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Summary - Sam goes off to college and the other two Winchester sibling have to be there for each other now.
Dean sat on the step of a dingy motel staircase, watching his baby brother ride away. As the bus pulled away Dean's chest felt heavy, and he had to choke back a sob. His throat and cheeks started to burn as tears brimmed his eyes. He felt like he failed, he couldn't keep his family together. His one job, his one command he couldn't do.
He took an unsteady breath and tried to bring himself together as his baby sister sat down with him. She had dried tears down her cheeks, but she just stared at the bus stop. Her gaze falls on her big brother, her strong, resilient big brother. "Hi," she mumbled scooting closer, "hey." He croaked a small tear escaping his eye. "Dean, this isn't your fault." The older brother scoffed but stayed silent.
"It isn't he chose to leave. Besides you still got me. I'm not leaving you." Dean looked at her finally, and his heart broke as he gave her a small smile. Patting her hair, bringing her into a hug. She shivers into his warm embrace, as the cool air starts to pick up. "Come on kiddo, we should go inside." She nods and offers him a hand up which he hesitantly took. Their skin tingles as the warmth of the apartment washes over them. John long gone, drove off in a tantrum over Sam.
Leaving Y/n and Dean sitting at the dining room table together. Dean silently draped a blanket over Y/n's shoulders as he made her some stove top ramen. Just something to warm them up for dinner. They ate quietly, it was a comfortable silence, this is how it would be for two more years.
setting: pre-series, shortly before sam leaves for stanford
warnings: family conflict, fear of abandonment, emotional hurt and canon-typical family dysfunction (not a john fan sorry)
summary: sam intends to tell dean that he has been accepted into university, but before he gets the chance, dean finds the acceptance letter by mistake
word count: 5k
Dean noticed everything about his little brother. Perhaps that is how he truly found the hidden letter, at least what led him up to its discovery.
It was not a dramatic change. Sam had not suddenly thrown out the salt canisters or replaced the silver knife beneath his pillow with a dictionary. He still rolled his shirts tightly enough to fit three days’ worth of clothes into his battered green duffel. He still kept a small rosary looped around the zipper and wrapped his blades in old T-shirts so they would not tear through the canvas.
At any given time, there were still three forged licences in his wallet, two library cards belonging to men who had never existed and enough loose change to call Bobby from any payphone between Nebraska and California.
From the outside, his little brother's life remained perfectly portable.
But other things had begun appearing among the weapons and hand-me-down clothes that Sam didn’t think Dean had noticed. A clean notebook that did not contain exorcisms, coordinates or frantic translations from Latin. Pens that actually looked… fancy and books Dean didn’t recognise.
Not the old leather-bound volumes that smelled of mildew and dust balls. These books were newer, looked bought from town libraries and used bookstores. Their spines had not been slowly decaying inside coffins or accidentally stained with coffee during some desperate, sleepless research.
They were about American history. Political theory. Constitutional law.
Normal things.
Dean noticed because he noticed everything about Sam.
He noticed when his little brother was favouring his left side after a hunt, even if there was no blood. He noticed when he skipped meals because he was worried about money, when he pretended not to be tired and when his silences meant anger instead of thoughtfulness.
Dean noticed it all.
The motel outside Lincoln was no different from a hundred others they had passed through. Two narrow beds sat beneath framed prints of flowers no one would ever choose for themselves. The carpet was an ugly brown-green, darkened around the door by years of damp boots. A tired air conditioner rattled beneath the window despite the cold, and every few seconds the red glow of the vacancy sign bled through the curtains and washed the room in colour.
John had left before sunrise.
A farmer three towns over had reported seeing his dead wife standing at the edge of his cornfield after midnight. John had decided the story was worth investigating before they moved on, which meant he had taken the impala, his duffle and a research folder put together by Sam, containing every newspaper clipping connected to the woman’s death.
Sam had gone to the local library to check burial records.
Dean had stayed behind to clean the weapons.
That was how it worked. John chased the lead, sometimes with the boys. Sam chased the answers like the geek he was and if it was just another normal case, Dean made sure none of them ran out of ammunition or dealt with a jammed gun.
