Chapter Text
The locker room still smelled like old turf tape and sweat, even though they hadn’t played a real game since their last fall scrimmage three months ago.
It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just different.
Fall had come and gone in a blur of early-morning fog and cleats on frozen turf. With Dylan at college, they initially felt less like a wildfire and more like a slow burn. Jake cracked more jokes to make up for the silence. Ryan tightened drills until they felt like punishment. Connor hovered in the gaps, filling roles no one asked him to, keeping Sam from slipping back into the version of himself that stayed too quiet. They weren’t broken, but just incomplete.
And Sam, though he didn’t say it out loud, missed his big brother in the way a compass misses north. Even when they were winning, even when things were going well, the ache remained.
Dylan was still there. He texted. He called whenever he could, often from a dorm hallway filled with yelling or a cafeteria with terrible lighting and echoey ceilings. He sent clips of his goals and terrible cafeteria pizza, selfies with the caption pray for my GPA, and voice memos that ranged from pep talks to weirdly sincere reminders to stretch. He was still there. Still in it. Just... far.
They found a new rhythm, a four-person kind of normal, stitched together with late-night group chats, half-burnt waffles, and inside jokes no one else would ever understand. It wasn’t the same without Dylan, but it still worked. It still felt like home, most days. They were still best friends. Still brothers. (Except for the ferret incident. They had been permanently banned from talking about that.)
There were two glorious weeks in December when Dylan had come back for break - boots thudding on the porch, hair longer, grin louder, like he’d never left at all. They all stayed up too late watching film and arguing over warmups, all five of them practically living on Sam's living room floor. It felt like the world snapped back into place.
But now it was January again. The wind was mean, the field was frozen, and Dylan was back at college. His absence wasn’t sharp anymore, not like the first month, but it still thudded in the chest sometimes, quiet and steady. Like a bruise just beneath the surface.
But some things, like the smell of the locker room, never changed.
Sam sat on the edge of the second bench, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, cleats swinging just above the tile. He’d outgrown this particular hoodie over winter break, but he wore it anyway. It was worn-in and familiar, the cuffs were chewed soft, and the logo was nearly faded off the chest. Around him, the returning players clustered into loose groups; half of them sprawled like it was homeroom, the other half sitting like Coach might start quizzing them on tactics and grit any second.
The whiteboard at the front still had the fading ghost of last year’s lineup scrawled in red marker, like a memory someone had tried to erase but couldn’t quite forget. Just below it, taped in slightly crooked printout form:
Preseason Planning - Spring Tryouts 2 Weeks Out.
Ryan leaned against the wall by the door, arms folded, earbuds slung around his neck like punctuation. Jake was backward in a chair, chin resting on the backrest, doodling spirals into a Gatorade label with a pen that was probably stolen from the library. Connor sat cross-legged on top of an unused ball cart, humming under his breath and tapping out a rhythm on his knee pads.
“You guys think Coach will finally upgrade our warm-up playlist this year?” Connor asked, stretching his legs out like a kid on a jungle gym.
Ryan snorted. “You mean, will he stop punishing us with off-brand techno from 2010? No chance.”
“I heard he added Nickelback to it,” Jake said with mock horror.
Sam blinked. “That actually might be worse.”
Connor smirked and pointed at Sam. “See? Sam gets it. He has taste.”
“I do,” Sam said, deadpan. “Which is why I bring my own headphones.”
Jake yawned and tossed his peeled Gatorade label at Connor’s face. “You’re all cowards. You haven’t truly trained until you’ve done suicides to dubstep bagpipes.”
That got a laugh. Even Sam managed a grin, small and fleeting, but real. He liked this version of the team: loose, joking, rough around the edges, but soft in ways no one said out loud.
The door creaked open. Coach stepped in, still wearing the same battered windbreaker and track pants he’d probably worn since his first day on the job. Clipboard in one hand and his whistle around his neck, even indoors. His presence shifted the air instantly.
Conversations all around the locker room died mid-sentence. Sam sat up a little straighter without meaning to.
Coach cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s keep this short. Tryouts are in two weeks. Conditioning’s been solid. Returning players are expected to lead drills and help evaluate potential roster additions. Anyone dicking around gets booted, understood?”
Scattered nods, a few half-hearted “yes, Coach” replies.
“Good,” he said. “Now for captains.”
Sam felt it like a thread snapping taut in his chest. No way. He hadn’t even considered-
“We’re running two this season.”
Wait. What?
“Ryan’s stepping up as one of the upperclassmen.”
Ryan was a choice that was predictable and deserved. Everyone clapped, some louder than others. Ryan gave a small, easy nod and didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms tighter like he’d been expecting it since fall.
“And the second,” Coach paused, just long enough to make Sam’s pulse stutter. “-is Sam.”
The silence hit like a body check.
Sam blinked. “What?”
Coach didn’t repeat himself. He just handed Sam and Ryan a clipboard and dropped his gaze to his own, scribbling something in the margin, already moving on.
Sam’s ears burned. His stomach turned over, low and twisting, like he’d just gotten the wind knocked out of him and his body forgot how to refill.
Captain? No. Not him.
He was a sophomore. He’d barely kept himself upright by the end of last season, pushing through games until his legs gave out and the monitor blinked yellow. He wasn’t loud. Wasn’t fearless. Wasn’t Dylan.
His voice barely worked. “Uh… Coach?”
But Jake beat him to it.
“I’m not really what they would call a leadership type,” Jake said dryly, raising his hands like he was offering himself for sacrifice. “You don’t want me talking to refs. Or people. Or anything, honestly.”
That earned a round of laughter, the tension snapping just a little.
Coach didn’t even glance up. “Exactly why you’re not captain.”
Sam opened his mouth again. Nothing came out.
The locker room felt warped, like someone had stretched it a few degrees off-kilter. His heartbeat was in his ears. It wasn't racing or wrong, but just loud. He couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough.
Then Ryan stepped forward. He didn’t say anything at first, crossing the room and giving Sam a light smack on the back. Not hard, but grounding.
“It’s kind of hard to captain from the goal during a game,” Ryan said, voice calm and clear. “So having two makes sense.”
He paused.
“Plus, you deserve it, Winchester.”
The words landed like an anchor tossed into deep water. Steady. Surprising. A little bit holy.
Sam didn’t know what to say. He didn’t trust himself to try. So he just nodded, hands still curled tight in his sleeves.
Coach clapped the edge of the whiteboard with the corner of his clipboard. “Tryouts are coming. Let’s make this season count.”
And just like that, it was over.
Chairs scraped and bags rustled. The other boys on the team were stuffing shin guards into their bags, pulling on jackets, and arguing about which playlist they wouldn't let Coach use.
The buzz under his ribs hadn’t faded. It wasn’t a bad feeling. At least, he didn't think so. It wasn't panic, it wasn't that flutter he would get before his heart monitor blinked yellow. It was something deeper. Warmer. Heavier. Like the world had tilted a little and pointed straight at him.
Captain. It didn’t feel real.
The cold hit Sam in the face the second the locker room door swung shut behind him.
Late January in South Dakota didn’t believe in easing you into anything. The sky was that flat gray that never quite turned to snow, the air sharp enough to sting his cheeks, and the wind threaded straight through his hoodie like it wasn’t even there.
He hunched into himself, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and starting across the gravel lot. His cleats clicked against the concrete for the first few steps before he switched to walking on the edges of his soles, trying to keep the noise down like it might draw more attention.
His breath fogged in front of him, and each exhale was uneven.
Captain.
The word was still bouncing around in his skull, clunky and impossible. Every time he thought it had settled, it rattled loose again, sharp-edged and surreal.
He’d have to tell his dad. He could already hear the teasing. Not mean - never mean - but surprised. A little too proud. A little too close to the bone.
He wasn’t ready for that.
He wasn’t sure he was ready for any of it.
“Winchester!”
Connor’s voice cut through the wind; familiar, grounding, loud enough to be heard but not enough to startle.
Sam didn’t turn, but he slowed, his stride softening until Connor caught up. A second later, Connor fell into step beside him, his letterman jacket zipped up, hands jammed into the pockets like the fabric might hold him together.
“You good?” he asked, shoulder-bumping Sam lightly. “You dipped out of there like someone said ‘pop quiz.’”
Sam gave a half-shrug, eyes on the cracked pavement. “Didn’t think he was gonna say my name, that’s all.”
Connor snorted. “Yeah, neither did I.”
Sam turned to look at him, caught between alarmed and offended, but Connor was grinning like he’d just poked a bear and was proud of himself for surviving.
“Kidding,” Connor added, bumping into him again. “I figured it’d be you. Coach doesn’t hand out clipboards for fun.”
“I thought he was gonna pick Jake.”
“Jake,” Connor said flatly, “told a JV player last week that we only run suicides when someone breaks an unspoken code of honor. Like we’re in the mafia.”
Sam let out a startled huff of laughter, breath fogging the air in a quick burst. “Sounds like him.”
“Yeah, well,” Connor said, “I think the freshman is still waiting for someone to be whacked.”
They kept walking, boots crunching in sync over old salt and frozen gravel, the sky hanging low and heavy over the parking lot.
Sam’s steps faltered. “You really think it makes sense?”
Connor raised a brow. “What, Coach’s choice?”
“Me,” Sam clarified, voice lower now. “Being captain.”
Connor didn’t answer right away. He kicked a chunk of packed snow out of his path, the scuffed toe of his cleat slicing it clean.
“You’re gonna be good at it,” he said eventually, like it was just a fact.
