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1.
"I got a full ride to Stanford." Sam says one morning at breakfast. For once, Dad is there with them, and not hung over, so he takes his opportunity where he can get it. Classes start in a month, and he doesn't want to keep it until the last minute.
Dean freezes, with his fork halfway to his mouth and a bit of egg falls back to his plate with a soft plop. It takes Sam a second to realize that the surprise on his brother's face isn't at his announcement, but at his timing. Sam doesn't know how he knows, but he can see it written clearly on Dean's face: he was already aware of Sam's news. How he knew, Sam can't even begin to guess, but he doesn't really have time to because his father is speaking.
"I'm proud of you, boy."
Sam starts. That wasn't what he was expecting at all. "What?"
John shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. Sharing and caring never really was his strong suit. "A full ride is not an easy thing to accomplish," he says, "Especially with all the moving around we've done."
Sam nods, the knot in his throat preventing him from responding verbally. Dean's expression is hovering somewhere between shocked, pleased, and something else that he's trying very hard to repress. Sam wants to watch, to see if he can figure it out, but his father is speaking again.
"I just want you to promise me one thing, Sammy," he says, "Be safe. Don't fall into a false sense of security."
Sam nods. "I won't, sir." He's beaming, unable to stem his delight at how positively his news is being taken.
Dean still hasn't said anything and John glances over in concern. His oldest is staring at his breakfast like it's poisoned. He only stays that way for a split-second once he realizes he's being watched, and then he looks up, genuine pride beaming from his eyes, and carefully tucking away the misery behind it.
"That's my boy!" he crows, slapping Sam on the back, "Smarter than the rest of 'em combined!"
John wants to call him on it, but Dean catches his eye and shakes his head minutely. This is Sammy's moment his expression says, and John can't help but sigh, because there it is again, Dean's willingness to put aside everything he wants for his younger brother.
"We'll have to get you some new shoes before you go," he says instead of voicing his thoughts, "Your toes are going to break through the end of that pair before long."
The silent thanks in his oldest's eyes feels more like condemnation than anything else.
2.
"I'm leaving for Stanford tomorrow." Sam says quietly. It's somewhere around three in the morning, but he has to say it. A tiny part of him hopes Dean didn't hear him, that he's still asleep, but of course he isn't.
"Full ride," Dean mumbles, surprising him.
"How did you--"
"Your poker face is shit, Sammy." Ah, there it is, Dean's cracking lame jokes. Textbook defense mechanism. Sam's been considering psychology, but he's not sure that what it might teach him about himself and his family is something he wants to learn.
"I'm not telling Dad." he whispers, waiting for the inevitable argument. But Dean doesn't say anything. Sam rolls onto his side and squints through the darkness at the other bed. Dean is nodding at the ceiling.
"He'd be furious." Dean says, "I'll deal with it after I take you to the station. You already have your ticket, right?"
Sam is silent, marveling at just how well his brother knows him. He suddenly feels sort of sick. "Yeah," he answers, "I do. Bus leaves at nine, so I'd better..."
"Yeah." Dean says, "Get some sleep, Sasquatch, you want to be well-rested for your first day as a college boy."
Sam tries to go to sleep, he really does. But he can hear the ragged edge to Dean's breathing that gives away his otherwise-silent tears, and guilt and an aching want keep him awake for the rest of the night.
They don't talk about it in the morning, cramming it away with all the other dangerous feelings that could tear them apart.
3.
"Dad...?" Sam hates how uncertain his voice is, "Can I talk to you about something?"
John looks up, his expression weary. "About Stanford? Why'd you wait until Dean was gone? Kind of pointless."
Sam starts. "How did you--?"
"He's the one who figured it out," John says, "Told me to let you go. I still think it's a bad idea, but," his face twists a little, "I think it's the closest I can get to making you both happy."
"I didn't want to tell Dean," Sam whispers, feeling stupid. Of course his brother figured it out. He wouldn't be Dean if he didn't know everything about Sam. Watch out for Sammy has been his life motto since he was four years old. "I didn't want to..."
He trails off, but his father is nodding like he understands. "It's my fault," John says, suddenly, "It wouldn't hurt him so much if I hadn't..." He paused to collect himself. "Dean told me you wouldn't tell him, that you would just go and let me tell him. Don't prove him right, Sam. He deserves more than that."
Sam nods quietly, agreeing with his father for the first time in years.
