Chapter Text
Sam was kicking the door of his locker furiously. There was a dent in it already, the door getting deformed, soon it would pop out of its hinges and fall out. Fuck this shit!
Sam Winchester was the definition of teenage angst. He was always angry and there was nothing he could do about it. John thought it was irrational, Sam would say he had very many good reasons to be unhappy but nobody would listen to them so what was the point? People were fucking stupid.
He couldn’t shake it. He kicked the door one more time, the impact reverberating through his worn sneakers. His skin felt two sizes too small for him, his joints were aching all the time from his rapid growth, and every step hurt in his knees and shins, his back.
There was a considerable crowd of students around him now, but he didn’t pay them any mind. They were stupid too. Stupid, naive, cushioned, sheltered little kids with no idea how hard life could be. How sore a person would get from days crammed in a car, how it felt to go hungry, to almost faint from fright but knowing if that’d happen you’d be dead and all your loved ones too. They didn’t know, they didn’t know!
Sam hasn’t felt calm in months. There was this searing feeling right under his skin, his blood boiling, bubbling, getting ready for a massive eruption. A hot stone in his stomach. His hands were shaking constantly.
Just when he was ready to switch kicks for punches, the collar of his t-shirt tightened around his throat and he got jerked back violently. Before he could turn around and beat the crap out of anyone who tried to touch him when he was falling apart, pieces glued together with spite and a prayer, he got slammed face-first into his broken locker with his left hand twisted behind his back.
"Calm the fuck down," Dean snarled into his ear because it couldn’t have been anyone else. Nobody else would touch him, nobody else would talk to him or get close. He looked like a feral yard dog, barking and biting, spitting venom. But Dean was the same, Dean was worse and he knew him, knew everything about him, every single detail and that was infuriating. He also knew that Sam’s left shoulder still bothered him after the last hunt, so he pulled on his hand, twisted it even more at an angle, and braced his right forearm against his shoulder blades. Sam kept trashing for a little longer but knew there was not really a point.
He had half a mind to let Dean dislocate his shoulder in hopes he would let go of him then and Sam would be able to land at least one good hit, but with the audience, with them being in the middle of the school hallway, with CPS never too far, with John blessedly absent for now, he refrained.
"Can I let you go now?" Dean asked with a little push, Sam’s breath bouncing off of the locker door and coming back warm and loud.
"Yeah," he growled. He was free for all of three seconds before Dean’s hand clasped the back of his neck in an iron grip and led him none too gently towards the principal’s office. The crowd opened before them like the Red Sea.
It took all of Sam’s willpower not to slap Dean’s hand away but he knew very well that it would earn him only a fist in the face.
Dean deposited him right outside of the office with a stern look and disappeared inside, shoulders tense.
When Sam didn’t fight furniture, mostly he fought with John. It’s been years since Sam stopped worshipping him, since he wanted him home for Christmas and birthdays and movie nights. John wasn’t a superhero as Dean made him believe once upon a time. John was a drunk. An irresponsible, hypocritical, neglectful excuse of a parent. Most of the time he worked on a mix of tar black, wake-up-the-long-dead-and-decomposed coffee, cheap whiskey, and sheer stubbornness. He liked to think he did everything in his power to keep his boys safe, and prepare them for all the ugly things that might come for them when the sun set.
Sam would beg to differ.
Sam knew John was an exceptional hunter considering he thought most of it himself with two kids in the backseat. Sam knew he could take care of things, charm or intimidate the authorities, find his kids even when they didn’t want to be found. But any time he was trudging through the woods, boots sinking in the soft ground, one silver blade in hand, and moonlight above his head, he couldn’t be sure he was not being used as bait. John said he would never. Sam was pretty sure he would and did. Ain’t that a kicker? There must have been a reason most of the hunters they knew wouldn’t pick up the phone anymore, after all.
So, Sam didn’t trust John. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to. For multiple reasons. He didn’t remember if there was one breaking point or if it was gradual. It must have happened around the time John left them alone for about a week, when Sam was ten, though. It was supposed to be two days. They had food and money for two days. At that time Sam wasn’t as observant as he is nowadays, so it took him a while to notice, but Dean barely ate so he could stretch money and be able to pay for their room one more day. But Dean wasn’t a magician, he was fourteen and at the end of the week, they both went hungry and squatted in some crackhead’s abandoned den, chugging water to make their stomachs feel full.