Sam didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t find the right words. There was something under his ribs again, like pressure without pain. That strange tilt he couldn’t name.
Connor kept going. “You see the field better than anyone. You don’t scream just to be loud. People listen when you talk.”
Sam blinked at that. “They do?”
“Yeah, man,” Connor said. “They do, especially the JV players. You’re like… mysterious and capable. You know. The kind of guy who could take down a bear with a bungee cord and a stare.”
Sam cracked a small smile. “That’s a weirdly specific image.”
“I’m saying it’s a vibe.”
Sam shook his head, amused despite himself. “They’re not impressed. They’re scared of me.”
“They’re impressed because they’re scared,” Connor corrected. “You pulled the whole season together last year after almost passing out mid-game, what, three times?”
“Twice.”
“Plus the midfield shot.”
“That was one time.”
“And the injury that won us state, in case you forgot about that.”
“Connor-”
Connor held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying: if anyone’s earned it, it’s you.”
Sam nudged a half-frozen leaf with the toe of his boot, watching it skate along the blacktop toward the storm drain. “It feels too early,” he said finally. “Like I skipped a step.”
“You didn’t,” Connor said, no hesitation. “You just got here faster.”
They reached the far edge of the lot where Connor’s truck was parked. It was a dented silver thing that had probably survived five different teenage drivers and twice as many winters. The windows were fogged up from the inside. A half-eaten protein bar was still on the dashboard.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Sam stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. His voice was quieter now. “You ever get that thing where you can tell something’s coming before it happens?”
Connor blinked. “Like deja vu?”
“Sort of.”
Connor tilted his head, considering. “Only when Jake says he has a plan. Why?”
Sam hesitated. The wind picked up and stole the silence right out of the space between them.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just… never mind.”
Connor didn’t push. He nodded, like he understood there was more to that question than Sam was ready to unpack. He jangled his keys as he headed toward the driver’s side, then paused with one hand on the door.
“Are you coming, or are you planning to dramatically walk home in the snow like a sad indie movie protagonist?”
Sam blinked. “I was gonna-”
“You’re fifteen,” Connor said, eyebrows up. “Unless you’ve got a fake license and a getaway car stashed behind the bleachers?”
Sam huffed. “I could’ve walked.”
Connor shrugged. “Sure. And I could let you. But then I’d have to explain to Coach why our brand-new team captain froze to death on Main Street. Plus, your dad is scary, and I don’t feel like getting murdered today.”
Sam rolled his eyes but crossed to the passenger side and climbed in. The truck creaked a little under the shift in weight, old and familiar and full of someone else’s snack wrappers in the cupholder. The vents kicked out stale heat that smelled faintly like fast food and whatever Jake had spilled back in October.
“You guys act like I’m helpless.”
“Nah,” Connor said, sliding behind the wheel. “Just underage.”
Sam buckled in with a sigh. “It’s not that weird. I’m only a grade behind you.”
“You’re practically a baby,” Connor teased. “Which means until your birthday rolls around, we drive, you ride, and nobody gives you real shit about it.”
Sam gave him a look. “You give me a little shit.”
Connor grinned. “Yeah, but only the affectionate kind.”
They pulled out of the lot, tires crunching over frozen gravel, the truck rattling. Outside, the town looked soft and gray, the horizon smeared with low-hanging clouds. Inside, the cab was warm enough to breathe easily.
Connor reached over to flip on the radio. “So, real talk: do we fight Coach on the warm-up playlist this year, or just surrender to the chaos?”
Sam leaned back, watching the houses blur past his window.
“Let’s fight him,” he said.
Connor grinned. “Knew I made the right call backing you.”
And for the first time all afternoon, Sam let himself believe it.
By the time Connor pulled up in front of the house, dusk had folded into full-on winter dark. The porch light spilled a wide amber circle across the front steps, catching on the edge of the snow piles his dad had shoveled two days ago. The house looked small from the outside, quiet and unremarkable. But to Sam, it still felt like the only place in the world where he could let go of the breath he was holding.
Connor coasted to a stop with the easy rumble of the old truck and leaned across the seat as Sam popped the passenger door open.
“Tell your dad I didn’t break you,” Connor called.
Sam huffed. “You only emotionally terrorized me a little.”
Connor grinned, flashing teeth. “All part of the job. Later, Captain.”
Sam groaned at the word, flipping him off half-heartedly as the truck pulled away. The red glow of tail lights faded behind the bare-limbed trees that lined the yard.
He stood at the edge of the porch for a moment, hoodie zipped to the chin, hands still jammed in his pockets like that might be enough to hold him together.
Captain.
It didn’t feel like it fit. Not yet.
He wasn’t the loudest guy on the team. Wasn’t the strongest. He still didn’t have a driver’s license. And when Coach had said his name, it hadn’t felt triumphant, it had felt like a mistake that everyone was too polite to correct.
But Connor hadn’t flinched. And neither had Ryan. Or Jake.
He took a deep breath, then let himself into the house.
It was warm and familiar inside. The kind of lived-in comfort that wrapped around him like a hoodie fresh from the dryer. The air smelled faintly like takeout and motor oil, like Dad had been eating in the garage again, and the radio from out there was still playing some classic rock track low and scratchy in the background.
Sam took off his boots by the door and slung his backpack down next to them. The clipboard still inside felt like a weight he hadn’t earned yet.
He padded down the hall toward the kitchen, socks silent on the floor.
Dad was already there, hunched over the kitchen table in his flannel and jeans, sorting through a stack of mail like he was personally offended by every envelope. He looked up when Sam came in, eyes doing that quick top-to-bottom scan that always made Sam feel oddly safer, even if it was just instinct now.
“You eat before practice?” Dad asked.
Sam nodded. “Connor had snacks in the truck.”
“Good. Don’t let him feed you nothing but vending machine trash.”
“I didn’t.”
Dad grunted approvingly. “Uncle Bobby made a casserole for dinner. Go eat,” he said, eyes back on a credit card bill.
Sam hovered for a second near the counter, then pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. He fidgeted with the edge of his hoodie sleeve, the familiar nerves coiling in his chest, tight and twitchy, like the flutter right before a game started.
He hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. But he knew if he didn’t, the moment would pass, and he’d hate himself for letting it.
“I, uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “Coach picked captains today.”
Dad’s hand froze halfway through sorting the mail. He looked up again, slower this time. “Yeah?”
“Ryan’s one of them. Which makes sense.”
Dad nodded once. “Sure.”
Sam curled his hands tighter into his sleeves. “I’m the other one.”
The words landed like a dropped wrench.
For a second, Dad just looked at him. No jokes, no smirks, no raised eyebrows like he was waiting for a punchline.
Just quiet, steady recognition.
Sam could feel his pulse in his throat. His palms were warm. His shoulders were tense.
Then Dad sat back, the old kitchen chair creaking under his weight, and gave the kind of nod that felt like approval and understanding, and I see you all in one.
“Well,” he said, voice soft but sure, “guess he’s not as dumb as he looks.”
Sam let out a breath. It escaped like laughter, thin and crooked.
“It’s probably just because Jake didn’t want it,” Sam mumbled, eyes flicking down to the grain on the table.
Dad gave him a pointed look. “Jake once duct-taped his shin guards to the outside of his socks.”
“…Okay. Fair.”
Dad leaned in again, forearms braced on the table, eyes never leaving him now. “You earned it, Sammy. And not just ’cause you show up. You hold people together. You keep the team moving. You make ‘em better. That’s what a captain does.”
Sam swallowed hard. His throat felt tight in the way it sometimes did after big wins or long practices or when someone said something real and didn’t try to back out of it afterward.
“I don’t even have my license yet,” he said, like that disqualified him somehow. Like being fifteen and barely finished growing should cancel out the vote of confidence from an entire coaching staff.
Dad smirked. “Captain of the field, not the highway. One thing at a time.”
Sam managed a shaky smile.
Dad didn’t say anything more right away. He just reached over to the drawer next to the fridge, fished out a dull pen, and tore a corner off an old pizza coupon. He scribbled something quickly and slid it across the table.
Sam picked it up and turned it over.
CAPTAIN WINCHESTER
Underlined three times. A smiley face drawn next to it, complete with cleats and a tiny clipboard.
Sam stared at it for a long second. Then, he gently folded it in half and tucked it into his hoodie pocket like it was something worth keeping.
Because it was. Because Dad had made it.
Dad stood up and opened the fridge. “You want orange soda or root beer to celebrate?”
Sam blinked. “Both?”
His dad handed him the root beer first.
After dinner, Sam lingered at the kitchen table longer than he needed to, peeling the corner of a napkin into tight spirals. Dad had gone back to the garage to mess with the heater fan again, leaving him with a ruffle of his hair and a proud grin.
Sam slipped upstairs with a can of orange soda and retreated to his room.
The clipboard was still in his backpack. His hoodie still smelled faintly like turf from earlier. And his brain? Still looping Captain like a word he wasn’t allowed to wear out loud.
But he couldn’t not tell Dylan.
He flopped onto his bed, thumbed open his phone, and typed it plain.
SAM: made captain
The read receipt popped up immediately.
Then nothing.
Then-
DYLAN: What
WHAT
We’re Facetiming right now
The screen lit up before Sam could even sigh.
He hit accept.
There was Dylan, already dramatic and mid-rant, shirtless and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it was a microphone.
“You texted me?” Dylan yelled. “You made captain, and you texted me?”
“I’ve been home for like ten minutes,” Sam said.
“Unacceptable! Unbelievable! We’ve shared Gatorade bottles. I let you use my shin guards, man.”