Sam’s shotgun rested across Dean’s lap in pieces. The barrel gleamed beneath the yellow motel light, and the sharp scent of gun oil clung to his hands.
He reached automatically for a polishing cloth, which he usually grabbed before he started disassembling any weapon, only to look up and realise it wasn’t with the kit.
“Sammy,” he muttered.
His brother had a habit of taking Dean’s things and putting them somewhere sensible majority of the time, which usually meant he could never find them again.
He crossed the room to check their ammunition box, when that failed, he thought for a moment before remembering Sam using the cloth the previous night after sharpening his silver knife.
Dean moved to the bedside of Sam’s bed and hooked one boot beneath the strap of his brothers duffel, dragging it closer.
He didn’t hesitate before opening it.
Privacy had never meant much when three people spent their lives sharing one car, motel rooms and the occasional back room of a church. Sam stole Dean’s shirts. Dean ate whatever food Sam tried to hide for later. John searched both their bags whenever he decided they were unprepared.
There were few secrets in the Winchester family.
At least, that was what Dean had believed.
He pushed aside a grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. Beneath them were two paperbacks, a packet of pens and a small plastic case holding spare razor blades. Dean dug deeper until his fingers closed around the missing cloth, wrapped around the knife he had sharpened.
“There you are.”
He pulled it free.
The sound of clear stencil rattled beneath it.
Dean paused.
A large envelope lay flat against the bottom of the duffel, hidden beneath clothes and a cardboard box of rock salt. It was too clean to belong with the rest of their lives. The paper was heavy, the address typed on a sticker rather than handwritten.
Dean might have ignored it. Almost did.
Then he saw the red logo printed in the upper corner.
Stanford University.
The room seemed to narrow around him.
The air conditioner continued its uneven clatter. A car swept past outside, tyres hissing against the damp highway. The vacancy sign pulsed red across Dean’s hands.
He stared down at the envelope.
Samuel Winchester was printed neatly across the front. Not Campbell. Not one of the aliases John kept filed inside an old cigar box.
Samuel Winchester.
His real name.
Dean lowered himself onto the edge of Sam’s bed.
The envelope had already been opened. A clean slice ran across the top, too precise to have been torn by hand. Sam had probably used the knife wrapped inside the polishing cloth.
He knew he should put it back.
Whatever waited inside belonged to Sam. If Sam wanted him to know, he would have told him.
But he had not.
He glanced towards the door, though he knew Sam was still at the library. After a few seconds of contemplation, and a pained sigh, he drew out the letter.
The first word was enough.
Congratulations.
Dean stared at it.
For several seconds, he expected the message to shift into something less impossible. A request for further information. A rejection softened by polite language. A mistake.
Stanford University was pleased to offer Samuel Winchester admission. His academic achievement had been exceptional. His teachers had described him as disciplined, resilient and unusually promising.
Dean’s gaze moved down the page.
There was more. A scholarship.
Tuition was completely covered. A full ride with assisted housing. Academic support. A future arranged in clean black lettering, just waiting for Sam to say yes.
Dean’s throat tightened.
His first thought was uncomplicated and immediate.
Sam had done it.
The kid had actually done it.
Sam; who had studied in motel bathrooms so the light wouldn’t wake John. He had completed assignments in the back seat of the Impala while Dean drove through three states. He had convinced school after school to accept transfer credits that initially made no sense and had endured guidance counsellors looking at their records as if instability were something Sam had chosen freely. He had done homework after hunts with blood beneath his fingernails. He had taken exams the next day on his laptop after spending half the night burning bones.
And he had done it.
A smile tugged at Dean’s mouth before he could stop it. Pride opened warm and fierce in his chest.
“That’s my boy,” he whispered.
The words barely disturbed the stale motel air. For a few seconds, Dean let himself feel it. Then the rest of the letter sank in. California… Four years, maybe more.
Dormitories and lecture halls and people who had never dug up a grave in their lives. People who would complain about deadlines and cafeteria food because they had no idea what it was like to sleep with a knife beneath their pillow.
Dean looked at the date printed above the letter.
Nine days ago.
His eyes narrowed.
Sam had known for nine days.
For nine days he had carried this in his bag, sitting beside Dean in diners and in the passenger seat of the Impala as though nothing had changed.