When John came back Sam hugged him crying. After a good night's sleep and a filling meal though, he gave the whole thing a thought and stopped talking to John for two weeks. In those two weeks he frowned so violently that Dean was worried the angry lines would stay engraved into Sammy’s baby face forever. And he would feel very much responsible for that.
John never apologized. John wasn’t one for apologizing, for talking, really. He did feel bad, the guilt curdling the contents of his stomach, threatening to make his dinner see the sun once more. Mary would be so angry. He vowed to himself to stay put for a while, to give the boys some stability, to be their father again, maybe go to the movies, play some games. That’s what he was telling himself while tipping the bottom of his whiskey bottle skywards. In the morning they packed up and left.
So Sam fought with John, argued with him on a daily basis. He argued about the sleeping schedule, food, homework, and training. He argued about the damn weather and it was driving Dean up the wall. Sam and John have been at each other’s throats for years, that wasn’t anything new.
Once he told Sam that it was because they were so goddamn similar, stubborn bastards, which earned him a bloody nose. Sam got taller, almost as tall as Dean himself, and his punch felt like a horse kicked Dean in the face.
It was getting worse, though, and Dean blamed their latest departure. Sam liked his last school. He thought at least. Sam didn’t talk to him like he used to. Before they moved, Dean witnessed one of the most vicious fights John and Sam had ever had. Dean had to force his way between them because John’s hands were fisted in Sam’s t-shirt and Sam was so red in the face with fiery eyes that Dean was seriously concerned he would deck their father. Which would so not be good. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop what would come after and that scared the crap out of him.
Dean hated taking sides and Sam hated that he couldn’t choose. Coward.
Sam was sixteen now and he knew Dean didn't always agree with John, wasn't always happy with his decisions. But he never said anything, never backed Sam up when he was fighting for both of them. He was a fucking coward just nodding and yessing. Dad's perfect little soldier. Sam resented him for it. Resented him for making him feel like this. Because none of it was true. Dean was strong, brave, loyal. Dean was everything, larger than life. But he couldn’t see it though, could he? He stayed in their father’s shadow, repeating John's lines like a brainwashed parrot and Sam hated it with passion.
He tried to make Dean see reason, to listen. But he never did.
Sam could hear raised voices through the door now, the principal was furious while Dean tried to smooth things out. Usually, Sam was the one stopping people from beating Dean senseless when he just couldn’t shut up, but lately, his anger burned all his patience and Dean had to channel his inner pastor Jim to fix shit.
Sam would get suspended. Maybe even kicked out of the school. A tendril of cold ran down his spine at that thought. Nothing to do about it now, though.
It took about fifteen minutes before Dean finally left the office. He gave Sam a long, considering look that Sam couldn’t decipher, and jerked his head towards the exit. They didn’t talk on their way to the car, they didn’t talk when they got in or when Sam threw his backpack in the backseat. Dean’s eyes tracked his every move though. Sam’s shoulders were stiff, eyebrows drawn in a frown, skin around his mouth tight, and eyes like wildfire.
"What the hell?" he finally asked, trying to rein in his anger, because yeah, this was a major clusterfuck but the principal said that Sam was struggling. His grades dropped, he didn’t care about any of the afterschool activities, never talked to anyone, turned in his assignments late and so on and so forth. It was nothing like Sam, and Dean was worried.
"Nothing," answered Sam quietly, staring out of the window, clutching his jeans angrily.
"Ha, funny, I’m pretty sure that you trying to kick your way through a locker wasn’t an effort to find Narnia," Dean snarked with a fake smile and cheerfulness that grated on Sam’s nerves.
"Narnia’s in a closet," he mumbled, annoyed.
"That’s not the fucking point! What the fuck happened, Sam? Last time you were fighting a gang of little preppy assholes, the time before that you screamed at a teacher!"
"Because he said it wrong! I researched the crap out of it for Dad’s hunt and he was saying it all wrong. I corrected him and he gave me detention!" Sam yelled right back at Dean, hands shaking, heart racing.
"So? You can’t yell at a teacher ‘cause he said something wrong! Even if he said that the Earth is flat and France is the capital of Canada, you keep your head down and shut up!"
Oh, that was rich coming from Dean. He was great at keeping his head down.
