulder with a bright smile that never felt fake around Ellen. Only it wasn’t Ellen walking out of the kitchen. It wasn’t Ellen staring at him, watching him with pale expressionless faces.

It was them.

Mary and Dean.

His mother and his elder brother.

The last two members of Sam’s terribly un-stereotypical family. Who had left him to John.

It’d been nearly six years since he’d last seen them. John avoided a lot of folks, for good reason usually since he tended to leave a good deal of hurt behind him, but these were the only two that Sam never complained about. In fact, he had an even greater aversion than his father.

Sam’s eyes trembled. He bit his lip. Any other day. Any other day and he could handle seeing the pair. He’d steel his spine, bare his teeth, and stand his ground. But today? When he needed to beg Ellen to take him in? When he had to bring down his walls and risk everything?

“Fuck no.” Sam turned. He snagged his duffel bag on his way back to the door sending the chair toppling to the ground. Voices sprung up behind him, but he ignored them. Ignored them the same way they’d ignored him for years, for fucking years.

He’d come back in a few days once Mary and Dean had cleared town. Once the pair had run back to their perfect picket fence house and he screwed his head back on straight. Til then he’d make do with the backseat of the Impala and gas station sink baths. His latest growth spurt meant that curling up was touch harder than it used to be, but he’d take that discomfort over letting them see him beg and plead.

“Sammy, wait!”

A familiar rage built up in his chest. Normally he’d swing back around. He’d explain in no uncertain terms that no one and nobody got to call him that name, especially one of them. Draw blood if need be to prove his point.

Except he needed Ellen, needed her to take him in after this. And she liked the pair a lot more than she liked John Winchester. And Sam was firmly placed next to John Winchester in everyone’s books. If he upset them, Ellen may tell him no, ban him from the roadhouse. Worse, she may call John. Sam couldn’t afford any of that.

So, he retreated, ran back to his car.

“Sammy! Jesus fucking Christ, would you slow down?” A deep voice, deeper than six years ago, called after him. Sam simply let the door slam back in the other’s face, knowing it wouldn’t stop anyone but still hoping.

Sam’s hand was reaching for the driver’s door. Just a few more inches and he’d be home free. Just a few more inches and all of this would just be another memory to forget. Another tick in the freak column.

A callused hand closed around his wrist.

“Sammy, c’mon man, you don’t need to run.” The voice huffed. “We just wanted to say hi.”

“You said it, bye.” His voice was clipped, hiding a raging fire beneath. He wrenched open the door with his free hand.

“Don’t,” The voice growled, frustration clearly building. “Don’t be like this!”

Sam lifted his head, glaring. Dean flinched. Over his shoulder, Sam could see Mary standing frozen on the steps down to the parking lot. He tore his gaze away from her before he could do something stupid like wonder if she recognized the little toddler she’d abandoned in his grown features or see how she’d changed in the last few years. Neither of those things mattered. Mary didn’t matter to him, and he meant nothing to her.

Sam jerked his arm free. Dean stepped forward to stop him. Sam braced himself for a fight. Dean was shorter than him but definitely had more muscle. Sam could win, but it’d be a brutal win when all he wanted was to run, flee before his anger lost him his one place of refuge.

“Dean! Let him go!” Mary’s voice cut through the tense air.

Almost instantly Dean backed down, shifting back a few paces. There was still a desperate sort of anger in his eyes, one that Sam recognized by refused to say matched what he saw in the mirror most days. He was nothing like them, nothing like his mother and her chosen son.

Sam dropped into the impala without another word, swinging his door shut. He slammed the keys into the ignition delighting in the flash of annoyance that ran across Dean’s face. He nearly smiled, lips twitching before he swung the car out of the lot.

His eyes never lifted from the road. His rear view mirror remained out of his view.

He made it fifteen miles before he had to pull off the road, hands trembling so bad he’s surprised he didn’t send the car into the roadside shrubbery.

Sam bent his head forward, banging against the wheel. His nails cut into his palms from how tightly he gripped the wheel. His rings pinched at his skin. The pain made him feel better, kept him present when all he wanted to do was scream. Just scream and scream until his voice gave out.