When Dean comes in noiselessly twenty minutes later, it's all Sam can do to confirm the question in his eyes. Dean smiles, proud, but he isn't the only brother who knows everything about the other, and Sam can see the hurt that he's trying so hard to hide.
Sam gets on the bus the next morning, but it'd be a lie if he said he didn't look back.
4.
Sam waits until their father is gone for the weekend, hunting a chupacabra the next state over, before he tells Dean. He doesn't really know what to expect, so he's braced himself for a blow before he approaches Dean, standing at the kitchen counter washing dishes. It's the middle of July, and Sam really can't wait any longer, because classes start in three weeks.
It's hot and the cabin doesn't have air conditioning, so Sam's not surprised to find Dean shirtless and using cold water to wash the dishes, even though Sam's told him a million times it doesn't get them clean enough. Somehow it reassures him, recalling their stupid arguments, and gives him the courage to step into the tiny kitchen.
"Finally coming out of hiding, Sammy?" Dean says without looking up, even though Sam didn't make the slightest sound.
"I wasn't hiding," Sam replies a little defensively, "I was thinking."
"Well if you're ready to tell me what you were thinking about, I'm listening," Dean's voice is light, but Sam's stomach bottoms out.
"You already know what I'm gonna say," he whispers, kind of shocked. Dean turns to look at him, then, emerald eyes sad.
"Doesn't get you off the hook, kiddo," he tells him, "You gotta tell me anyway."
"Why?" Sam snaps, selfishly, "If you already know, then why do I have to say it?"
Suddenly, Dean's in his face, shaking with anger, suds and cold water flying everywhere. "Because I'm the one that has to live with it, Sam! I'm the one who's staying!" His eyes are shining with unshed tears, but stubborn bastard that he is, he won't let them fall. "So please. Just say it."
Sam swallows. "I got a full ride scholarship to Stanford. I'm leaving in two weeks."
For a long moment, Dean stares at him like he's taken a knife and slid it between his brother's ribs. It's probably the most unguarded expression he's ever worn. Then he grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck and hauls him forward into a bruising kiss.
Sam jumps about a mile and Dean releases him instantly, looking horrified at himself. "Oh my God, Sammy, I'm so sorry--"
Sam doesn't give him an opportunity to get worked up, surging forward and crushing their lips together for a second time. Dean makes a surprised sound and grabs the front of his brother's shirt, hanging on for dear life. Sam presses his tongue to the seam of Dean's lips and he opens up for Sam, gasping and pressing himself even tighter to his chest. Their hips slot together and Sam whimpers, seeing stars.
They stumble backwards, out of the kitchen and somehow make it to the couch. Dean presses Sam down into the cushions and crawls over him, kissing along his collarbone and neck.
"I didn't know that we could--" he tries to say, but Sam quiets him with more kisses.
Dean fucks him right there on the couch, slow and gentle, belying the frantic look in his eyes. He murmurs nonsense against the underside of Sam's jaw while his brother gasps and clutches at his shoulders. When he comes whispering "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy" like a mantra against his little brother's lips, that's all it takes--that stupid childhood nickname that has somehow come to carry so much more meaning--and Sam is following him over the edge, vision whiting out at the edges, all of his nerve endings on fire from pleasure. Dean kisses him firmly once more and then is up and off to the shower without so much as a backwards glance.
There are no declarations of love, and he doesn't beg his brother to stay, doesn't touch Sam again, but when Dean drives him to the bus station two weeks later, he hugs him tightly and says "take care of yourself Sammy," in a brisque voice, and somehow, that's enough.
+1.
But this is how it actually happens. They're in Arizona, working on an Indian burial ground case that Sam found and classes at Stanford start in a week. Sam's kept it to himself longer than he should've, but every time he's opened his mouth, an unreasonable feeling of terror has swept over him and he's stopped himself from saying the words. Instead, he's just tricked his family into getting as close to Palo Alto as he can manage so it'll be less distance for him to cover on his own.
He's already feeling pretty terrible about himself for it, and then his dad blows up over something.
Years later, looking back, Sam won't even be able to tell you what the fight started over; dirty laundry, or neglected drills, or maybe just because his father was feeling drunk and mean. He knows how it ended, though.
"Yeah, well, fuck you, Dad, because I got a full ride scholarship to Stanford and guess what? I'm going!" Sam has the acceptance letter out, brandishing it in his father's face like a weapon and he doesn't even realize what he's done until a deadly silence falls over the room.
