Chapter Text
Early spring, 2001
Sam slowed to a walk as the grass under his feet turned to gravel, the rocks sloshing and crunching beneath his sneakers as the rain saturated the earth. It was barely dawn, and the skies were the same mottled gray color as an old bruise. He knew firsthand what that looked like.
He put his hands over his head as he walked through the junkyard of old cars, trying to catch his breath amidst the downpour. He could barely see, barely breathe through the constant sheet of water; it was like God himself had decided to take a piss on Sioux Falls that morning.
Eventually he found his way to the house, where a gleaming black 1967 Chevy Impala was parked near the tarp awning. It wasn’t quite the oldest car in the lot, but it easily took the cake for best-maintained. Sam slid a hand over the roof of it as he passed, purely out of habit. To Dean, that car was the next-best thing to a higher power. Sam was a little more disillusioned when it came to Baby, but he didn’t doubt something unnatural was infused in her frame that kept her going strong after so many thousands of miles on the highway. Luck, maybe. God knows he needed some of that.
He took the wooden steps two at a time and came to a halt on the porch, shaking the rain from his hair at last. He spat the water from his mouth along with a whispered curse, laughing to himself at the feeling of air in his lungs at last. Whenever he went running he felt like he couldn’t breathe properly until it was done. It was like sleeping– he didn’t wake up until his watch beeped at the five mile mark.
When he straightened up finally he was met with a figure leaning across the screened doorway. Sam froze in his tracks and stood there dripping, feeling caught.
Bobby Singer studied him with a mildly amused expression, arms folded over a ratty old T-shirt and flannel, the hunter uniform by popular agreement. In one hand he held a coffee mug, a cheesy one Sam and Dean had picked up from some gas station on one of their trips. It read WORLD’S BEST DAD in blocky black letters, though Dean had crossed out DAD and replaced it with UNCLE in red Sharpie. It was meant as nothing more than a gag, maybe worth a good eye-roll before he shelved it along with every other dumb souvenir the boys had brought back for him over the years. Shockingly, though, the mug had gotten its fair share of use. Bobby wouldn’t take his morning coffee without it.
Sam offered a hesitant grin, shaking somewhat from the rain. “Morning, Bobby.”
Bobby scoffed. “You’ll catch your death doing that someday, boy.”
“What, running?” Sam shrugged. “I’ll live forever.”
“Sure.” Bobby rolled his eyes and held open the screen door for him. “Get inside, idjit.”
Sam paused in the living room to give Rumsfeld a quick pat, then intended to run upstairs and lose his wet clothes before Bobby yelled at him for ruining the wood floors. Something stalled him before he could take another step, though; sitting on the kitchen table was a singular white envelope.
Bobby had the rest of the day’s mail in a neat stack by the door, sorted by spam, hunter correspondence and debt collectors (labeled with a neon pink sticky note that read BURN). He had settled into his old leather armchair by the television, already absorbed in a new case. He mumbled unhappily to himself as he skimmed over the notes, seemingly oblivious to the letter on the table.
Sam took off his shoes to avoid the squeaking sound they made against the wet floors, then crossed into the kitchen. The envelope was stamped with neat, official writing. Stanford University. Addressed to a Mr. S. Winchester.
Bobby angrily struck an X through a whole page of notes faxed to him by a contact down in Tennessee. The son of a bitch must have been off his tits on oxy again when he wrote the damn report; he’d chalked up a series of violent attacks to werewolf activity, but the lunar cycle was nowhere near correct for that. Bobby began drafting a scathing response on his notepad. Hopefully it would reach Tennessee before the kid got his throat ripped out.
He glanced up suddenly to find Sam standing barely a foot away from him, still drenched. Bobby fought the urge to jump; he loved the kid like he was his own, but by Christ he had a habit of sneaking up on you. Honestly, he couldn’t help feeling a little unsettled by him sometimes. Dean would hear none of it, of course. Not about his baby brother.
Bobby caught sight of the envelope clutched in Sam’s hand, the seal split neatly with the precision of a knife’s blade. Bobby feigned disinterest and continued scribbling his response. “Whatcha got, kiddo?”
Sam looked down at the envelope again, seeming reluctant to answer. “It’s, uh…”
He tapped a hand against his thigh. It was a new nervous tic of his, one meant to replace that nail-biting thing that Dean was always on his ass for. “It’s Stanford. I got in. Full ride.”
Bobby set down his notepad.
“Well, shit, kid. I think this calls for a couple beers.”
“Bobby, it’s not even eight.”
“We’ll put ‘em in orange juice if it makes you feel better.”
“Bobby.”
Bobby stood up from his chair and turned away, running a hand over his beard. The house was dead silent, save for the rush of water as it cascaded down the roof and windows.
“Bobby, I can’t go.”
He turned back around to face the kid. “Don’t talk nonsense, boy. Of course you’re going. This is your way out.”
If ever anybody knew how to use a pair of puppy-dog eyes to their advantage, it was Sam fucking Winchester. Even at a towering six foot four inches, he managed to look absolutely pathetic in that moment, hair plastered to his forehead, wearing wet clothes that were a size too big on him. His brother’s old hand-me-downs. He clenched his fist, wrinkling the envelope.
“Bobby, what the hell am I supposed to say to Dean?”
Dean, as it turned out, woke up about an hour later in uncharacteristically high spirits. He came stumbling down the stairs with his hair in a tufted mess, blinking sleep from his eyes as he whistled some Metallica song. Always Metallica with him.
John had peeled out the day before, having caught a case somewhere in Montana. The boys had offered to tag along of course, but John had been adamant about going alone. He insisted it wasn’t serious enough for all three of them, but still, his urgency to leave left a bad feeling in the pit of everyone’s stomachs.