Before Sam could reply, the screen split with a cheerful ding, and Ryan’s face filled half the screen. Hood up, lounging against his headboard, the image kind of blurry but unmistakably smug.
“Oh my god,” Dylan muttered. “You knew already.”
Ryan just grinned. “Yup.”
Another chime. Then Jake, horizontal, upside down, camera pointed at his ceiling fan.
“We found out at the pre-season meeting today,” Jake said. “Sam froze like a startled cat when he said your name.”
“I didn’t-” Sam started, then gave up.
Another chime sounded.
Connor popped into the frame with his phone propped against a stack of textbooks and a protein bar in his mouth. “He didn’t just freeze,” he said, chewing. “He just forgot how to speak for, like, eight seconds.”
“You know too?” Dylan gasped, scandalized. “You all know?”
“You're at college,” Ryan said, exasperated.
“You mean to tell me,” Dylan said slowly, “that my son, my prodigy, my beloved soccer gremlin, got made captain and I was the last to know?”
Connor raised his eyebrows. “Did he just call you his gremlin?”
“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Sam muttered.
Jake chimed in lazily. “It’s definitely in the top three weirdest things he’s said.”
“Okay,” Dylan cut back in, pointing at the camera with his granola bar. “Tell me everything. How’d it happen? Did Coach give a speech? Did Ryan cry?”
Ryan flipped him off without looking.
Sam hesitated. Then he grinned. He couldn’t help it. “It was just the preseason meeting. Coach said he wanted two captains. Ryan and I.”
Dylan beamed, big and bright and almost too much through the screen. “Damn right he did.”
“Connor gave him a ride home,” Jake added helpfully. “Didn’t want him freezing to death and making headlines.”
“Plus,” Connor said, deadpan, “your dad’s got that look, the one that says he buries bodies alphabetically. I wasn’t taking chances.”
Ryan laughed. Sam flushed but didn’t deny it.
The call kept going. Dylan demanded to see the clipboard. Jake tried to convince him to sign it like it was a yearbook. Connor started a fake chant in the group chat: CAP-TAAIN SAM! CAP-TAAIN RYAN! CLIP-BOAARD BOYS!
Even Ryan got in on it, snapping a blurry screenshot and sending it with the caption: Your local benevolent dictator.
Sam shook his head, grinning so hard it hurt. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. He watched the screen shuffle and blur, listened to the familiar noise of his people, his team, and let it sink in.
Outside in the hallway, Dean passed by his closed door and slowed at the sound of laughter - loud, real, and effortless. He stood there a moment, smiling to himself.
Then kept walking.
Inside, Sam rolled onto his back and held the phone above his head like it was too much to carry on his chest.
He still didn’t know what kind of captain he was going to be. But in that moment, surrounded by noise and teasing and love, he thought: maybe the kind who didn’t have to carry it alone.
____
The house was asleep.
Dad had retired to his room a while ago. Rumsfeld had settled somewhere downstairs, tail thudding once when Sam passed earlier, but otherwise still. Uncle Bobby was held up in the study, researching a hunt for Rufus. Even the refrigerator had stopped its periodic wheezing, like the whole house had agreed to hold its breath.
But Sam couldn’t sleep.
He’d tried. Twice.
Pajamas on. Teeth brushed. Phone turned facedown like a shield. He’d flopped onto his side, then his back, then his other side. Nothing stuck. His limbs were heavy but restless. His thoughts were loud. His heart kept skipping like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to beat or pause.
His chest didn’t hurt, but it felt full, like he was breathing through cotton. Like every inhale had to wait in line behind ten others.
He hated this feeling. The in-between. The not-right.
So now he sat at the window. Hoodie zipped, knees hugged to his chest. His forehead was pressed to the cold glass as if that might drain off the buzzing just under his skin.
Outside, the street was winter-soft. Wind moving lazily through the trees, brittle branches creaking. A porch light flickered down the block. Harmless.
He let his eyes drift to the nearer streetlamp.
Buzz. Buzz.
The lamp flickered once. Then again, a slow, deliberate stutter.
And at first, Sam thought nothing of it. South Dakota power lines weren’t exactly reliable, especially in the cold.
But something under his skin was already tightening.
And then it hit. Not the light. Him.
It was like getting yanked backward out of his own body, an electric snap at the base of his skull. The world tilted. His stomach dropped like an elevator with the cables cut. Light fractured behind his eyes.
And suddenly, he was somewhere else. Not fully, but enough.
The vision crashed into him in pieces, jagged and fast:
Cleats skidding on damp grass.
A freshman - too small, still learning - falling hard, one leg twisted beneath him.
A flash of green laces.
The slap of bone on wet turf.
A cry: short, sharp, surprised.
Mud. Cold.
A delayed snap that echoed like it was right next to him.
Sam jerked back from the window with a choked gasp.
His head slammed into the drywall. The room swam. He scrambled to the floor without meaning to, knees drawn up, hands shaking so badly he could barely zip the hoodie tighter.
His heart was pounding like it was trying to fight its way out.
“No,” he whispered. “No. No, no, no-”
His voice cracked at the edges. The word didn’t feel like his.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his forehead to his knees, and curled up smaller.
It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened yet.
That was the worst part.
It wasn’t a dream. Not a nightmare, not a flashback to something real. It was something that hadn’t happened, a flicker of something he wasn't supposed to know.
And that meant it was back.
His powers. His visions.
His curse, if you asked the wrong people.
The last time he’d felt anything like this was the fall of his freshman year, when Callaghan was still out there, when everything had been sharp and dangerous and too much. Since then, things had been quiet. Manageable. He’d let himself believe that part of him had gone dormant again. Maybe it had burned itself out with the rest of his adrenaline.
But this was real.
He recognized the feeling like an old friend. The sudden cold behind the eyes. The heavy silence that settled in after, like the air was waiting for something to happen.
His fingers dug into the hem of his hoodie. His breath rattled in his throat. The buzzing wouldn’t stop. He felt wrong, like his skin didn’t quite fit.
What if this wasn’t a one-off? What if this was the start of something? What if it got worse again? What if he missed something and someone got hurt?
What if Dad noticed?
He sat there for a long time, curled in the narrow space between the wall and the window. Listening to nothing. Watching the shadows in his room like they might move if he blinked.
He didn’t fall asleep. He didn’t even try.
____
The parking lot at school still hadn’t fully thawed. Patches of old snow clung to the corners like forgotten homework, and the rest was gravel and blacktop stained with road salt. Sam stood on the pitch near the far bench, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, breath fogging in front of him as he watched the wind tug at the corner of the cone layout he’d triple-checked before anyone else had shown up.
He wasn’t usually this early, but he couldn’t stay in bed this morning. Couldn’t sit still.
His brain felt like it had run three miles without telling his body. Every thought came with too many what-ifs trailing behind it.
He still hadn’t told anyone about the vision. Not Dad, not Uncle Bobby.
Part of him didn’t want to believe it had happened.
But the image kept flickering behind his eyes: cleats, green laces, the fall. It felt like watching an hourglass turn. He didn’t know when it would hit, only that it would. And when it did, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.
Voices broke through the fog, laughter and bickering that could only belong to the one group of idiots he trusted.
Jake’s voice came first. “This is the dumbest weather. I swear to God, it’s colder now than it was at Christmas.”
“You chose to wear Vans in January,” Ryan muttered.
“Hey, my ankles breathe better when they’re frostbitten.”
Connor was the first to spot him. “Winchester, you trying to pretend you slept here?”
Sam blinked, shook himself back to the moment. The three of them were standing in front of him now, the rest of the team scattering across the field.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” he said, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Too wound up, I guess.”
It came out casual. Believable. He even managed to look tired in a way that read normal.
Jake raised a brow. “You look like someone hit pause mid-blink.”
“Thanks for that,” Sam said dryly.
Ryan had stopped beside him and was scanning the field with his usual goalie-level intensity. “You want to run warm-ups today?”
“Yeah,” Sam nodded, pulling the folded paper from his hoodie pocket and handing it over. “Got everything on a schedule. Color-coded. Don’t judge me.”
Connor peered over Ryan’s shoulder. “He actually did it. Look at this. ‘Station A: Passing under pressure, modified diamond, three-man rotation.’ Are you applying for college or just captaining us?”
“I multitask,” Sam muttered.
He could feel his pulse in his temples.
Not now, not now, not now.
But the laugh the guys gave him was real and familiar. It bought him a few more seconds of normal.
Jake flopped down dramatically on the bench. “I’ll take whatever involves the least physical exertion and the highest chance of yelling at someone.”
“That’s Station D,” Sam said, almost without thinking. “Supervising reaction drills.”
“Perfect.” Jake snapped. “I’ll bring my throne.”
Connor snorted. Ryan rolled his eyes. The cold wasn’t biting as sharply anymore, and the nerves in Sam’s chest started to untangle just enough for him to stand straighter.
The newcomers were starting to arrive now: awkward, quiet, tripping over their bags and cones and nerves. One of them, he spotted, had bright green laces threaded through his cleats.
Sam’s stomach flipped. He looked away fast, pretending to count cones, pretending it didn’t mean anything.
Connor stepped beside him. “Hey.”
Sam turned.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice lower now, not joking.
Sam held his breath for a second too long before nodding. “Just tired.”
Connor didn’t push. He never did. But he clapped Sam lightly on the back and said, “You’ve got this. Let’s go boss some terrified children around.”
And, somehow, that made it better.