"Why, because he’s an adult? I should just let it go because he was born three hundred years ago? I was right and he was wrong but he just fucking refused to own his fucking mistake because I’m just a kid and nobody cares about my opinion. Nobody ever listens to me and I’m sick of it!" Sam screamed, the searing stone in his stomach getting heavier and heavier by the second. He kicked the dashboard once, twice. Then Dean punched him in the arm being this close to throwing him out of the moving car.
"Yeah? And I’m sick of your whiny ass. Stop being such a bitch! Not everything is fair and the whole world doesn’t revolve around you! This was the third time you were called to the principal’s office, you understand how screwed you are right now? I had to go there every time because Dad is gone and now they want to talk to him. They say you have anger management issues. If the CPS gets a whiff of this, we’ll have to hightail it from here before the hunt is finished. You are so fucked, I mean Hitler in a bunker fucked! Was it really worth it?" Dean prodded but Sam wouldn’t answer. Dean wouldn’t listen anyway so what was the point?
It was true, he did fight a bunch of jocks mocking him, his hand-me-downs, his whole existence, and most importantly, his dropout brother. There were a couple of bloody noses and although Sam was very much holding his own, he did leave with a shiner.
The history teacher hated Sam’s guts and tried to trip him every chance he got now.
They would also have to pay for the damages Sam did to the locker.
To be honest, Sam didn’t want to make Dean’s life more difficult than it already was, but he just couldn’t help it. There was no alternative. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he didn’t let it out just a little bit. There was a good chance he would just explode and take everyone in a five-mile radius with him. Now Dean was pissed, Dad would murder him, the school counselor wanted to look into his anger issues, and Sam’s hands just kept on shaking.
Yeah, he was Hitler in the bunker fucked.
.....
When they arrived at their rented house, which couldn't really be called a house, a tiny, moldy shack at best, with old lumpy mattresses and a small yard located at the edge of town Buckfuck, Nowhere, John wasn't there yet. Dean called him, that was certain. Sam wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not. There was a shitstorm coming his way and he would like to get it over with but on the other hand, he really did not want to see John right now. Or in any foreseeable future. Maybe ever.
"What is going on with you, Sammy?" Dean broke the uncomfortable silence, voice tense.
"Nothing," Sam grumbled still angry, desperately trying not to take it out on Dean. He didn’t want to, he didn’t. Sure, he wanted to punch him in the face half of the time but honestly, Dean was the person that pissed him off the least these days. He missed him something fierce, the old days when he wasn’t on hunts with Dad that often, when he wasn’t running after any willing girl, when he had him mostly to himself.
"Yeah, sure. You understand Dad had to leave from a hunt? People are in danger, man. And they might kick you outta school, we might have to move and it won't be easy to enroll you again after this."
Sam shrugged. Fingers curled into fists.
"Could you at least answer me?" Dean's forcibly gentle voice turned into a snarl. His patience was wearing thin, Sam’s stony face grating on his nerves. Worry fighting with anger. "I get you've got issues but this is too much, dammit."
"I don’t give a shit about dad’s hunt," Sam forced through his teeth. It wasn’t necessarily true but he had nothing else to say.
"You are fucking selfish, I can't believe you. Get out of the car and wait for Dad, I'm going out. And if you run again I'll kick your ass into the next century."
And then he was gone.
He scolded him like a little kid and left him there, red-faced, angry, hurt.
When Dean was his age, sweet sixteen, he was treated like an adult. Maybe not always by John’s hunter buddies, but by the general population. By John. John didn’t treat him as an equal, that was for sure, but he did treat him as an adult since Dean was four years old. And everybody else did because he took care of his baby brother because he knew about monsters and fires. He tucked Sam in bed, all his sleepy puppy eyes and innocence. He tucked John in bed, so drunk he could barely walk. Dean was the framework of the family, without him there would be no Winchesters. Sam would be bouncing foster homes and John would be dead in a ditch.
Dean was everything.
And Sam? Sam was an angry teenager that people treated like a hissing wet cat. He was a teenager, but he could handle a '45 since he hit double digits. Strike a target with anything pointy, eyes closed. He knew how to kill and how to dispose of a body. He knew things he was not supposed to know and he was smart, he was aware of that. Maybe that’s what made it unbearable, everybody dismissing him. John dismissing him. He trained him for an eternal war, filled his head with all the information but he never listened to his suggestions, new ideas. Never listened to his reasoning, because he was just a teenager, a school-loving dork, a good-for-nothing son.
