A/N: This was our joint Pay It Forward fic for pinkphoenix1985--perhaps a little heavier on the angst than we'd first intended but teen!Winchesters is all about the angst. Massive thanks to Bayre and Gidgetgal9 for the betas. And thank you for reading the story to its (bitter) conclusion.

CHAPTER THREE

Sam slept.

The doctor said that was normal after an electrical shock, that patients often had to let their systems reset a little bit, before they were ready to come back online.

So John let him sleep. It was easier that way, anyway. Easier than facing the growing gap between them. John had seen it happening, but had written it off as hormones. Thought it was nothing more than Sam's difficult nature.

But it wasn't just a void between them. It was a distance filled with lies and half truths. With homework and PSATs and friends.

You know your own son better.

John almost wanted to laugh. Sure, he knew his boy. He knew the soft curve of Sam's cheeks. He knew the jut of Sam's chin. He knew the way Sam's hair look disheveled in the morning. He knew about the slouch to Sam's shoulders and he knew about the little lines between his son's eyebrows when he was really concentrating.

Hell, he knew the way Sam curled up on his right side in his sleep, knees pulled in and arms clutching at the blankets around his chest. He knew it from peeking into a thousand motel room bedrooms and from hundreds of glances in the Impala's rearview mirror.

Looking at Sam now, it was still much the same. Sam's face was thinning out a bit, but the rest was there, right down to the mumblings of dreams as Sam shifted in his bed.

He'd never spent much time wondering about what Sam dreamed.

Maybe he should have.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Maybe he should have.

-o-

Dean had always been able to sleep anywhere. It was a rare talent, he was sure, and one he had perfected at a very young age. From a curled up position in the Impala's front seat to a half inclined lull on an easy chair, Dean had done it all. Hell, he'd even managed to sleep on a tree branch one time during a hunt for a black dog that just would not end.

So crashing in the chair next to Sam's bed? A piece of cake.

He twitched, rolling his shoulders and grimacing. He wasn't sure if it was the lingering effect of the phantasm's touch or the overall stress of the night before, but perhaps it wasn't quite as easy as it used to be.

With a groan, he shifted. The memory of sleep was slipping from him, though, and with that came the realization of where he was.

Sam's hospital room.

The events played back with horrific clarity, from the delay of the lights to finding Sam to breathing for him to hearing his father ask about the PSATs.

He'd almost lost Sam last night and he could lose him again. Not to anything evil or horrible but to school.

Loss was loss, though, and the thought was enough to bring Dean to an abrupt waking.

Swallowing, he blinked a few times, letting his eyes focus.

The room was dim and unchanged. Sam was still sleeping on the bed, the monitors above him flashing with consistency. His father was slouched in a chair at the foot of Sam's bed looking warily at him.

"He okay?" Dean asked, rubbing his eyes a little as he gave his arms a quick stretch.

His dad nodded a little, his gaze hardly wavering.

Dean swallowed hard, and realized how dry his throat was. "He been awake at all?"

His dad shook his head.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "So you've just been sitting there all night?"

At that, his dad looked at him, eyes narrowing. "We need to talk," he said curtly as he stood. "Outside."

Dean's eyebrows raised. Not that he'd expected the old man to be chipper after a night like that, but Dean couldn't figure out what lecture he was about to get. Because a private meeting outside while Sam was still sleeping off the effects of an electrocution? Really did not bode well.

Still, there wasn't anything he could do to avoid it, and he was too tired to give a damn. With a sigh, he stood and followed.

The hallway was brighter, but almost just as quiet. There was a distant sound of muffled voices, but the halls were empty.

His father pinned him with his stony gaze. His jaw was locked and Dean could see the tension lurking in his father's posture. "You promise me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you did not know, Dean," his father said, and his voice was hard and strained, like he was barely keeping it in check.

"Know what?" Dean asked.

"About Sam," his father said. "About the PSATs."