Without John around, though, Dean’s mood always shifted pretty noticeably. His usual irritable pessimism was replaced by the more playful, upbeat version of himself Sam was most familiar with.
He ambled into the kitchen and made a face at the pot of canned beans sitting on the stove– somehow it was charred black and freezing cold at the same time. He quickly tossed the whole thing and started making omelettes instead, continuing to hum as he did so. Rumsfeld came trotting in to sit at his ankles, hoping for scraps. Dean acted indifferent to Bobby’s big old rescue dog most of the time, but in truth he could never resist slipping him a few pieces of bacon while he cooked. Between him and Sam, the dog lover, it kept the balance of favoritism in check.
Sam was seated at the kitchen table with his nose in a book, as usual. Bobby sat next to him in a similar state, equally absorbed in his work. They’d both paused in their endeavors only briefly to mumble morning greetings to Dean when he’d strolled in.
Dean took a seat on the countertop while he waited for the eggs to finish frying. His mood was dampened somewhat by the weather outside the windows– he’d hoped to get outside sometime, stretch his legs, hustle some pool at the local bar. They knew his face there, of course, after having him thrown out on his ass more than once for the occasional drunken barfight. He had a talent for wheedling himself out of consequences, though. He’d just turn up the charm, flash a few smiles, maybe drag Sam along to really kick up the whole “I’m innocent” schtick. Nobody could say no to his young, bright-eyed little brother. It was foolproof.
He opened his mouth to make the suggestion, then paused when he noticed Sam’s hair was still damp. “Sammy, you been out already?”
Sam flinched– actually flinched. Dean shifted in his seat, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah, I went for a run.”
Bobby kept his head down, but his eyes weren’t moving. He wasn’t reading a word on that page.
Dean studied them for a moment longer, debating whether or not to address the odd vibe permeating the kitchen. Maybe he wasn’t smart like Sam, couldn’t force himself to stay awake through even the first chapter of any one of those prestigiously titled books he kept stacked at the bottom of his duffel bag for long drives. But he did know when his brother was lying. Hiding something, for sure.
One of the phones began to ring, and everybody jumped. Bobby abandoned the pretense of research and got up to answer it. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, this is Director Billy Newsome speaking.”
There was a beat, then Bobby let out a disgusted scoff. “Harley, you fuckin’ idjit, this number’s not for casual chats. Next time you feel like shooting the breeze, don’t take up the goddamn line–”
He paused, listening to the other end with a furrowed brow. The Winchesters watched him without blinking, trying to read his expression without much success.
“Alright, I’ll put someone on it. Yeah– oh, piss off, Harley.”
He hung up the receiver, then met the boys’ stares. He opened his mouth to explain, but suddenly Dean remembered his omelettes and leaped to spare them from the fire. A few moments later everyone was seated at the table again, demolishing their own plates of breakfast as they waited for Bobby to spill the situation.
He cleared his throat first, then announced, “Greg Harley called about some weird deaths in Brandon, short drive from here.”
“Weird how?” the boys said at the same time, then glanced at each other in irritation.
“Weird, like missing all their internal organs, plus a few limbs. Local law enforcement’s chalking it up to animal attacks.”
“Which is probably bull.” Dean shrugged his shoulders and shoveled down another mouthful of eggs. Bobby wrinkled his nose. Both of the boys ate like bottomless pits whenever they showed up at his place. He teased them for it occasionally, but he knew that sufficient meals were a somewhat scarce commodity while they were on the road with John.
“Most definitely.” Bobby sighed. “Harley’s thinking ghouls. Few years back there was a slew of grave desecrations, bodies found in similar states of… disrepair.”
Sam set his fork down, suddenly feeling much less inclined to eat. “So, what, they got sick of dead meat and started going after live ones instead?”
Bobby ran a hand over his graying beard. “Wouldn’t be unheard of.”
Dean reached a hand across the table and slid Sam’s abandoned plate towards him. “Well, put us on it, Bobby. Seems pretty cut-and-dry, we’ll be back by tomorrow night.”
Sam shot his brother a look. In their line of work, it was never just “cut-and-dry”. Saying so was like chucking a rotten tomato straight at Death’s hooded face.
Bobby shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”
“Dad said to stay here until he came back,” Sam blurted out, and both of the other men turned to stare at him.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you give a shit about what Dad says?”
Bobby was giving him an equally inquisitive look, though he didn’t voice his suspicions. Sam felt his face begin to burn under scrutiny. In truth, Dean was right– he didn’t give a shit what their father had to say. Normally he jumped at any opportunity to do the opposite of whatever orders he barked their direction, if not because it was usually the moral thing to do then because he liked the thrill of spiting John Winchester.
The thought of being trapped in the car and on a case with Dean for hours on end, though, with the acceptance letter still stuffed in his back pocket, was something like a personal hell.
By way of deflecting, Sam only cleared his throat and cast a pointed look towards the mottled, still-purple but fading bruise on Dean’s jaw.
The older brother quickly realized what remained unspoken in Sam’s expression and turned his head to hide the bruise. “Dad won’t be back for another week, anyway. He’ll never even know we left.”
Bobby was watching the interaction in silence with clenched teeth. After a long moment of deliberation, he gave a slight nod. “Take it if you want it, boys. John won’t hear anything about it from me. Besides, I reckon it’ll be good for the both of you. Take some time to stretch your legs… catch up.”
Sam picked up on the targeted suggestion immediately and shot Bobby a discreet glare, received by a nonplussed shrug. Sam had figured he had a couple days at least to think of a way to break the news; this timeline was moving along far too quickly for his taste.
Dean rapped a knuckle on the wooden table and stood up, grinning. “I’ll pack our stuff.”