Dean told himself anything except the truth.
Sam wanted to leave.
The motel door suddenly opened behind him.
Dean scrambled before thought could catch up. He shoved the letter back into the envelope, bending it in his haste.
Sam entered with three library books tucked beneath one arm and a paper cup in the other. Damp air followed him through the doorway, carrying the smell of rain and pavement.
The taller Winchester saw the envelope in his hand.
Sam stopped.
The paper cup tilted slightly between his fingers. A thin line of coffee spilled over the lid, but he did not appear to notice.
Everything in his face changed.
Dean had seen Sam frightened before. He had seen him face ghosts, demons and their father’s anger. He knew the difference between panic and calculation, between shock and the quiet moment before Sam decided to fight.
This was something else.
It was the expression of someone watching a bridge collapse before he had decided whether to cross it.
“Dean.” His voice was low.
His brother lifted the envelope.
“Stanford?”
Sam closed his eyes briefly.
“I was going to tell you.”
The words struck Dean with more force than they deserved. A humourless laugh left him. “Yeah? When?” He stood, the letter held loosely at his side. “Before or after you disappeared?”
Sam placed the cup and books on the table with an exaggerated thump. “I’m not disappearing Dean.” His voice cracked slightly before he regained his composure. “I’m going to school.”
“California is a hell of a long drive for someone who claims to put family first.” Dean added dryly, unable to help himself. “Tell me how long have you known, huh? How long have you been acting like everything is all rainbows and candy-land?”
“Nine days ago.” Sam stated quietly.
“Nine days.” Dean repeated with a scoff.
“I needed time.” Sam tried to get out.
“For what? Coming up with a lie?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed “To figure out how to tell you!”
Dean laughed now, tensions high amongst the brothers, with nothing funny about it. Sam tried to cool himself off, raising his palms. “C’mon Dean this isn’t fair.”
“No, Sam. Fair would’ve been hearing it from you instead of finding it stuffed in the bottom of your duffle bag.”
”-and the letter just opened itself?”
Dean’s mouth closed and for a moment neither of them moved.
Sam had always been too good at finding the exact weak point in an argument. Maybe that was his inner lawyer...Dean saw the accusation settle between them and hated that it was deserved.
"Okay, maybe I shouldn't have read it." Dean sighed, waving an arm about guiltily.
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Sam's tone was direct, but Dean could hear the hurt in it, which seemed to only make the eldest brother double down.
“But you shouldn’t have hidden it.”
“I wasn’t hiding it from you!"
Dean gestured with the envelope. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Sam’s jaw worked. “Because I knew you’d look at me exactly like that.”
“Like what?” Dean growled.
“Like I’m betraying you.” The answer landed with brutal precision, and Sam watched as Dean opened his mouth to deny it. "Don't stand there and try telling me it's not how you feel." After a moment, he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "I applied months ago... I didn't know they would accept me."
“You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“What was I supposed to say?” Sam turned from the glare his brother shot at him. “Dad would’ve shut it down before they even opened the application.”
“This isn’t about Dad.”
“It’s always about Dad.” Sam counted with a huff and a furrowed brow.
Dean’s voice dropped instinctively. “Don’t.”
Sam gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “He doesn’t want us to have anything outside this family, nothing that isn't hunting, at least.”
“He wants you alive, Sam.”
“No. He wants me obedient.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
Dean’s fingers tightened around the envelope until the paper creased. He hated when Sam did this. He hated it when his brother reached into all the dark, carefully sealed parts of their family and dragged the truth into the light as if naming it would somehow make it easier to confront. He knew their family was messed up beyond what anyone said out loud, but that didn't mean he didn't love his family with everything he had, especially looking after his pain-in-the-ass little brother. He wanted Sam to have the life he wanted, to grow up away from all of this, but what came out of his mouth was very different.
“People die when hunters walk away.”
“I know.”
“Then what?” Dean demanded. “You’re going to sit in some lecture hall while Dad and I are out there doing the work?”
Sam went still, then something guarded settled across his face.
“There it is.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“The part where you make me feel guilty for wanting something other than this, just like he does.”
Dean looked at him for another moment before asking, “When are you telling Dad?”