Dean's stomach turned and for a moment he thought he'd be sick. "Sam doesn't exactly talk very much these days."

"He talks to you," his father told him shortly.

"Not about that."

"It's your job to know, Dean," his father continued. "You're supposed to know this stuff."

Dean felt himself bristle a little. After all these years, his father had to ask? He was his brother's protector--his brother's best friend, his confidante. He took care of Sam, he knew everything about Sam--

At least he thought he had.

But clearly not so much.

Admitting that was harder than admitting just what the PSATs meant to all of them.

With a measured breath, Dean ground out, "I don't go to school with him anymore. What he does when he goes there, I can't know for sure. And you know you take me with you on hunts more. Sam's home alone sometimes. There's nothing I can do."

A piece to the puzzle fell into place. Sam hadn't just stopped talking. There had been no one there to talk to him. No one there to listen. Sam couldn't tell people who weren't there about tests and friends. Sure, Dean asked what Sam was up to, but the minute the kid opened his mouth about school, Dean had just rolled his eyes. He lived through it once, he didn't want to relive it through Sam's geeky eyes.

"It's your job to know," John said shaking his head. He sighed, looking at the ceiling. "This has gotten way too out of hand. The whole thing."

"I know, but we'll get it back," Dean tried to say. "I mean, now that we know and everything, we can stop it. We can talk him out of it."

His dad actually laughed at that. "Dean, I've been sitting in that hospital room watching Sam sleep for the last six hours. I've watched him sleep and thought about how we've raised him. I thought about the way he's grown up. I've thought about every milestone of Sam's life that I can think of. And you know something? You know what I realized?"

His father paused, and Dean swallowed hard. He needed to know, but part of him didn't want to. Because he knew whatever was said next would be a dividing line, something to make or break this entire thing.

"That I made a mistake from the beginning. That I coddled him when I should have trained him. That I kept the truth from him when I should have ingrained it into every fiber of his being. That I let him think too much, we let him play too much, that he had too much freedom."

There was truth to all of it, but skewed. They had lied to keep Sam safe. They had given him a childhood to keep Sam unaware. Sam was only fifteen. He was young--he could--he would come around. "Dad, don't you think you're being a little harsh?"

His father's eyebrows went up. "Harsh? You mean like that phantasm was last night? Like the jolt of electricity that nearly killed your brother? And for what? That's the kicker, Dean, right there. For what? So Sam can take the PSATs? So Sam can make nice little friends? So Sam can plan his secret little life away from us? He's not safe like that, and you know it. This hunt proved it."

"He was right about the phantasm," Dean countered.

"But he was wrong about everything else," John said flatly.

"We didn't listen."

"Because he doesn't know how to talk to us," his father told him. "He demands when he should ask, he fights when he should explain."

"So what do you want to do?" Dean asked. "Cut him off from school?"

John nodded. "You need to know what he's doing and when he's doing it. No more nights doing homework. No more early days at school. No more hours unattended in the library."

"You want to place the kid under house arrest?" Dean asked. "Because he got electrocuted?"

"Dean, do you want to lose your brother?"

Dean shifted. "No."

"Whether it's a phantasm, an electrical shock, or college, if we don't do something, we will lose Sam."

The thought made his stomach bottom out again, the flood of fear and doubt coming back to him. He shook his head. "We can stop it."

"By keeping him in check."

"You're going to smother him," Dean said.

"He needs to fall in line, Dean," his father said, shaking his head. "I need to know I have your back up on this one."

Dean gave a look back toward Sam's room. He could still see Sam's figure curled up on the bed.

He thought about the way it felt when he felt Sam's neck and there was no pulse. He thought about the way it felt to breathe in his brother's mouth and get no resistance. He thought about the way it felt to watch his brother die and almost not get him back.

Swallowing, he nodded tightly. "Yeah," he said, looking back at his dad. "I've got your back."