In Sam’s calmer, wiser moments, he could admit to himself that he wouldn’t envy Dean’s responsibility, weighing him down. Knew that even though John listens to Dean to a certain degree, he doesn’t respect him any more than he does Sam, though he might love him more.
At other times, Sam longed for John’s approval, he longed to be heard. He despised himself at those times.
Most of the waking hours though, and the sleeping ones too, for that matter, he hated John with passion. Because as much as Sam wanted to find his place in the world, he still loved Dean more and he couldn’t stand that John trained him like a dog, used him for anything and everything. A backup, a nanny, a friend, a caretaker, a cook, a soldier, a grateful son, a fucking butler. He hated that he laid so much responsibility on his shoulders, because family or not, Dean was not supposed to be responsible for them.
Sam tried to stick up for Dean because no one else would, but that didn’t work so well, did it? John just got mad and there was another fight Dean had to defuse. They were running in circles with no way out.
It took John two hours and forty-three minutes to get back. In the meantime, Sam paced. Punched a wall. Did his homework. Paced some more.
Dean was still out. Sam wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
Sam was sitting on the porch stairs staring at his feet, shoulders hunched, when John arrived, the truck rumbling loudly. It sounded nothing like the Impala, nothing like home, but nerve-wracking. Like a threat.
John stepped out of the car, face dangerously blank. He seemed calm, but his movements were jerky, sharp, loud.
"Just came back from your school," he announced instead of a greeting, voice quiet, husky, eyes cold. It wouldn’t last long, Sam knew, John could never hold his temper with him. Pushing the right buttons was Sam’s superpower.
Sam didn’t answer. There was nothing to say and John wouldn’t listen anyway.
"I had to leave in the middle of a hunt, had to call another hunter in to finish because my youngest has apparently anger issues. My youngest apparently punches other kids, destroys school property, and yells at teachers. Wanna explain?"
Sam knew John didn’t really have any desire for an explanation. He wanted to hear I’m sorry, sir, it’s not gonna happen again, sir. Sam also knew it would be the smart thing to do. Just let John yell at him for a while, nod and look sheepish, apologize and overall be a good son. But Sam couldn’t give him that.
"They had it coming," Sam answered defiantly.
"Oh yeah, that makes it okay, sorry I even asked," John replied, mocking him.
"Yeah, well if you were here you would know about the shit they say, about what’s going on," Sam shot back, back straight.
"Why do you even care? They don’t know us! We’ll leave at the end of the month and they’ll never see us again." Anger and exasperation were waging a war in John’s eyes. Sam knew which one would win.
"And that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?" Sam hissed, staring up at John from his seated position, "Nobody knows us and nobody ever will because we won’t stay in one place more than a few months. Usually not even that long!" he shot up, standing just a couple of feet from John.
"We have a responsibility! People are dying and you care just about yourself, your little friends, and your damn homework." Disgust was dripping from John’s voice, burning Sam like acid.
"I don’t have any friends!" Sam threw his hands up, willing angry tears to stay the fuck where they belong.
"I can’t believe you’re so selfish. There are lives on the line!"
And there it was again, that word. Selfish.
Sam didn’t think he was selfish. He would die for his family, for people he didn’t even know. He just wanted something for himself, was that too bad? He just wanted some stability, basic human respect. He longed for safety because he hadn’t felt safe since he learned about what lurks in the shadows, and looking over his shoulder day and night got really exhausting. He wanted to live life for himself at least sometimes.
Yes, people were dying, but that wasn’t his fault, after all.
It wasn’t his goddamn fault, he wasn’t the one that killed them! Why should he feel responsible for their lives? Adults, all high and mighty, thinking they all know better? Why should he be responsible for them at the age of sixteen?
"I don’t give a crap!" he shouted, the fire of fury rekindled.
There was a stunned silence, suffocating, rippling with electricity, but before John could muster enough words to answer, Sam continued: "People die all the time! Car crashes, diseases, murderers, bad luck. People die all the time and we just cannot save everyone. It’s honorable of you to fight all the evil, but it’s also stupid. Impossible! It’s not our duty to be out there and risk our lives all the time, to throw away our lives and stop dreaming. There has to be more. There has to!"