Sam gave one last glance at the kid with the green laces. He was still upright. Still fine.
Then he clapped his hands and called for warm-ups to start, Ryan telling the returners where to go. Sam was still holding his breath, but at least he was moving.
The team moved like muscle memory: Ryan herding a group of returning players toward the sideline to stretch, Connor wrangling a cluster of nervous freshmen who were all looking at the cones like they might be traps. Jake had already started mock-sprinting around Station D like he was training for a drama competition.
Sam walked the perimeter slowly, clipboard tucked against his side, eyes scanning every face. It wasn’t even conscious at first. Just counting. Tracking. Waiting.
Warm-ups ran longer than usual, the cold making everything stiff, nerves doing the rest.
Connor took the lead for Station B, half because he was closest, and half because he had that Dylan tone in his voice when he wanted it. Confident, loose, and kind of obnoxious in a way that made people listen without realizing they were listening.
Connor clapped his hands. “Alright, grab a partner. Defending under pressure. If you can’t talk, at least point like your life depends on it.”
Someone groaned. Someone else dropped their jacket.
Connor grinned. “If you cramp, hydrate. If you puke, hydrate. If you cry, also hydrate.”
There was a beat of silence, then a laugh from one of the new kids.
Sam blinked. That line, Dylan had said that. Last year, during the first week of practice. He’d shouted it across the field while pretending to coach with a whistle made out of a juice box straw. Everyone remembered. No one corrected it.
Connor caught Sam’s eye briefly and shrugged, kept going. Sam didn’t say anything, but something eased behind his ribs.
The freshman with the green laces was at Station A, paired with two other kids who looked equally overwhelmed. He was tall for a freshman, all arms and knees and uncertainty, with a windburned nose and a too-big jacket tied around his waist. His hair stuck out under his beanie in stubborn curls.
He looked like a kid. Just a kid.
Sam’s throat went dry.
He kept moving.
“Alright!” he called. “Pass-and-go drill first. Focus on timing, not power. Eyes up. Communication matters.”
The ball rolled, and cleats shuffled. Shouts rose in uneven bursts as the first passes started flying.
After five minutes, he felt the shift in the air. A sharp buzz of something behind his ribs.
Sam froze mid-step.
The kid with the green laces stepped forward. His foot landed wrong, a split-second too far left. Sam saw the twist before it happened. His mouth opened, and he didn’t even know what he meant to say, but the yell was already coming.
The kid’s ankle rolled. He went down hard, body twisting, leg catching underneath him.
Exactly like the vision.
Sam called for the drill to stop, his voice coming out sharp and short.
Ryan was already jogging over from the other side of the field. One of the freshmen shouted for Coach. The kid on the ground cursed softly and tried to sit up, only to hiss and grab his ankle with both hands.
“I got it,” Sam said, already moving.
He crouched beside the kid, adrenaline in his throat, every nerve still lit up with that awful sense of I knew.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice lower now.
The kid winced. “It-yeah. I think I rolled it. I didn’t even see, I just stepped weird.”
Coach knelt beside him a second later, already waving over one of the student trainers. “Don’t move. Stay down until we check it.”
Sam backed away slowly, watching the trainer wrap ice in a towel and elevate the kid’s leg. The others kept practicing. Connor gave him a subtle nod from across the field. Jake offered a theatrical grimace and mimed a cartoon fall to lighten the mood for the younger players.
At the end of tryouts, Sam sat on the far end of the bench, clipboard resting loose in his hands. His fingers had gone still. His breath fogged in front of him, faint and uneven.
He’d seen it.
Not imagined. Not feared. Not suspected.
Seen it.
The twist, the fall, the snap of the ankle - not a break, thank God - but still exactly like the image in his mind. Every frame matched. He could feel it still buzzing behind his eyes, like a reel stuck on loop. He’d tried to warn him, but it hadn’t been loud enough. Fast enough. Real enough.
What if next time he saw something worse? What if he froze again?
He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to rub the memory away, but it clung like mud.
He had told himself this was over: the visions, the flashes. He thought they’d burned out when Callaghan was taken down. He thought maybe he'd get to be normal now. Just a sophomore. Just a kid.
But this wasn’t normal.
And it hadn’t stopped.
The cold on the bench froze his legs. He stayed there long after most of the others had cleared out. The field lights buzzed once, then dimmed with a tired flicker.
Eventually, footsteps crunched behind him.
“You coming?” Connor asked, voice softer than usual.
Sam blinked and stood, stuffing the clipboard under one arm like it might make him look less frozen. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I just spaced out.”
Connor didn’t push; he just nodded and turned toward the truck. Sam followed.
They walked in silence across the frozen gravel lot, boots crunching in sync. The sky was the same dull gray as before practice, but the air had turned colder. Sharper. Like it knew something had shifted.
Connor stopped at the passenger side and leaned against the door instead of getting in right away. He reached into the front seat and pulled out a half-mashed protein bar from the cupholder, offering it with a sideways glance.
“Refueling,” he said. “Coach’s orders.”
Sam took it without thinking and peeled the wrapper with stiff fingers. He didn’t bite right away.
Connor tapped his knuckles lightly against the doorframe. “Are you really okay?”
Sam didn’t lie, not exactly.
“I just need to get some real sleep tonight,” he said.
Connor stood there a second longer, nodding slowly, watching him in that quiet, weighty way Connor had when he was taking in more than he said.
Then, finally, he spoke. “Alright.”
They climbed in. The truck groaned as it started up, heater coughing before it settled into a low hum.
Neither of them talked on the drive. When they reached the house, Sam reached for the door handle and paused.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, not looking over.
Connor nodded, gaze still on the windshield. “Anytime, Captain.”
Sam stepped out, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, the guilt still curling low and warm in his chest.
He hadn’t stopped it.
He hadn’t told anyone.
And he didn’t know which part was worse.
____
The house was dark that night.
Not the warm, settled kind of dark, the kind with distant TV sounds or the faint hum of laundry finishing downstairs. This was deeper. Still, like the whole place had pulled a blanket over its head and dared him to do the same.
Sam didn’t move.
He sat on the floor next to his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled down over clenched fists, knees drawn up like scaffolding to keep himself steady. The carpet beneath him was cool against his socks. The air in his room smelled like detergent and pencil shavings and the half-faded pine of the old dresser Uncle Bobby helped him refinish over summer.
His phone sat in his hands, the screen glowing softly against the dark. It was the only light left on.
He’d opened Dylan’s contact first out of instinct, not intention. Dylan always answered. Always listened. He wouldn’t laugh, he wouldn’t panic.
But Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t send it.
What would he even say? Hey, so you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but ghosts and demons and every bad thing you’ve ever heard about are real. Also, I’m a psychic freak who sees things before they happen.
He opened his dad’s contact instead. He could tell him. Dad would listen. He wouldn’t freak out, not right away. He’d sit next to him on the edge of the bed and say Okay, we’ll figure it out, like he always did.
But Sam could already hear the change in his voice. The new edge. The way Dad’s hand might grip the couch cushion a little tighter. The way he'd start checking Sam’s eyes more closely in the morning, watching his breath when he slept. Listening too long when Sam didn’t answer right away.
He didn’t want to be watched again. He didn’t want to be worried about. He didn’t want to be a burden.
Not now. Not when things were finally - finally - normal.
He was a captain. He hadn’t missed any school since the courthouse. He was running drills, managing practices, and helping the JV players fix their cleats.
No one looked at him sideways anymore when he came up winded. No one asked if he needed to sit out or if his heart monitor was on. He had a place. A rhythm. And if he broke it…
He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t want to find out.
He stared at the empty message bubble.
Typed: hey. can we talk about something weird?
Then sat there, watching the letters glow. Watching the arrow. Then he pressed backspace, one key at a time, like erasing the thought might un-think it.
He set the phone down screen-first. His hand shook a little.
He reached under the bed and pulled out the notebook Missouri had given him last year: leather cover, soft binding, a little worn at the edges.
He hadn’t opened it in months.
Not since Callaghan. Not since the last time a vision had left him sobbing in his dad’s room and ended with him bleeding on a courthouse floor.
He flipped past the filled pages. Sketches. Emergency notes. Vision logs.
Found a blank one.
Wrote:
Vision - sophomore tryouts
flashes only. no pain.
sideline. freshman.
no blood. no voice. just images.
I could’ve warned him. I didn’t.
I don’t think I should tell anyone.
not yet.
He paused. Tapped the pen against the paper once.
Then added:
If I say it out loud, it’s real.
And beneath that:
I can handle it. I have to.
He didn’t write any more. He didn’t reread it. He closed the notebook and shoved it back under the bed, climbed up, curled under the covers, and let the darkness settle back around him like a second skin.
He didn’t sleep, but at least he didn’t tell.
____
The kitchen was warm in the early morning, but not loud.
No music. No morning radio. Just the pop of the toaster, the low hum of the fridge, and the faint tap of Rumsfeld’s nails as he settled by the back door. Outside, the sky was that dull winter gray that made the clock feel slow, and the house felt too still for a school morning.
Dean flipped the eggs in the pan. Two, over easy. Sam’s favorite. He’d already buttered the toast like he always did (before Sam even came downstairs).
He glanced at the hallway.
“Sammy,” he called out, but not loudly. “You fall in the tub or what?”
There was no answer.
Dean frowned. It wasn't unusual, exactly. Sam took his time getting up some mornings, but something about the quiet this morning wasn’t comfortable. It was that weird kind of silence that made the air feel tight.
He turned back to the pan, plated the eggs, and set them on the table.