His dad nodded and seemed to pull himself together. "Good," he said. "It's not going to be easy, but I think we can do it. You and I together, I think we can do this."

It didn't feel good and didn't seem nearly reassuring enough, but, at the moment, it was all Dean had.

-o-

Sam didn't like to fail.

Not that most people did, but Sam was pretty sure he was more adamant about not failing than most people. He wasn't sure when it had started, but for as long as he could remember, he'd felt like he was always playing catch up. From trying to beat Dean at Candyland, to trying to win his father's trust like Dean did so naturally, Sam was always just a step behind. If Sam could load a gun in a minute, Dean could do it in forty seconds. If Sam could uncover some obscure lore about their latest hunt, Dean could rattle the way to kill it off the top of his head. If Sam managed to get in a good move during sparring, Dean could counter it and wrap Sam in a choke hold that had his vision graying as he tapped out.

Sam didn't like to fail, but failure was basically a part of his life.

Just like this hunt. For as much as he'd focused on it, for all the research he'd done for it, to the phantasm he'd killed on his own, this hunt still came back to failure. Sam had failed to hit the switch on time and, worse, when he'd finally gotten himself there to do it, he'd failed to remember that exposed wires and wetness weren't a good combination.

Which was how they'd gotten in this mess. Now there were insurance issues, fraud worries, CPS concerns. Add all that to the fact that Sam had nearly gotten them all killed, and it was really no wonder that neither his father or Dean had said more than two words to him since he'd woken up.

Sure, Dean had made a few quips about Sam's stellar new hairdo, but something was off. Something was very, very off. From Dean's nervous looks around the room to their father's stony nature, it hadn't taken Sam long to deduce that not all was well in Winchester land.

Which, of course it wasn't well. Sam had just gotten himself fried. Sam didn't remember much about it really--just the phantasm and a lot of pain--but the doctor said he was pretty damn lucky and made him promise not to go play in abandoned power facilities anymore.

The good news was that he was fine, mostly. Apparently his heart was beating normally again and he hadn't shown any signs of seizure activity in over ten hours. All in all, he was about to be cleared to go home.

Looking hesitantly at his dad and brother again, Sam wished he could be more excited about that.

He breathed out slowly, trying to calm his frayed nerves. He felt jumpy about it all, like there were miniscule currents of electricity still flowing through his body. With a hard swallow, he resolved himself. Sam didn't like to fail, but he hated not trying even more.

"I'm sorry," he blurted suddenly into the room.

Dean looked at him uncertainly; his father's look was distant and controlled.

Licking his lips, Sam continued, "For, uh, messing up. I should have flicked the switch."

Dean's face softened a little, with a big brotherly familiarness that made Sam feel the tendrils of hope. But his father's face was colder now, his lips pursed. "Yes, you should have," he said evenly.

Sam's mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and a frown. "I didn't know the phantasm was there until it was too late."

"You should have contacted me."

"I didn't have time," Sam said.

His father's eyes held no sympathy. "You should have made the time."

It was a good answer, and one Sam could only refute with the same explanation that was getting him nowhere. "I knew there was something wrong, but I just didn't think about two of them."

His dad snorted a little. Dean shifted nervously and Sam's voice was cut off in his throat. "You always have to think, Sam," his dad said. "You're not the only one out there. We rely on each other."

"I tried to do more research--"

"This isn't about research," his dad snapped. "This is about you screwing up and nearly getting yourself and Dean killed in the process. You have to put Dean's life first, put the hunt above yourself, and trust that we'll do the same for you."

Sam had tried. It had all happened so fast. "The stuff I found at the library--"

"Damn it, Sam," his dad cut him off so hard that even Dean flinched. "This isn't about something that we missed. This is about you. This is why I make you focus on the hunt. This is why we train like we do. This is why we work together. Do you understand me?"

Sam felt his eyes water. His throat was tight and his chest felt heavy. "I tried--"

"No excuses," his father continued. "You will tell me no excuses. You will only follow my orders and work harder and this will not happen again, do you understand me?"