Sam didn't answer; a bitter smile pulled at Dean’s mouth. Sam had no idea what the old man would do to him after he left... “Right. Haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“I’m going to tell him.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“That’s a great plan. He’ll love it.” Dean threw back sarcastically.
"I'm not asking for your permission, or his." Sam retorted quietly.
Something inside Dean broke quietly. “So you’ve got it all worked out, huh?”
“The scholarship covers tuition,” Sam explained. “There’s help with housing. I can work once I get there.”
“Once you get there.”
Sam swallowed.
“Dean—” He glanced at his big brother with a pained expression.
"Don't. It's fine." He glanced back down at the letter, folded it slowly, and held it out to his little brother. “You should keep that somewhere better,” he said. “Dad finds it, you won’t get the chance to tell him your way.”
Sam studied him in shock before slowly reaching out to take it. “You’re not going to tell him?”
Dean glanced towards their father's open duffel by the door. For all his anger, the thought of John discovering the letter before Sam was ready stirred something fierce and automatic in him. The same instinct that had made Dean stand between Sam and every monster since childhood.
“No.”
“Why?”
Dean scoffed, retreating behind irritation because it was safer than honesty. “Because, despite what you apparently think, I’m still your big brother .”
Pain crossed Sam’s face. Dean turned away before it could alter his resolve. He returned to the table and picked up the shotgun barrel. The metal blurred in his hands. Dean blinked until the room sharpened again. Behind him, the envelope rustled.
“Will you ever forgive me?” Sam asked suddenly.
Dean froze.
“What?” Dean forced his hands to move, fitting the barrel back into place. “You got a full ride to Stanford. I’m not made of stone.”
"I was scared."
Dean's head shot up to meet his brother's eyes.
Sam had faced things with blood oozing from their mouths. He had stood between John and Dean while their arguments shook motel walls. He had stitched his own injuries and burned the bones of children and learned too young that the dead did not always stay dead.
But this had frightened him. Telling him about Stanford.
Dean lowered his gaze to the shotgun.
“When do you leave?”
“End of August.”
Six weeks.
Dean had six weeks left with his little brother. He had thought they had years.
“Does Dad know you applied anywhere?”
“No.”
“Bobby?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
Sam hesitated. Dean looked up immediately.
“Who?”
“A teacher helped me with the application.” Sam shifted his weight. “And Mateo knew I was thinking about it.”
“Mateo Caldera?”
Sam nodded.
Dean knew Mateo. More importantly, he knew exactly what Mateo thought of their father's parenting. The former Marine had never been subtle about it. He looked at Sam as if he could see every bruise John called training and every order he called preparation. Dean had never decided whether he liked the man. In this moment, he could not decide whether to be grateful or furious.
Maybe both.
“He gave me his number a while ago,” Sam continued. “Said if I ever got out and needed help getting on my feet, I could call him.”
“Got out,” Dean repeated.
Sam’s expression turned wary. “That’s not how I meant it.”
“Ha, that's exactly how he meant it.” Dean shook his head, decision made.
“Dean.”
“You already have a ride?” Dean changed the subject instead of making the open choice to stay on the subject: who talks about a hunter leaving their family openly behind their back?
“No.” Sam looked down at the envelope in his hands. “I was going to take a bus.”
Of course he was. Sam had planned the entire escape in silence, right down to the route out. "Yeah, screw that, I'll drive you." Dean crossed the room and lowered himself onto the edge of his bed with a sigh, giving Sam time to recognise it wasn't worth arguing the point. “What are you studying?”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“At Stanford. What are you studying?” Dean was curious, after all. The caution on Sam's face hurt worse than the question.
“Pre-law.”
Dean nodded slowly.
“You’re going to be a lawyer?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You hate lawyers.”
“I hate the ones Dad makes us pretend to be.”
A laugh escaped Dean before he could stop it, and Sam’s mouth curved slightly. The room eased by a fraction, and Sam didn't interrupt it.
“You know Dad’s going to lose his mind,” Dean warned.
“I know.”
“He’ll say you’re abandoning the hunt and us.”
“I know.”
“...He might tell you not to come back.”
Sam’s small smile disappeared. “I know...”
Dean studied him.