A minute later, Sam appeared in the doorway with slow steps, hoodie sleeves over his hands. His hair was a mess.
Dean studied him.
There wasn’t any limp. No grimace. No obvious signs of a nightmare or a skipped dose or a heart issue flaring up. But something was off. Sam’s face wasn’t just tired, it was blank. Careful. His eyes were inward. Dean knew that look too well.
Sam dropped into the kitchen chair without a word. No morning groan. No stretch. No smartass comment about the smell of slightly-burnt toast.
He just sat.
Dean arched an eyebrow. “Well, good morning to you, too, Eeyore.”
Sam blinked. “Morning.”
That was it.
Dean sat across from him, trying not to let the coil of panic in his chest get too loud. Trying not to chase it.
Because the thing was, everything had looked normal before, too. Back when Sam was seven and couldn’t get enough oxygen to his brain. Back when he was ten and hiding a fever. Back when he was fourteen and flatlined in the garage . He’d looked fine all those times, right up until he wasn’t.
Dean couldn’t not think about that now.
“You sleep okay?”
Sam nodded too fast. “Yeah.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Yeah?”
“I just went to bed late,” Sam said. “Had a lot on my mind.”
The tone was easy and dismissive, but Dean had seen Sam lie before. Hell, he’d taught the kid how to pull it off, and this had all the signs of a strategic truth. Not wrong, but not enough.
“School stuff?” Dean asked.
“Tryout stuff.”
Sam picked at the toast. No butter, no jelly. He moved it around the plate like he had somewhere else to be.
Dean’s pulse kicked up a notch.
He lowered his mug. “You sure you’re alright?”
Sam didn’t look up right away. And that - that two-second pause before answering-was the thing that made Dean’s stomach drop.
“I’m fine,” Sam said, soft and smooth. Too smooth.
Dean didn’t believe him, not fully, but then Sam looked up and smiled.
It was small and gentle. That same I’m okay, Dad, smile Sam had given him the night after Minnesota, the day after the courthouse, the week he stopped wearing the heart monitor full-time.
It was weaponized reassurance. And damn it, it worked.
Dean hesitated and then let himself lean back, just a little.
“Okay,” he said. “If you say so.”
Because he couldn’t push yet, not this early. Not if he wanted the truth later.
Sam reached for the salt. “The eggs are underdone, by the way.”
Dean smirked, but his brain was already filing everything away: tone, posture, appetite, eye contact. Just like he’d been doing for fifteen years.
Patterns. Always watch the patterns.
“You’re driving with Connor again?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tell him I said not to floor it on that turn by Mitchell’s,” Dean said, keeping it light. “Kid treats second gear like it’s optional.”
Sam smiled again, and this one was a little more real. “I will.”
Dean watched him for another second and just breathed. Let the moment hold.
But the coil in his chest never unspooled.
Because something was wrong. He just didn’t know what it was yet.
____
The sun was almost down by the time the field lights came on.
They buzzed overhead in an old, uneven hum that bled down in hard white beams, casting sharp shadows across the grass. The ground was still half-frozen underneath from the morning chill, soft on the surface but brittle deeper down. Practice had started with daylight and windbreakers, but now most of the team had zipped up, pulled on sleeves, or layered beneath pinnies. The cold came back fast in South Dakota.
It was the first real practice of the season.
Not just conditioning, not just tryouts, not scrimmage drills with only the returners and the clipboard in Coach’s hands. This was the whole roster: JV players who’d moved up and transfers and new players and last-year seniors. And one sophomore captain, trying to hold it all together with his voice steady and his stomach tied in a knot that he didn’t talk about.
Sam stood just off the center line, hands on his hips, hoodie flapping slightly beneath his training vest. He was watching a younger midfielder fumble a rotation on the triangle drill, but his brain wasn’t all the way there.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to work the tension out of his upper back. His head felt tight. He wasn't in pain, but there was a low-pressure kind of hum beneath the surface, like something humming just under his skin. The same way the world felt seconds before lightning.
He glanced toward the sky.
The field lights above the west end buzzed louder for half a beat before one of them stuttered.
Just once.
A flicker. A surge. A microsecond of motion that most people wouldn’t have noticed.
But Sam felt it. Not just in his eyes, though they burned faintly around the edges, but he felt it in his teeth. In the crown of his head. In the pressure behind his sternum. Like someone had brushed fingers over his nervous system and left it singing.
The light steadied. The world kept moving.
But inside him, something reeled.
A flicker. Then a pulse. Then gone.
He blinked hard. His knees shifted, unconsciously bracing against the sway that never came. The drill continued twenty yards ahead, Connor calling names, Jake barking from the sideline about cutbacks.
No one else noticed. No one ever did.
Sam let out a slow breath and pressed his fingers to the side of his brow, like that could rub the feeling away. It didn’t hurt, but it buzzed. Like the air had shifted for him, and only him.
Like a warning.
“Winchester!”
Connor’s voice cracked through the air, sharp and familiar.
Sam blinked, dropped his hand.
“Hey, Earth to Captain! We resetting or just staring into the void?”
That earned a chuckle from Jake nearby. A couple of other players laughed too, nerves loosening just a little.
Sam straightened. “On it,” he said quickly, scooping up the cones and tossing them toward the pile near midfield.
He didn’t look back at the lights. Whatever it was - that flicker, that feeling, that barely-there jolt - it hadn’t left.
It was still there. Low. Waiting. Sam had seen it.
And he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had seen him, too.
____
The wind had shifted.
Not in the way it did before a storm, but enough to change the smell of the field. Light, dry air from the west stirred the corner flags and kicked up just enough grit to make the turf smell like August instead of late-winter. Dust and sun and worn leather.
Coach Miller folded his arms and scanned the field from the sideline, squinting slightly under the glare of the stadium lights. The air was cooling fast, shadows stretching longer across the grass, but the boys kept moving. Breath visible. Cleats digging.
The triangle drill was holding together better than expected for a first practice.
The rookies were rough: too many over-corrections, nervous chatter, ankles too stiff. But they were listening. That mattered more.
The vets were loud and locked in. Connor and Jake were running comms like they’d never stopped. Ryan anchored from the goal, voice cutting through the wind with precision. He didn’t even have to leave the box to keep the backline in check.
And then there was Sam.
Miller watched him for a full minute without blinking.
Sam didn’t yell, didn’t grandstand.
But players moved when he did. Adjusted spacing when his eyes tracked the play. The younger guys mirrored his footwork like it was gospel. Even Jake, cocky as ever, kept throwing glances his way before running a new rotation.
Sam was steady. Efficient. Calm.
But it wasn’t his quiet calm. Not today.
Miller noticed it for the first time during warmups. Sam had hit his pace slower than usual. Subtle, but not his norm. Then again, during the water break, Sam stood with his hand pressed to his temple like the sun was too bright.
Then there’d been that moment at midfield.
Sam had gone still for a full beat, just watching the lights. Not distracted. Not zoning out. Waiting, maybe. Like he expected something to happen.
Miller didn’t say anything, not then, but he kept watching.
And when practice ended and the gear was being dragged off the field in bundles, he made his move.
“Hey, Ry,” he called, not quite raising his voice.
Ryan turned from the net, gloves looped through his fingers. “Yeah, Coach?”
Miller tilted his head toward the bleachers. “Walk with me.”
Ryan jogged over as he kicked a ball, adjusting his hoodie over one shoulder. They strolled in silence for a few paces, the field lights casting long, clean shadows behind them.
“Did Winchester seem off to you today?” Miller asked casually, like he already knew the answer.
Ryan hesitated and tapped the ball under his foot once. “He was a bit quieter than usual.”
“Quieter than his usual quiet?”
Ryan cracked a smile. “Fair point.”
Miller nodded, gaze drifting to where Sam was talking quietly with a new midfielder, his stance easy, but his jaw just a little too tight.
“He led alright?” Miller asked.
“Yeah,” Ryan said without pause. “He’s good. The new guys already follow him without thinking.”
Miller said nothing for a second. Then, “Does he look like he’s hurting to you?”
Ryan frowned. “Like physically?”
“Or mentally. Or something else.”
Another beat passed. Ryan’s eyes flicked toward Sam, who was now hauling cones into a bin with Connor.
“I dunno,” Ryan admitted. “He’s not limping or anything. But he’s… internal. Today, more than usual. Like he’s thinking a few things ahead but not saying any of them.”
Miller hummed low in his throat.
“You worried?” Ryan asked.
Miller exhaled. The kind of slow breath you take when your gut is whispering things your brain can’t prove yet.
“Not yet,” he said.
But the truth was, he already had a mental folder open. And Sam’s name had just been written at the top.
____
The bell shrieked like metal tearing.
Sam winced before he could stop himself. The sound rang in his teeth, just for a second, like someone had dropped something heavy inside his skull.
He ducked his head and slipped out of the classroom before anyone could notice.
The hall was instantly loud: voices bouncing off the tile, sneakers squeaking, lockers clanging open and shut. A freshman dropped his binder and swore softly. Someone else laughed too loud. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that way that made Sam’s skin crawl when he was already tired.
He was tired a lot lately.
Sam adjusted his backpack strap and veered into the side corridor near the science wing, the one no one used except to cut between lunch and gym. It was quieter there. Dimmer. Still.
The air smelled like old floor polish and marker ink. The kind of smell you didn’t notice until you were already in it.
He stopped by the drinking fountain and bent to take a sip.
And that’s when it hit. Not slowly, but all at once. A surge of pressure behind his eyes, sharp and cold, like a wire had snapped deep inside his brain and flung him outward.