Why? Why show up today of all days? He’d never run into either of them at the roadhouse before. Ellen usually gave him a warning, and she probably did the same to them whenever he was with her.

Sam let his eyes flutter closed. The radio hummed quietly next to him, some mullet rock band that John liked more than he did switching to an old Beatles song that Sam vaguely remembered though he couldn’t say from where. John hated the Beatles, and certainly wouldn’t play anything like this for a younger Sam.

Breathing forced and eyes shut, Sam let the music wash over him, a false serenity if there ever was one.

It’d be fine. He’d wait a few more days. It was Friday, barely the weekend anyway. He wouldn’t need to worry about classes until Monday morning. Mary and Dean would move on before too long. They always did.

Til then Sam would let the soft almost hymn-like song lull him down from his anger. He’d listen to this song, and then he’d get back on the road. He’d make it better. It didn’t matter what pain Mary and Dean caused him, he wouldn’t let them get to him.

Chapter Text

There was a body draped across the couch.

There was a body, and all of its blood was soaking into the ugly yellow fabric underneath it. Lurid splashes against the faded wallpaper. Drops falling towards the carpeted floor.

Flashes of the room falling into chaos besieged him.

There was nothing to do. Cut carotid, sliced straight across the neck, so deep the head was barely attached. Nothing could save you from that. Attacked from behind, surprised from behind, there was little to stop the attacker.

The heart had already stopped long before now, long before this awful picture was seen. How he knew this, he couldn’t say. He just knew. For all that he saw the act, death had already come and gone leaving just a body and a bloody room.

Spread across the coffee table were piles of paper. Letters. Bills. Envelopes. There was blood sprayed across the surface of a few of them, the ones closest to the body, but the ones further away had mostly escaped. Half an address jumped out to him.

If he could just… If he could see the whole thing maybe he could help. If this wasn’t all in his head, he could help. Find the monster who did this.

“Oh, Sammy, my boy,” A cold crooning voice whispered in his ears. “You really are precious.”

A door slammed behind him, too loud and too quick for him to see who left.

Sam twisted reaching for the door handle. He barely had time to stick his head out before his stomach betrayed him. He lurched forward and retched. His throat burned, and he gagged at the taste left in his mouth.

The cool night air, soft rather than crisp now that it was spring, was a blessing. Head hanging down, Sam just tried to breathe. In, hold, out. In. Hold. Out.

Stomach still roiling, Sam forced himself to sit up, stick his legs out the car rather than leave them tangled in the backseat. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. With his feet beneath him, he felt calmer. If push came to shove, he could move, could fight, wasn’t helpless. He pushed his head between his knees and went back to breathing.

In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Over and over again. Until the nausea faded and other pains rose to take its place. A white-hot stab of pain cut through his head.

Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose. Eyes squeezed shut, he reached down into the footwell for something to drink. Most of his supplies were in the trunk, both supernatural and human, but he’d grabbed a few things before he’d gone to bed just in case, a precaution he’d hoped not to need. His fingers closed around a plastic bottle, warm to the touch. Not great but he’d take what he could get right now.

The crinkling of the plastic ricocheted around his head; the sound more than he could handle so soon. He pressed his palm into his eye socket, pressing down until the pain became a dull ache. The chill of his fingers was a mercy against the pain.

If the cold was mercy, the first sip of water felt heavenly. He swished it around his mouth before spitting it out. The taste of stomach acid and last night’s scrapped together dinner was gone thankfully. The next sip felt better than the first. Slowly he sipped at his water. The cooler in his drunk had to have something colder, or at least cooler, then this, but he was stuck with what he had until opening his eyes again without debilitating pain was back on the table.

Crunching gravel drew his attention. Footsteps heading his way. The sound echoed across the empty night. Sam kept his head low, face shadowed. He dropped both his hands from his face leaning all his weight onto his arms where they’re pressed against his knees. A false picture of distraction brought about by sickness. The perfect prey for whatever predator was drawing closer. There he waits.

The steps hurry closer.