Fucking tears came back with vengeance but Sam refused to let them go. Over his dead body. He wasn’t crying. He hasn’t been crying in years, not in front of John, not in front of anybody.
Sam cared about people, he really did, but he was willing to sacrifice only about half of his life to them, not all, not everything. He just couldn’t and he didn’t want to. He wasn’t the one killing them off, it wasn’t his fault, and he refused to pay the price.
"And what about the thing that killed your mother? You don’t care she was murdered and the killer is still running wild? Huh?" John stood so close now, angry, disappointed, heartbroken.
John pulled his biggest ace, his strongest fuel, revenge. He was obsessed with it, his stupid-ass vendetta, pulled Dean into it too. The trouble was that it wouldn’t work on Sam. Motherless Sam since he was a baby, without a single memory of her. He could never feel the pull. He longed, alright, he longed. For a blonde angel, for a life he could’ve had. He was fighting for the charred remains of that life, and vengeance for a stranger in a photograph he was denied to even touch just didn’t work.
"It’s not my fault," he blurted, throat tight. He tried again: "It’s not my fault mom is dead and I shouldn’t be punished for it by having all my life ruined, you hear me? Not. my. fault!"
John was angry, his eyes held tornadoes, floods, and wildfires. Sam should take a step back, shut his mouth, and apologize. John would snap any second and it wouldn’t end well for him.
He didn’t. He held his chin high, adrenaline coursing through his veins, hands shaking.
But John didn’t snap. He just raised his eyebrows and growled dangerously: "You sure about that?"
And that was like a bucket of ice water, freezing his blood, filling him with dread.
"What?"
"Are you sure it’s not your fault? Because from where I’m standing it ain’t that clear. That thing came for some reason. You know where your mother died? In your nursery, protecting you…"
The words were tasting bitter on John’s tongue, but he wouldn’t take them back.
Sam stood staring, his face frozen in a grimace. He stopped breathing for a moment, deciding between hurt and anger.
He knew logically that he had nothing to do with it. He was a baby and even if he was the reason it came to their house, he couldn’t be faulted for that. He wasn’t able to even sit up or feed himself, there was just no way he could be condemned for that.
Sam felt a little bit sick, lunch was rolling in his stomach and a vicious migraine was starting behind his eyes. He kind ofwanted to curl in a ball and sob. He also wanted to scream and never stop.
Anger won.
Or maybe heartbreak likes to wear the same coat.
"She did what every mother would," he said quietly, his voice hard with a manic edge. "I was a baby and she protected me as every parent should protect their child. Something you forgot about back then, fifteen years ago, and-"
Sam’s cheek stung, a trickle of blood flowing from his split lip. John didn’t want to listen, he never did. He stopped Sam’s hard truths by backhanding him with all his strength. Sam’s head turned and the rest of his body followed. He caught himself on the stair railing, spat a burl of blood and saliva on the ground. His ears were ringing.
It felt like ages, the world slowed down around him, but in reality, it took just a split second. He turned, jumping forward with a wild scream, fists clenched. Every intention to hurt. He didn’t care he had no chance of winning. He didn’t care that in his fury, John might just not stop beating on him in time. He jumped, all feral yard dog-like.
His fist didn’t land. Dean barreled into him, arms wrapped around his waist, head tucked into his neck to protect his face from any unfortunate punches or bites.
In the midst of the argument, neither of them noticed the Impala nearing them, low rumble and sleek body. And when Dean saw John hurting his baby brother he knew he got back almost too late.
He took Sam down, both of them on the dusty ground. It was the second time that day he had to wrestle Sam into some kind of submission, but there was no way he could get him calm this time. He just needed to get him away.
Sam was back on his feet in a second, Dean right there with him, arms around him again, holding for dear life, shuffling him backwards. Sam was screaming like a wild animal the whole time, John yelled words neither of the sons bothered to listen to.
With a mighty effort, Dean managed to push and shove Sam to the corner of the house, all the while whispering into Sam’s ear pleas, please, don’t, calm down, please Sammy, don’t do this, Sammy, please, please.
With a last cry, Sam shook Dean off and turned towards the woods, disappearing in their shade, holding on to his sobs wrecking his whole body. He didn’t make a sound, his face stayed dry.
He walked fast, not caring where, sticks snapping under his feet, breathing loudly. He couldn’t hear Dean warning John that if he ever touches Sam ever again, he will put him in the ground.