White tile. Bare walls. A door left ajar. Shadows pooling at the edges of the floor.
Footsteps. Not his.
And a voice calling his name.
“Sam?”
It was muffled, like it was coming from behind a thick wall.
Then louder.
“Sam!”
It was panicked, not angry. Afraid.
Sam tried to answer.
But he had no mouth. No voice. No body.
He was floating, hovering, somewhere just behind himself. Watching. Listening. A ghost inside his own life.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Sam!”
The world snapped back like a rubber band.
The hallway was bright again, too bright. The lights were too loud. His hand was braced hard against the drinking fountain, legs locked in place, pulse racing so fast it felt like his chest couldn’t hold it.
Sam staggered backward and hit the lockers behind him with a soft clunk. He didn’t fall. But he stayed there, hunched in, hands gripping the strap of his backpack like it was the only real thing in the room.
He dragged in a shaky breath. Then another.
His thoughts were scrambled. Slippery. He couldn’t tell if the vision had lasted a second or a full minute. He didn’t even know whose voice that had been.
Dad’s? Dylan’s? Connor’s? His own?
His eyes burned. He wiped at them fast and pressed the heel of his palm to the center of his forehead like he could press the rest of the world back into place.
It hadn’t been like the other flares. There was no moment to stop. No danger to react to. No future injury or choice or mistake.
Just absence. He hadn’t been there. He had been missing.
And someone had been looking for him.
By the time the hallway cleared, Sam had forced his breathing into something steady. Mechanical.
He fixed his hoodie sleeves. Shifted his weight. Stepped away from the lockers and down the hall like nothing had happened.
He didn’t remember what his next class was. Or if he was late.
He just walked.
And the voice - still faint, still echoing - followed him the whole way.
____
The phone buzzed just after ten, lighting up Sam’s nightstand in soft blue.
DYLAN CALLING, the screen read.
Sam blinked at it, grabbing it before it could buzz again. He was already in bed. His blanket was twisted around one ankle, fan spinning slowly in the corner, the green light of his heart monitor blinking faintly through the hem of his shirt.
He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, you,” Dylan’s voice came through, warm and a little scratchy. “Did I catch you before sleep?”
“You always do.”
A pause. Then a chuckle. “You psychic or something?”
Sam smiled faintly, shifting so the monitor strap didn’t dig into his ribs. “I’ve got a sixth sense for college guys who have the world’s worst sleep schedule.”
That earned him a laugh, real and easy.
They talked for a few minutes. About Dylan’s roommate, about Sam’s new lit teacher who pronounced Shakespearean words like they were an insult, about all the new players on the team.
Then Dylan got quiet for a second.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
Sam hesitated. His eyes flicked to the slow blink of green near his ribs.
“Yeah,” he said. Then added, softly, “I’m fine.”
Dylan didn’t press.
But Sam kept thinking about the monitor. The strap. The weight of it. The way it still felt like wearing a spotlight on his chest some days.
And before he could stop himself, the memory surfaced:
Dylan’s house had been quiet, one of the last days before Dylan had to leave for college.
Sam had been curled up on the floor of Dylan’s room, tucked between the bed and the open window, hoodie wadded under his head like a pillow. Dylan was across from him, half-studying his new formations, half-packing, but mostly watching.
Sam had shifted once, absently rubbing at his ribs, and that’s when Dylan noticed the monitor strap was unclipped. Just dangling there.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just reached down, adjusted it, clipped it back on with practiced care, and let Sam’s shirt fall over it again.
Sam hadn’t moved. Hadn't protested.
“It was chafing,” he said after a moment, eyes still closed.
“It still stays on,” Dylan replied.
And when Sam had whispered, barely audible, “At least you won't have to care soon, when you're at college.”
Dylan had said, “I'll always care. Because I’m your big brother. That doesn’t stop when I leave.”
Sam blinked back to the present like surfacing from underwater.
“Hey,” Dylan said gently. “You still there?”
“Yeah.” Sam shifted, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I was just thinking about something.”
“Yeah?”
“That day, right before you left. When I took the monitor off.”
Dylan paused. Then: “I remember.”
“I didn’t really mean to make a thing out of it. I was just tired of it. Of all of it.”
“I know.”
“But you just… fixed it. You didn’t get mad. You didn’t even ask.”
“I didn’t have to.”
Sam’s voice was quieter now. “You said I was your brother.”
“I meant it.”
There was another silence, but this one wasn't heavy.
“You still mean it?” Sam asked, his voice small in the dark.
Dylan didn’t hesitate. “Every day.”
Sam smiled. Barely there, but soft and real. “Okay.”
On the other end of the line, Dylan let out a long breath. “Get some sleep, Sammy. I’ll text you in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“And hey?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever take that thing off again,” Dylan said lightly, “I will FaceTime you mid-lecture just to rat you out to your dad.”
Sam snorted. “You’re the worst.”
“Love you too, little brother.”
Sam clicked off the call, set the phone on his chest, and closed his eyes.
The monitor blinked. Still green. Still steady.
____
The wind cut through Sam’s practice jersey like knives.
Late winter in South Dakota never let up without a fight. The sun was out, sure, but the air still sliced under sleeves, still rattled the flags like bones. The turf was dry, but the wind made everything feel colder than it was.
Sam could feel the buzz of it on his skin. Not the cold. The hum.
The same kind he’d felt yesterday in the hallway.
His chest tightened just remembering it. That weird, wrong moment behind the water fountain. The voice calling his name, the cold tile, the flicker of not being anywhere. It hadn’t gone away, not really. Even now, under the stadium lights, he could still feel it somewhere deep in the back of his head. Like static on a bad channel.
He adjusted the press of his heart monitor under his shirt. It beeped green once. Still okay.
They were running sprints. End-to-end, no ball, full-speed; just drills and drive and gut.
Coach Miller’s whistle was relentless. Clean. Punctual. Like a blade.
Sam ran. He had to.
He was the captain, even if he was fifteen. Even if he still felt like the world might tilt sideways again at any second.
And then it did.
On the last sprint, just as his foot pushed off the turf, the edge of his vision whitened. Just a flicker. A wrong turn in his brain.
The image from the hallway surged up hard and fast.
His name was shouted.
No body.
Just tile. Just shadow.
The feeling of being gone.
And then there was impact. Not in the vision, but in real life.
He hit the ground, one knee first. His palm caught the turf. The monitor buzzed again, still green, but louder.
The sky was too blue.
“Hey!” Connor’s voice shot across the field. “Sam, what happened?”
Sam looked up. His pulse was sprinting. His mouth was dry.
“I’m fine,” he said fast. “I tripped.”
Jake was there a second later. “You sure? You dropped like somebody yanked your plug.”
“Fine,” Sam repeated, pushing himself up. “Just lost my footing.”
From the goal box, Ryan was already jogging in. “Monitor okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam tugged the hem of his shirt up to flash the blink. “Still green.”
Ryan didn’t look convinced. Connor looked concerned. Jake looked ready to make a joke, but didn’t.
And then Coach Miller was there. “Did you eat today?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Did you sleep?”
The lie burned on his tongue. “Some.”
Coach didn’t say anything for a beat, looking at him.
Sam shifted his weight. His legs still felt hollow. His head still had that pressure behind the eyes like something in there was tilted off-center. The echo of the hallway vision hadn’t fully faded. He wasn’t dizzy. Not exactly. But he wasn’t here , either, not the way he wanted to be.
“I said I’m fine,” he muttered again, quieter now.
Coach finally sighed. “You fall like that again, I’m pulling you. Get me?”
“Yeah. Got it.”
Coach turned to the others. “Water break. Jake, cones. Ryan, reset the backline. Sam, no more sprints.”
“But-”
Coach cut him off with a glance. “The team needs you upright. Go walk the line if you need to move.”
Sam gritted his teeth and nodded again, backing down.
Jake hung back as the others moved.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, this time with less teasing, more weight.
“I’m good,” Sam said, taking a long drink from his bottle. “Just pushed too hard.”
Jake pointed at the monitor. “If that thing goes red, I’m carrying your ass to the nurse and calling your dad.”
Sam let out a shaky laugh. “Not necessary.”
Connor came up beside him. “Pretty sure your dad could melt metal just by looking at it. We're not risking that.”
Sam didn’t answer. He kept sipping his water, eyes fixed on the far end of the field.
He could still feel it, the echo in his skull. Not a headache, not pain, just a wrongness. A slant. Like the floor in his mind wasn’t level anymore.
No one else could feel it. No one else had to.
That was the job, wasn’t it?
Keep pace. Keep quiet. Keep going.
The monitor blinked green.
Sam set his jaw and got ready for the next drill.
____
The group call started like it always did: chaos first, context later.
Jake had texted something about getting yelled at by an old woman in the jerky aisle at the gas station for “bad vibes,” and Connor responded with a single text:
Saturday Symposium of Morons, ETA ten minutes. Attendance Mandatory.
Sam joined out of habit. He didn’t think about it, just opened the call on his laptop and let the screen fill with faces.
Jake was the loudest, naturally. He was sprawled backwards across his kitchen counter with a spoon dangling from his mouth and a tub of marshmallow fluff balanced on his chest. “I didn’t even say anything to her,” he was explaining. “I was just standing there. Apparently, I looked like trouble.”
“She wasn’t wrong,” Connor muttered from his beanbag.
“You once bit a Gatorade lid in half,” Ryan added, already exhausted.
“I was five!”