John is standing stock-still in the middle of the room, his eyes glittering angrily. Sam stands across from him, arm still outstretched, breathing heavily. Slumped against the wall mid-way between them, like he's been pinned there is Dean, eyes flashing hurt and betrayal. Together, the three of them make a perfect tableau of brokenness.
"You're leaving?" John says, his voice taking on a low, dark quality.
"Dad..." Dean tries to cut him off at the pass, but John rounds on him.
"Don't you dare defend this boy!" he snarls, "He wants to abandon his family, abandon the hunt, and you're still coddling him!"
"I'm not abandoning anything!" Sam snaps, "I'm trying to better myself as a person! There's nothing wrong with going to college, it's normal."
John laughs and it's an ugly sound. "You aren't normal, Sam! You know what's out there! You have a responsibility to this family--"
"What about my responsibility to myself?" Sam demands, "You're so caught up in this revenge for Mom that you're killing me...you're killing Dean because vengeance is more important to you!"
"I'm trying to protect my family!" John thunders, "If you don't want to do the same, then go ahead and get gone."
"Just because I want something better for myself doesn't mean I don't care about my family!" Sam protests.
John shrugs, "That's sure as hell what it looks like to me. Go on. Abandon us. But if you walk out that door...don't you ever come back."
Dean flinches like it's him John's directed the words at. "Dad!"
"Quiet, Dean!" John barks the command and Dean subsists, clinging to the wall as if it's the only thing keeping him from crumpling to the floor. It's the last straw for Sam, seeing his brother just fall blindly in line and he feels his mouth twist into a sneer.
"Fine. I'm gone." he grabs up his duffle, already packed, and crosses to the front door. Dean makes a strangled, panicked sound and Sam turns back long enough to get in a parting shot. "Have a nice life."
And then he's storming out the door and into the pouring rain (because of course it's raining), his blood racing in his ears. He makes it to the end of the driveway before he hears the screen door slam and Dean calling his name.
"Sam, wait!" And Sam's furious, but his brother's voice sounds so broken that he can't help but stop in his tracks. He doesn't look back, but after a few moments, he feels Dean come up next to him. "At least let me drive you to the bus station."
Sam shakes his head. "It's only like half a mile from here." It's a testament to how tired Dean is that he doesn't even try to argue.
"Promise you'll take care of yourself?" Dean says in a near-whisper. "That you won't get lazy and complacent?"
Sam nods shortly. He's got salt and holy water, his knife and gun tucked into the bottom of his duffle, but somehow admitting that is like losing, so he doesn't say anything.
"Sammy, please, at least look at me." that pleading note is back in his brother's voice and Sam is powerless to do anything other than what he asks.
Dean looks so small, soaked to the bone and curled into his leather jacket and it makes Sam's chest ache to see it, because Dean's always been larger-than-life to him.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says quietly, "I have to do this."
Dean nods and his expression isn't angry, just resigned. "Just be careful, Sammy. And happy."
There's a lump forming in Sam's throat, so he does the only thing he can think of and pulls Dean into a tight hug. Dean's arms come around him and anchor him and suddenly Sam is fighting back tears. They pull apart enough to see each other's faces and Sam can tell that Dean feels the same, even though the rain will let him deny it.
Sam squeezes his brother's shoulders once more and starts to step away, but Dean catches him by the elbow, stopping him. He studies his little brother's face intently for a long moment, emerald eyes roving like he's memorizing Sam.
And then simple as anything, he cranes his neck and presses their lips together, like it's a totally normal occurrence. Sam doesn't pull away, instead bending his head to accommodate his brother. Dean sways against him and licks into his mouth and Sam moans, both from the sensation and the realization that he could have had this all along, but now it's too late. Dean tastes like rainwater and salty tears and everything Sam's always wanted, but never asked for.
It's over much too soon. Dean breaks away and quirks a half-hearted grin and steps back. "Knock 'em dead, Sammy."
Sam stumbles backwards, his eyes fixed on Dean's for a split-second longer. Then he turns to trudge down the road, not looking back, even though he feels Dean's gaze on him until the house is well out of site.
He's been on the bus for twenty minutes before he finds an envelope with five hundred dollars and a box of Lucky Charms stuffed in the bottom of his duffle bag and Sam realizes that Dean knew this was coming all along.