Sam nodded a little, too afraid not to.

"No more school projects, no more homework," his father persisted.

Sam heart clenched and his eyes widened.

"No more friends, no more tests," he said tersely. "The hunt. We can't afford any more screw ups and until you prove to me that you can, this will not ease up. Do you understand?"

Sam thought about school. He thought about his history project and his English paper. He thought about the table he sat at during lunch and the girl who sat next to him in study hall. He thought about the PSATs and his English teacher telling him he might be able to get a scholarship from this.

Those were the highlights of his life, the things that made him feel good and meaningful. He liked his family--he loved Dean's jokes and he liked his dad's steadiness--but Sam didn't like to fail. Home was one failure after another--school was his refuge. To give that up--to sacrifice the one thing that he was good at--

"Sam, do you understand?" his father asked again, more sternly this time, his eyes piercing deep within Sam.

Sam trembled. He stole a glance at his brother, who was looking at his hands. He thought about if it had been Dean, if Dean had been the one to get hurt, if Dean's life had been put in danger because of him.

Life was about choices. Some things he could afford to fail at. Others he couldn't.

In the end, he had no choice.

Looking down, he nodded.

"I can't hear you, Sam," his father said.

Looking up, Sam met his father's eyes with weary resolve. "Yes," he said.

"Yes, what?"

With a measured breath, Sam straightened his back as best he could. "Yes, sir."

At that, his father's posture eased slightly, and he nodded. "Very good," he said. "Now let me see if I can go round up your discharge instructions. We need to get home."

With that, his father strode from the room. Sam turned to Dean, looking beseechingly at his brother for something to lighten this new weight. But Dean only met his eyes for a moment before looking away again.

"I've got to go check on something," his brother mumbled quickly, before darting out after their father.

Alone, Sam stared at his lap. His burned hand ached under the bandages and he felt dirty and tired.

But maybe this was what he needed. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe this was a question of focus. Maybe he could do this if he put his mind to it. If he tried harder, if he pushed himself hard enough, maybe he wouldn't screw up, maybe his dad would respect him enough to listen to him before they went out on the hunt. Maybe his father would look at him like he looked at Dean, maybe Sam would save the day.

Maybe Sam wouldn't fail. Maybe Sam would win.

It was all Sam wanted. To be worth something in and of himself. To prove that he was valuable. That he was more than something to be protected, more than a screw up to be fixed.

At this point, it was the most Sam could hope for.

-o-

John prided himself on being a strict father when the situation called for it, but he had to admit, this was hard.

It had been a week since Sam had been discharged from the hospital, and each day seemed to be getting harder than the first. Starting with chewing his son out when all he wanted was to hold him tight enough to feel the reassuring beat of his heart to watching Sam try and try and try in training only to fail each and every time.

Worse, was that he could see his son's resolve. The shock Sam had received had fully given his son's rewiring a bit of a jolt and John supposed his hard lecture at the hospital had had its desired effect. Sam was focused that week, dutiful in his training and purposeful in his interactions with John and Dean. All in all, Sam was the obedient son he'd always wanted, and it still wasn't getting them where John wanted to be.

Sam was still sloppy. He still couldn't get his footwork right when John put him through his paces, his aim was off when he took target practice and even his research skills suffered. The more Sam poured into the training exercises, the more his brain seemed to lock up when it came to searching out information. And although the enthusiasm and focus his baby channeled into the exercises was duly noted, it didn't have a positive effect on the results.

At the moment John had Sam working on his hand to hand combat skills and Dean was the opposition. So far Sam had hit the ground two times and his nose was bloodied while Dean looked untouched, even his hair remained unruffled.