Another set of footsteps joined the first, both of them drawing ever closer to him, straightforward rather than circling. He sits waiting. He takes another sip of his water with his eyes still shut. Screwing the top back on, he reaches down dropping it down in the footwell, fingers twitching when it leaves his grasp. He presses his other hand back against his face feigning feeling more pain that was less fake than he was ever going to admit.

He doesn’t have long to wait after that. The footsteps pick up their pace again. The night air shifts around him.

His fingers snatch up his gun from the footwell. He’s aiming before his eyes even fully open. His finger a hair’s breadth from the trigger.

“Goddammit Sammy!”

Sam nearly pulls the trigger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He snarls. His eyes narrow, glaring at the pair in front of him in equal parts anger and pain. His head throbs with each word that falls from his lips.

Dean has his hands thrown up in the air. He’s stopped just inside the ring of light thrown by the nearest streetlight. Behind him half in shadow, Mary watches on. Sam clenches his jaw. Another wave of pain crests over him, but his gun doesn’t dip.

“How ‘bout you put that gun down?” Dean says, voice false with cheer. Sam tightens his grip in response. “Yeah, didn’t think so but can’t blame a guy, right?”

He feels it before they see it but only just. Nearly groans because of course he hits the full trifecta in front of them.

Blood drips down from his nose trailing over his lips. Sam tries to cover it, slaps one hand over the mess while the other drops back into the seat well abandoning his gun and searching for a rag, a shirt, something to mop up the blood before it stains anything. He ignores the voices around him rising in pitch.

Cold, calloused fingers grip his hand dragging it from his face. Sam jolts back, but he doesn’t make it far. His vision goes blurry. His head aches, a blade of pain stabbing straight through his skull at the jostling. The only thing that grounds him are the fingers cradling his head and the eyes staring into his own. Bright green eyes pin him down. Beseeching and commanding in equal parts. Sam is helpless to deny them in the state he’s in.

“You’re okay, you’re okay. Let me help.”

Sam loses himself after that. Time slows then skips then stops. It’s a familiar pattern. His dreams and his headaches always followed the same road. Only normally Sam would be the only passenger, methodically cleaning the blood and scrounging through his med kit to take the edge off before trying desperately to forget the whole thing.

“Come on, little brother. That’s it, that’s it.”

Something cold and wet wipes down his face. A wet rag. Sam hadn’t even noticed where Dean had gotten it from.

“Just gonna get you cleaned up then you’ll be right as rain.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered, but he refused to let them fall closed. The pain has faded to a manageable buzz, but the flashes of the dream still color the inside of his eyelids. He bites back a groan, teeth digging into his lower lip.

Another swipe under his nose clears more from his face while the trickle of blood slows to a stop. A second cold rag settling on his neck seems to drag the last bit of pain from his skull. It’s heavenly. It’s too much.

Dean swipes a thumb over Sam’s cheekbone, rubbing at a still healing cut. That’s what finally kicks Sam into gear. He doesn’t want soft or caring from Dean or Mary. He doesn’t want anything from them at all. Those days, of desperately wondering why they left and wanting them back, are long gone, history that no one will ever remember if Sam has his way.

Sam jerks his head back. Dean’s hold tightens just so. Glaring, Sam strains against him.

“Son of a, stop Sam! Just stop! We’re just trying to help.” Dean growls at him.

“Let go.” Sam growls right back. Hands reaching up to drag Dean’s away from his face grasping at his wrists tightly.

“Sam.” Mary kneels down next to both of them, her tone commanding.

Sam sweeps a glare her way, face pinched. Dean’s hold on him tightened in turn, but Sam just ripped his hands away from his face. If Dean was pissed, then he was about to get enraged cause that was the nicest Sam was gonna be until they left him the hell alone.

“Where’s your dad?” Mary asks.

Sam rolls his eyes, ignoring the twinge of pain in his head. “Pulling a Miller time shift. Where else would he be? On a hunt.”

“He left you alone?” Dean asks. His hands twitch towards Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam drawls reaching down for his water again. His fingers dance across his gun, but he chooses not to risk it. Despite everything, Dean and Mary are both good hunters. They’d get the gun from him in seconds even if he did want to shoot them. “Sent me off on my own for a hunt while he did his own thing.”