Dylan chuckled, sitting in his dorm room with headphones slung around his neck, a notebook half-covered in what looked like math notes, and a Monster can off to the side.
Sam sat cross-legged on his bed, hoodie sleeves over his hands, screen brightness turned down so the glow didn’t reflect off his monitor settled in his lap.
He laughed where he was supposed to. Smiled enough. Said little.
His head still felt lopsided. Like the hallway vision hadn’t worn off. Like the near-collapse at practice yesterday had knocked something out of alignment that hadn’t snapped back into place.
He felt like he was sitting behind glass, watching his friends through it. Close enough to hear them, but not touch them.
“Hey, Sam,” Jake said, mid-rant about why the new protein bars in the locker room tasted like ‘the ghosts of expired granola.’ “Are you alive over there or what?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Just listening.”
“Uh-huh,” Jake said. “That sounded a lot like a lie. Connor, back me up.”
Connor tilted his head toward the camera. “You’re super quiet, man.”
“I’m fine,” Sam said quickly. “Coach just killed us this week, with the first game coming up. I think my bones are still mad about it.”
“Connor said you went down at practice,” Dylan cut in. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly. “What happened?”
Sam hesitated. “I tripped.”
“That’s it?” Ryan asked. He’d been quiet until now, but his tone was the kind that carried weight.
Sam shrugged. “The turf’s bad near the thirty. It was nothing.”
Jake raised both brows and pointed a spoon at the camera. “That’s not what I saw. You dropped pretty hard.”
“I just slipped,” Sam said again, sharper this time.
The group went quiet for a beat.
Dylan leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes squinting through the screen. “You’d tell us if it was something else, right?”
“It’s not.”
“Sam.”
“I’m fine.”
Connor frowned, just a little. “You’ve barely said anything. You’re like there, but not really.”
That landed harder than Sam expected. He tugged the drawstring of his hoodie tighter and shifted on the bed. “I’m tired. That’s all.”
“You sure?” Dylan asked, voice gentler now. “Because you haven’t texted much either. And when you do it’s all ‘yep’ and ‘k.’”
Jake nodded. “Even your insult game’s gone cold, bro. We’re worried.”
Sam forced a laugh. “You guys are being dramatic.”
Connor leaned closer to his screen. “Yeah. We are. On purpose. Because we care. Dumbass.”
Sam didn’t reply.
Dylan broke the tension with a lopsided smile. “Okay. We’ll back off. For now. But if you faint at practice again, I’m filing a complaint with the Soccer Gods. Or Dean. Whichever is scarier.”
Jake let out a long whistle. “Definitely Dean.”
“Not even close,” Connor said. “One’s got a rulebook. The other has eyebrows that kill.”
Sam cracked a smile. “You guys are idiots.”
“We know,” Jake said. “But we’re your idiots.”
Ten minutes later, the call wound down. Ryan dropped off first. Then Jake, muttering something about cereal and death. Connor signed off last with a “text me if you need literally anything,” before his screen blinked dark.
Sam was about to shut his laptop when his phone buzzed.
DYLAN: Are you actually good or just pretending to be good?
Sam stared at it.
SAM: I don’t know.
He deleted it.
SAM: Pretending’s easier.
Deleted it. Tried again.
SAM: No one would believe me anyway.
That one got deleted too. He turned his phone over, screen down, and lay back in the quiet.
The room hummed faintly. He could still feel the flicker behind his eyes.
____
Bobby noticed it the second Sam walked past him to step out onto the porch.
The hoodie.
Not just any hoodie, but Dean’s hoodie. The old gray one with the loose hem and the sleeves that rolled halfway over Sam’s hands. The one with a bleach stain near the cuff from that time Dean tried to clean the garage with “multipurpose cleaner” and got halfway through before realizing it was basically liquid sandpaper.
Sam used to steal it all the time when he was little. He would wear it like a security blanket, sleeves dragging, hood pulled low, especially after Minnesota. After the hospital. When the monitor wires came off and the nightmares didn’t.
But lately, he hadn’t needed it. Not until tonight, apparently.
Bobby didn’t move. He watched through the kitchen window as Sam eased himself down onto the top step, curling in like a question mark, arms locked around his knees.
The porch creaked under his weight. Not loudly. Just enough to say: I’m here, but I don’t want to talk about it.
Bobby got it.
He'd been watching Sam for days now, drifting again. Not like the shutdown after the heart scare. Not even like the silence after the demon.
This was different. Quieter. Like something was bending inward, and the kid didn’t even realize he was folding.
Bobby stood in the doorway a minute longer, hands around a warm mug of tea with a splash of something stronger. His knees ached from fixing the hose earlier. His back wasn’t thrilled with him either, but the cold didn’t bother him much. Not compared to the cold coming off the boy outside.
So he stepped onto the porch with a grunt and sat down beside Sam without a word.
He didn’t ask what was wrong; that hoodie said enough.
They sat in silence for a while, just the hum of distant traffic and a wind that kept trying to find a way through the cracks in the world.
Sam didn’t look over.
He had that far-off look Bobby hated. The one that meant the kid was in his head too deep to reach unless you went in after him.
But Bobby’d learned better than to charge in with a flashlight.
He had to wait at the edge. Leave a breadcrumb trail. Let the kid come back on his own.
Eventually, Bobby sipped his tea and spoke low. “Y’know… there’s a ghost story about a frost line that moves on its own.”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“Supposed to only happen in places where someone died with a secret. Cold creeps across the floor. Windows fog. Frost even if it’s warm out.”
Sam made a small sound, maybe disbelief. Maybe curiosity.
“That’s not real,” he said.
Bobby shrugged. “Everything’s real somewhere.”
A beat.
Then, just barely, Sam shifted and leaned closer. Not much, just enough for his shoulder to press against Bobby’s coat like it was an accident. Like he wasn’t asking for anything.
Bobby didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second. He just let the contact happen.
That hoodie, Bobby thought, means we’re back in the woods. Not lost, but close.
He could still picture it: seven-year-old Sam curled on the couch, heart monitor beeping slow and steady, hoodie sleeves wrapped around his fists like armor. Dean pacing the hallway like his feet would burn if he stopped moving.
It had taken months to ease Sam out of that hoodie.
And now here it was again. Back on his shoulders. Back on the porch. Back in the quiet.
They stayed like that until Bobby’s tea went lukewarm and the porch light buzzed itself to sleep.
When they finally got up and went inside, Sam left the hoodie draped over the arm of the couch like it didn’t mean anything.
But Bobby knew better.
That hoodie was a flare, and Sam was still out in the water.
____
Dean stood in the kitchen with one hand braced on the counter, eyes tracking the faint flicker under the door leading out to the garage. The light was on.
He’d heard the floor creak an hour ago, maybe more. Long enough ago that the leftovers in the fridge had gone cold again. Long enough ago that Bobby had given up pretending he wasn’t watching and headed to bed with a muttered, “Kid’s got that look again.”
Dean hadn’t asked what look. He knew.
The same one Sam used to get after Minnesota, during Callaghan: hunched in on himself like his ribs were trying to protect something soft inside. The one that made Dean check if the monitor was green, even when Sam swore he felt fine. The one that haunted the spaces between words.
Dean pushed open the door quietly.
Sam was sitting on the bench beside the worktable, curled forward, sketchbook open on his knees. His head was bowed, and his shoulders were tight. One hand was pressed to his temple like it hurt, the other was ghosting over the page.
Dean could just make out the lines from where he stood: a hallway, a light in the background, a door at the end.
Then the door to the garage clicked shut behind him.
Sam startled like he’d been shot. The sketchbook snapped closed with a whap , both of his arms curling around it like a shield. His posture shifted, spine straightening fast, like guilt had yanked him upright before he could think.
Dean froze before taking one slow step forward.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Sam didn’t look at him, didn’t relax either, grip tightening on the sketchbook.
“You okay?” Dean tried again.
Silence.
Dean’s voice dropped lower. “Sammy.”
Still nothing.
He took another step forward and nodded toward the sketchbook. “What were you working on?”
“Nothing,” Sam said. Too fast.
Dean tilted his head. “It didn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s not for you,” Sam snapped, eyes finally lifting.
Dean blinked.
That landed sharper than he expected. Not loud, but barbed. Defensive. Sam’s voice was low but tense, like a string pulled too tight.
“I didn’t mean-” Dean started.
“I know what you meant.” Sam stood up quickly, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Dean exhaled. “I didn’t say you were.”
Sam looked away.
The silence stretched like a wire.
Dean could feel it happening, could feel the air between them thickening, just like it used to in hospital rooms and motel nights and every time Sam went quiet in a way that wasn’t just teenage.
“You’ve been off,” Dean said softly. “You’re not sleeping, you’re spacing out during practice, you barely touched your dinner-”
“I’m fine.”
“You passed out during sprints.”
“I tripped.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Sam flinched.
Dean took a shaky breath. “You think I can’t see it? That you’re spinning out?”
“I’m not!” Sam’s voice cracked, raw and angry in a way that sounded more scared than anything. “I’m not spinning out. I’m not broken.”
Dean took a step back, like the force of it shoved him. “I didn’t say you were.”
“But that’s what you think.” Sam’s hands were shaking. “You always do. Every time something’s wrong, you look at me like I’m gonna shatter.”
Dean opened his mouth. Shut it again.
He didn’t know how to say because I’ve watched you shatter.
He didn’t know how to say because I’m scared to death I’ll miss it this time.
“I just want you to talk to me,” Dean managed. “Is that so much to ask?”
Sam looked down. Then, back up, eyes blazing. “Why do you always assume I can’t handle things?”