Sam was pretending the possibility did not terrify him. Pretending he had not spent his whole life chasing John’s approval, even while insisting he didn't need it. Dean knew better.
“He won’t mean it,” Dean said.
Sam’s eyes lowered.
“Maybe.”
“And even if he does…” The words lodged behind Dean’s ribs. He nearly swallowed them, but instead forced them out. “You’ll still have me, little brother.”
Sam looked up.
The innocent hope in his expression made Dean feel suddenly exposed. It sounded too much like a promise. Too much like an admission that the idea of Sam leaving frightened him more than any creature they had hunted.
Dean reached for the nearest defence.
“Not that I’m visiting some snob factory where everybody drinks wheatgrass and talks about their feelings.”
“It’s California, Dean. Not another planet.”
“Same thing.”
Sam laughed softly. This did not fix everything. The letter still existed. August was still coming, and more importantly, John still didn't know. But he sat on the opposite bed instead, opening a book, and for the moment, this comforting silence with his big brother was enough.
Imagine being caught in an intimate moment with John Winchester by Sam and Dean.
Being around John just had a way of making you feel alive, making you feel taken care of, making you feel like you actually deserve the good things in life that sometimes popped up through all of the bullshit. You just finished a rigorous lovemaking session with him, and you were still feeling the afterglow of it, radiating with it.
Only the blanket gave you any kind of modesty. You were propped up on your arms, stomach to the bed, while caressing John’s cheek beside you. “You’re way too good at that,” You laughed. He smiled at you, facial hair giving him a grizzly appearance.
“I aim to please,” He said, rolling onto his side. He kissed your fingers, all while stroking your ribs under the blanket, over the curve of your ass and then -
The door to your motel room opened. It didn’t fly open but it was still quick enough where you couldn’t hide anything that you were doing. The sons of the man that you were currently in bed with just let themselves in, and it took them a moment to comprehend what they were seeing. John was on the jump though, sitting up as fast as he could. “GET OUT.” He shouted.
“What the hell-” Dean let out, while Sam started to stammer some kind of excuse. You let yourself drop down onto your chest and put the pillow overtop of your head, trying to hide as much of yourself as possible. They knew it was you. Who else would it be. But the awkwardness was overwhelming.
“OUT.” John yelled, and this time they got the message. Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders and pulled him back outside, the heavy door closing shut in their faces. It blocked out whatever conversation they were having out there. “Y/n? You okay?”
“Well that was utterly humiliating,” You mumbled into the pillow. He lifted it off of you and laughed a little as some of your hairs stuck to the pillow, making them rise. “I don’t know how I’m going to sit with them in the car tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” John repeated. “It’s already morning. We leave in less than an hour.”
You groaned, realizing that you had missed a night of sleep. You had a lot of fun during it obviously, but that was going to be catching up to you later. “Coffee?”
KJ and Meredith are talking with Cas-Expert Ella (The Cas Cast), in this mostly Cas-free episode. KJ has come prepared with all of the math around John Winchester’s whereabouts (spoilers, we continue to find things to hate about John Winchester). Meredith gives us a rundown on ghoul lore, and questions the purpose of the huge vent in the Milligan house. Ella relishes in the family dynamics this episode brings us. KJ accuses Sam of revisionist history and spoils season 4 of Charmed (1998)
CW Episode Description: A 19-year-old boy named Adam (guest star Jake Abel) calls Sam and Dean looking for John Winchester, claiming to be his son. Dean and Sam meet Adam, assuming he's a demon trying to lure them into a trap. However, they find out that John was indeed the boy's father and Adam tells them of his "normal" upbringing, which infuriates Dean.
Episode recorded on March 16, 2024
Linktree including sign up sheet to be on the podcast and our Discord server: https://linktr.ee/SupernaturalOpinionsPodcast
Guest social medias:
Meredith (tiktok, instagram and Tumblr): shaedsofdeianeira
Ella: everywhere at The Cas Cast: https://thecascast.carrd.co/
Ella's recommended fic Spirit of the West by teen_dean https://archiveofourown.org/works/39606519
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Another edit for my rple play accounts inspired by supernatural comic “Beginning's End” by Andrew Dabb, Daniel Loflin. Publish: March 2010 - August 2010