Technically not a lie. Not fully. He’d been on a hunt, and John was doing his own thing as per usual. Nothing had to be said about what state his hunt was in, be it finished or just starting.

“Is this your first hunt on your own?” Mary’s voice sounds thick. Dean’s jaw clenches for some reason.

Sam stares at her, eyes wide and incredulous. “You’re joking right?”

Sam’s first solo hunt had been at sixteen, two weeks after his birthday. His dad would have sent him off younger he’s sure if he didn’t think Sam would use it as just another excuse to run away, and he’d been right to worry, not that Sam would ever give him the pleasure of saying so.

Most dads gave their kids a car or took them to get the licenses on their sixteenth birthday but not Sam’s. No. Sam’s shoved a gun in his hands full of silver bullets and told him to kill the monster in the woods. Only after Sam had made it back, scratched to hell from fighting and traipsing through the woods at midnight, did John hand over the keys to the impala that had been Sam’s home his whole life.

Bobby and Ellen had both congratulated him at the time though he’d known they’d been less than happy with John. Which he didn’t blame them for. Sam had made it out of that hunt by the skin of his teeth. At least he’d gotten the car out of it. John spent more time on the road away from him now that he had his own wheels. So long as Sam played at being the good soldier following orders, checking in at mandated times, and hunting what he was told to, he had a form of freedom. Absent tough he was, John still held legal responsibility over him, and Sam preferred to keep what little freedom he had.

Play the game until he hit eighteen, that’d been his plan. That’d still be his plan once Mary and Dean grew sick of pretending interest in his life.

“Hey, smartass,” Dean growled, but Mary set a hand on his shoulder calming. It took everything in Sam not to roll his eyes at the pair.

“What are you hunting?” Mary asked. Sam would be impressed in her ability to sidestep his obvious hostility if her interest in his hunt didn’t annoy him so much. Whatever, he didn’t expect her to have any interest in his life, expecting her to want to know about his first solo hunt was ludicrous. That monster was dead, interest wasn’t warranted.

“Not sure yet.” Sam said grabbing for the rag Dean had been using before. He swiped it under his nose clearing out the last of the blood. Dean’s hands twitched when Sam scrubbed at his face, but Sam ignored him.

His dream deserved checking out even if he had half an address, just a city and state, but with Dean and Mary around, it was too dangerous to go. Not every hunter saw things in black and white, sure. Some knew there was room for grey, but Sam didn’t want to risk his life with people he already knew not to trust. He wasn’t stupid.

Mary’s lips pursed. There was a look in her eye that Sam didn’t like. He didn’t know her well enough to decipher its true meaning, but he could guess that she didn’t like his answer. He clenched his fists waiting. If this were John, he’d already be hearing about how he was failing, failing at being a hunter or a son, sometimes both if John was really angry. Sam waited to hear her condemnation.

“Where are you headed?”

Now that Sam wasn’t expecting. And certainly not a question Sam was going to answer. Even if he was on a hunt, he wouldn't tell her. As it was, he was just trying to keep her from learning the real reason he'd dropped by Ellen's.

“Why do you care?” Sam demanded. Mary sighed.

“Despite what you think of me Sam, I am still your mother.” Mary crossed her arms, posture stiff. “Your father might be alright with you hunting on your own, but he’s had years with you.”

Great, so she was doubting his abilities. Sam ground his teeth together, jaw set with anger.

“I’d feel much more comfortable with you on your own if I was able to see you in action.” Mary continued. Dean nodded along to her words, still kneeling down in front of Sam. "A hunt is always better with a group backing you."

Sam stops and thinks. There’s no real escape here. Dean and Mary have made it more than clear that wherever Sam goes next, they’ll follow. If he heads back to the roadhouse, they’ll follow and hear him talking to Ellen. If he heads towards John and the motel he’d been dumped at, the blow up from both parties will be worse. His only bet is to sell the lie. Make up a hunt and ditch them the first second he could.

His dream flashes through his head. A pile of letters and half an address. A dead body with blood painted across a living room. A dark voice whispering to him. He had to look into it.

“Fine,” Sam manages finally. “Either of you ever heard of Aurora, Nebraska?”