Dean feinted to the right and Sam made the appropriate counter move, spinning to the left. The execution of the move ended there when Sam's feet tangled with themselves and he flew toward the grass. Dean darted forward to catch his brother but at the last moment, pulled back. Sparring with Sam wasn't anything new but getting Dean to let Sam deal with the consequences of his failures was a definite shift in the modus operandi.

Both John and Dean both cringed when Sam smacked full force into the unforgiving ground.

Dean's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He stalked off toward the rented house, throwing a turbulent look over his shoulder at John, muttering under his breath, "I can't do this anymore…"

The previous two times Sam had kissed the dirt, he'd sprung back to his feet, shaking off the damage. This time Sam stayed down. He didn't want to but he made himself suck it up. This was for Sam's own good. "On your feet, Sam. That was the most appalling execution of a move I've ever seen from you and that's saying something. Come on, Sam, shake it off. Show me what you're made of."

Only Sam ignored John. He supposed it had only been a matter of time before Sam's resolve withered and John would have to play the heavy again. He wasn't sure what privilege he could take away since he had Sam living under Spartan conditions at the moment. Maybe more chores would bring him into line although at the moment John couldn't think of anything else to heap on Sam's head.

Kneeling down next to the prone body, John wrapped his hand around Sam's left biceps. "I said, on your feet Sam." John injected his words with as much of the macho Marine growl as he could muster. The muscle gripped in his hand was completely lax, despite John's bruising grip, and warning bells started doing a jig in John's brain.

With a hand behind Sam's neck, and the other shifting from Sam's arm to his shoulder, John carefully eased his son on to his back.

And stared.

A bright red scrape oozed blood on the tip of Sam's chin and the edges of the wound were already darkening in what would soon be a spectacular bruise. Sam had apparently collided chin-first with the packed clay earth and had managed to knock himself out.

John heeded the ABC's of first aid, starting with Sam's airway. He tilted his son's neck back and gingerly grasped Sam's wounded chin, forcing his mouth open. Bright red blood trickled out the corner of Sam's mouth and John peered closely inside. Having established that Sam's airway was clear, John was relieved to find that Sam hadn't severed his tongue. He'd managed to take quite a chunk out of it and it would hurt like hell for a while but mouth wounds heeled quickly.

Sam's chest was moving up and down methodically, slowly, almost as though his son was sleeping. The dark eyelashes swept across high pale cheekbones reinforced the image but this was an unnatural sleep. His hand sought the carotid artery on the still neck, nimbly avoiding the yellowish patches of healing frostbite, courtesy of the exploding phantasm. Sam's pulse was nice and steady.

Thumbing back each of Sam's eyelids, John was pleased to see the pupils were equal in size and reacting to the light. Satisfied that Sam had just been knocked out, no concussion, John decided to take Sam back to the house. He threaded an arm beneath long legs, cradling the other behind the thin back, tugging his youngest into his arms. Sam nestled in, eyelids twitching, starting to rouse from the smack-down.

John bent his head and pressed his lips to Sam's forehead, squeezing the thin boyish body in his arms. He'd wanted to do this in the hospital after Sam woke up from his miss with first the phantasm and then the electrical shock.

Deep down, he was proud that Sam had defeated the phantasm on his own. He was angry with himself for putting Sam in that position.

Scolding Sam as he stared at John with those huge blue-green eyes had been difficult but seeing Sam limp and unresponsive was so much worse. He knew Sam was okay but his mind kept flashing back to administering CPR to his completely unresponsive son at the power plant.

For the umpteenth time, John wished Sam was more like Dean. His oldest never caused this kind of grief. Mary would have kicked his ass for having those thoughts but it was the truth.

He didn't know what to do anymore, how to treat Sam. But he did know that treating Sam like a grunt wasn't working and instead of pulling the unit together, it was pulling it apart.

John had to try something else because it felt like he was losing his baby.

-0-

Dean kicked every rock his foot could find between the area they'd co-opted for training and their current rental unit.

He didn't know if the rocks represented Sam for being so uncoordinated that Dean regularly wiped the floor with him while sparring, his dad for being so hard on Sam, or himself for going along with the program even though he wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.

Sam wasn't like Dean and he wished their dad would quit trying to treat him the same. He was like this super smart, tender-hearted creature and half the time Dean didn't know how to act around him either. But barking instructions at Sam had the opposite effect on Sam as they did Dean – Sam just dug his heels in and became more obstinate if that was even possible.

Take all the sparring for example. Normally Sam would be bitching about the time taking him away from his homework but now he just nodded his head, said yes sir, and got his ass handed to him for his efforts. Not that doing homework was a possibility at the moment since their dad had barred Sam from doing it. That had to be killing his geeky little brother.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure the little geek was okay, Dean stumbled to a stop. His dad had Sam cradled in his arms.

Sam was hurt.

It was Dean's fault Sam was hurt.

No, it was their dad's for making Dean treat Sam so harshly. Teach him a lesson. Dean couldn't do it any longer.

He sprinted over to them, his speed fueled by anger.

Pulling up in front of them, his eyes flew to Sam's face. His brother's chin was sluggishly oozing blood, a bruise already darkening the pale skin. This was the second time in one week that Sam had been hurt because of Dean and he couldn't take it anymore, he had to make it up to his brother. "I'll take him!"

Without asking for permission or agreement, Dean was tugging Sam from his dad's arms. His brother groaned, dull eyes turning toward Dean. "M' fine…put me down…"

"Sure you are," Dean huffed, turning away from his dad's startled face. "Let's get you back to the house and clean up that chin of yours."

He wanted to make a sarcastic comment, maybe about how Sam's chin was going to resemble Dudley Do-Right's, but he couldn't find anything funny about the situation.

Sam was wiggling in his arms, demanding to be put down. "Nothing wrong with my legs. I want down. Please."

It was the please that did Dean in. He eased his arm from behind Sam's knees and let him stand, an arm still wrapped tight around his waist. He didn't know if the arm was to keep his brother upright or so he could keep contact. Dean had an irrational fear that Sam was just going to up and leave him behind but that was stupid. Sam would never leave him.

Easing away from Dean's grip, Sam looked at the house and then looked back at Dean. He peaked at Dean through his too long, messy bangs and Dean couldn't read the look in those too serious eyes.

When had that happened? Sam had always been an open book to him.

Dean opened his mouth to ask Sam if he was okay when the deep voice of authority boomed from behind him. "Sam, I'll meet you in the house in a minute. I want to make sure we clean that scrape out good. Dean, a word."

Sam shuffled toward the house, his gait no more unsteady than usual. When a sigh echoed his own, Dean turned his attention toward his dad. He wanted to tap back into the anger he experienced moments ago but the deep look of concern pinching the older hunter's face made him rethink. They both loved the klutzy kid. They both wanted what was best for him. They just needed to figure out what that was. This whole situation had really put a jolt in their fighting unit but there had to be some way to turn it around. "I can't do that to him anymore, Dad. He's not ready. Maybe we need to go more slowly. He's all long limbs that get twisted up and I don't want to be the one who puts him in traction!"

Heat poured from his face and Dean knew if he'd been near a mirror, he'd find his face a bright red. He hated having a light complexion that gave everything away but he hated more the fact that Sam was a mess and it felt like he was slipping away.

Expecting a dressing down for challenging his dad directly, ripping Sam out of his arms, Dean was shocked when his old man threw an arm around his shoulder. "I don't know, kiddo. I thought I had the answer, that by working Sam hard he'd fall into line. But this isn't working, for any of us. Let's take care of your brother then talk to him. If he feels up to it, maybe we'll go out for pizza or burgers afterward."

Their dad never rewarded them for failure. He barely rewarded them for achievements. The thought of John Winchester taking them out to dinner after what amounted to a colossal failure didn't seem right. But talking to Sam seemed like a good place to start, Dean just never thought he'd see the day his dad would initiate the conversation. It just wasn't him. Things were totally crazy with Team Winchester and Dean didn't know what to make of it.

His stomach gave a rumble, breaking the silence. Dean smiled, "Sure Dad, let's go talk to the runt." His dad tugged him tighter to his side for a moment before turning him loose.

Maybe if their dad could act this way with Sam, the kid wouldn't dig his heels in so much. Not that he was right now. Sam was trying to get with the plan but his body had other ideas.

Dean didn't have the answers but if anyone did, it was his dad.

John Winchester could kick ass like no other hunter and he was a great dad. Dean had to believe everything would be fine.

-0-

Sam dabbed at his chin, wincing at the contact. His head ached but not near as much as he'd expected. One moment he was dancing out of Dean's reach, and the next he was digging a hole in the dirt with his chin. He'd seen stars and then things had gotten a little fuzzy. When he'd opened his eyes, he'd been in his dad's arms which was humiliating. To make matters worse, Dean had plucked him out of his dad's arms, treating him like an invalid.

Sam wasn't an invalid. Merely an incompetent hunter.

What was really sad was that he was giving it his all and failing spectacularly. He wished training and the skills associated with hunting came as naturally as doing his class-work and studying. Not to be pompous, but Sam knew he was smart. Book smart. Not real world smart like Dean and Dad.

A knock on the door had Sam jumping visibly. He was grateful he'd shut the door and that whoever was on the other side hadn't just busted on in. "Come on, Sammy, open the door. I want to check your war wounds."

Suppressing a sigh, Sam glanced in the mirror. The last thing he wanted to do was face anyone looking like this. Especially because his current state was his own fault. He was a total spazz and his face had paid the price. It looked like his chin was growing a new chin. Or some alien life form was crawling out of his skin. He didn't want to participate in show-and-tell. What he really wanted to do was flop down on his bed and close his eyes. Regroup. Recharge. Maybe read a book.

If he asked to be excused then he knew he would be accused of being selfish at the least. Or disobedient. Dissident. Disloyal. His brain was stuck in a groove of alliteration. That was Sam's favorite literary stylistic device at the moment, courtesy of his favorite English teacher, Mr. Wyatt. Mr. Wyatt who thought Sam could do anything he wanted with his life.

Apparently except hunt.

Knuckles rapped against the thin plywood door again. "Sammy, you okay, dude?"

With a wry grin that pulled at the wound on his chin, Sam opened the door. It broke with protocol but he was going to ask to be excused from the rest of whatever his family had planned for him. He didn't think he could cope with anyone being nice to him right now or God forbid, more training. He just needed some time to lay low and wallow by himself. Then he could get back up on the invisible horse that kept dumping him on his ass, time and time again.

He could do this. Eventually, if he told himself enough times, he'd start to believe it and maybe it would become real: Sam was a Winchester and was destined to be a great hunter.

But first a quick reprieve. Surely he'd earned that much by listening to his dad all week, trying to be a good son.

Dean cracked a relieved smile at Sam's appearance and Sam immediately felt two inches tall instead of five inches shorter than his older brother.

His dad loomed over Dean's shoulder, a strained smile cracking his weathered face. "Son, I know it probably seems I've been a little harsh with you this week but it was for your own good. But I think it's time we tried something else. What do you say we go to Pino's and get some of that pizza you love so much, maybe talk a new strategy?"

The thought of eating made nausea swirl in the pit of his stomach but Sam found himself giving in to his family. Glancing longingly down the hallway toward his bedroom, Sam silently bade it goodbye. He couldn't refuse this olive branch. The last thing he wanted was to go out in public with his new double chin and talk about what a screw-up he was when it felt like a semi had rolled over him, shifted into reverse, and rolled over him again for good measure. And his brother was the one who loved Pino's Pizza, not Sam. But it was for the greater good so for now Sam would soldier on.

After all, it was the Winchester way.

end