“Because I know you, Sammy. And I know when something’s wrong.”
A pause.
Then Dean spoke, quiet and heavy, “Why don’t you trust me?”
Dean regretted it the second it left his mouth.
Sam froze, the sketchbook trembling slightly in his hands.
Sam didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. He just said, voice low and thick, “Maybe I’m just tired of being your project.”
That hurt more than shouting ever could.
Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Not out of anger, but out of helplessness. The same way they had when he was eighteen and holding Sam’s tiny body after John stormed out. The same way they had when Sam was in a hospital bed, blinking up at him with wires stuck to his chest.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” Dean said quietly. “I’m trying to keep you.”
Sam didn’t respond. Dean took a shaky breath and stepped back.
“You know what hurts more than anything?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Sam didn’t look at him. “It’s not when you shut me out. It’s when you lie and think I won’t notice.”
And with that, Dean turned and left.
The garage door clicked behind him. No slam. Just that soft final sound that always meant he couldn’t bear to say more.
____
The sun wasn’t up yet, but Dean was already in the garage.
Bobby saw the glow from the cracked door first: the dim overhead bulb casting long, gold-edged shadows. Heard the familiar metal-on-metal clatter next. He didn’t need more than that.
He’d been hearing it for years.
Dean only fixed things that didn’t need fixing when something else was broken.
Bobby took a long sip of lukewarm coffee, muttered something about pigheaded Winchesters, and headed out the back door with his mug still in hand.
The garage was cold, even with the space heater half-heartedly buzzing in the corner. The Impala sat there like she always did - centered, silent, reliable.
Dean was crouched beside the front left wheel, socket wrench in hand, working a lug nut like it had wronged him personally.
His boots were unlaced. His flannel was buttoned crooked. And his eyes, when he finally glanced up, were red-rimmed .
Not from exhaustion alone.
Bobby knew grief when he saw it. And fear. The kind that clung under the skin even after you convinced everyone you were fine.
“Y’know,” Bobby said, not unkindly, “most folks wait ‘til the parts are at least squeakin’ before they crawl under a car.”
Dean didn’t smile. Not even one of those fake, crooked ones.
“Figured she could use a once-over,” he muttered, going back to work.
“You gave her one four days ago.”
Dean’s mouth flattened. “Then a twice-over.”
Bobby leaned against the workbench and let the silence spool out. Watched Dean’s fingers tighten on the wrench like it was the only thing grounding him.
Finally, he asked, “So. What’d the kid say?”
Dean didn’t look up, turning the same bolt one more time before setting the wrench down with deliberate care.
“Said I treat him like a project. Like I’m trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”
Bobby raised his eyebrows.
Dean gave a tight, hollow laugh. “Didn’t know giving a damn came with a user manual.”
Bobby didn’t answer that. He took another sip of his coffee and let it warm his hands while the cold between them built.
Dean stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag he didn’t need. The lines under his eyes looked deeper than usual. Like the weight wasn’t just from one sleepless night, but from the accumulation of too many years keeping vigil over a kid who didn’t know how not to carry everything alone.
“He’s shutting me out again,” Dean said finally. “Same way he did when the visions started.”
Bobby’s chest twinged at that.
“You want me to talk to him?” Bobby asked. “Might come easier from someone not named Winchester.”
Dean shook his head too fast. “Don’t.”
“He trusts me.”
“He trusted me, too,” Dean snapped, then winced. “I mean… he does. That’s not the problem.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow and waited.
Dean leaned back against the Impala and stared at the ceiling. “If you try to talk to him right now, he’ll probably just snap at you, too. And I don’t want him saying more things he’s gonna regret.”
Bobby studied him for a long second. “You think he regrets it?”
Dean didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands, grease under his nails.
“I think he meant it in the moment,” he finally said. “And I think he’s gonna feel like hell for it once his head clears.”
“Then let him feel like hell.”
Dean looked up, startled.
Bobby went on, voice low but steady. “Let him feel it. Let him stew. Doesn’t mean you stop being there. But pushing when he’s raw? You know how he is, that’ll only drive him deeper.”
Dean exhaled slowly. The wrench clinked against the concrete as he set it down for good this time.
“Kid’s been through too much to start thinking he’s the problem again,” Bobby added. “And so have you.”
Dean didn’t reply, but his jaw shifted, something giving way behind his eyes.
“I’ll back off,” Bobby said. “But if I see him starting to sink, really sink, I’m stepping in.”
Dean nodded once. Quiet. “Yeah. Okay.”
They stood there in the quiet of the garage, surrounded by tools that couldn’t fix what was actually broken.
And for now, neither of them tried to say anything else.
____
The coffee table in Connor’s living room was a battlefield of pizza boxes, crumpled napkins, and one overturned Gatorade bottle someone had heroically rescued before it could stain the playbook. The couch creaked under the weight of four tired boys: knees draped over armrests, socks mismatched, arguments unfolding half a breath before they could become real strategy.
Sam sat cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He was half-listening, nodding occasionally, but the diagrams in the open binder beside him blurred if he stared too long. His brain kept wandering, drifting backward, then sideways. Like it didn’t want to stay in the same room as his body.
“You’re both wrong,” Jake said, voice muffled by cheese and crust. “We run 4-3-3 and pull the backline wide. Frankie goes full tilt down the wing and we overload the midfield.”
Connor snorted. “Yeah, cool, until Frankie forgets he’s not a striker and eats turf on the cut.”
Ryan, calm as ever, just flipped another page in the printout. “We’re going to spend the whole season arguing about this, aren’t we?”
Connor nudged Sam’s ankle with his heel. “Captain. You wanna weigh in, or are you just here for moral support?”
Sam blinked. “What?”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “You’ve said, like, four words since we started.”
Connor leaned over, mock-concerned. “You plotting something or just slow blinking at the void again?”
Sam managed a tired smile. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”
Ryan’s brow creased just slightly. Not judging, just tracking.
Jake grinned, unfazed. “What’d your dad do, make you wax the car with a toothbrush again?”
Sam’s breath caught a little. And then, quietly: “We fought.”
The room didn’t freeze, but the energy shifted. It softened. Tightened.
Connor’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Bad?”
Sam exhaled, long and shaky. “We haven’t talked.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Jake sat up a little straighter. “Wait, like… at all?”
“Not really,” Sam admitted, pulling at the edge of his sleeve. “He’s been in the garage. I’ve been upstairs. We’ve kind of… been orbiting each other.”
“Damn,” Connor murmured. “That’s not like you guys.”
Sam nodded. “I know. We’ve had arguments before, sure, but not like this. Not where we don’t even look at each other.” He hesitated. “I don’t know if he’s even gonna come to the first game.”
Silence.
Not a bad one. Just still.
Ryan, steady as always, looked him dead in the eye. “Do you want him there?”
Sam didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Yeah. I think I do.”
Connor gave a lopsided grin. “Then he’ll be there.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Dude,” Jake said, almost offended, “your dad would probably dropkick a ghost if it tried to steal your shin guards. He’ll come.”
Sam huffed a laugh, but it came out tight. “I dunno. He looked-” He stopped himself.
“What?” Ryan prompted gently.
“Hurt. Like I crossed a line.”
Jake tossed a crumpled napkin at him. “Then cross back. You’re not stuck.”
Sam caught the napkin and didn’t let go of it.
“I will,” he said finally. “Just not yet.”
The others didn’t push. Instead, they eased the conversation back into game talk: Connor threatening to revoke Sam’s clipboard if he didn’t rejoin the formation debate, Jake throwing out an aggressive 3-5-2 “just to cause chaos,” and Ryan quietly revising everyone’s plans into something that might work.
And Sam sat there, warm from the radiator, surrounded by noise and crumbs and teammates who didn’t need him to be okay to keep showing up.
It didn’t fix anything, but it helped.
____
It happened in the space between footsteps.
One second, Sam was walking down the main hall at school - shoved too close to the lockers, backpack biting into one shoulder, the chaos of in-between periods pressing around him in waves: lockers slamming, friends calling, the rustle of paper, the squeak of sneakers.
The next second-
Silence.
Absolute.
Sam froze mid-step.
The noise was gone, and so were the people.
He blinked.
The hallway around him wasn’t his school anymore.
The walls were stark white. The tile beneath his feet - also white, polished and cold-looking - seemed to stretch on forever in both directions. A faint flicker pulsed overhead where long, buzzing fluorescent lights blinked like they were breathing.
There were no posters on the walls. No classroom doors, just an endless corridor.
He turned slowly, his heart pounding now. No lockers. No windows.
Just blank.
White.
Buzzing.
Wrong.
Sam tried to take a step, but his legs didn’t feel real. Not heavy, just... not his.
Ahead of him, far down the corridor, a door stood just barely ajar.
He hadn’t seen it a moment ago, but now it was there.
It was old metal, paint chipped along the bottom. Industrial. A different kind of wrong.
The hallway dimmed slightly like the flickering lights couldn’t decide if they were going to hold.
Something creaked.
The door shifted open a little more now.
Still dark behind it.
Still waiting.
Sam didn’t move.
His pulse thundered behind his eyes. His hands had curled into fists at his sides without him noticing. The air buzzed, low and sharp, like a dying speaker caught in static.
And then-
“Sam.”
The voice was soft, but not familiar. It wasn’t anyone. Just… someone. Calling his name.
He spun around, breath snagging, and he stumbled. He was back in the real hallway.
The real school.
The noise crashed over him like a wave - chatter, footsteps, distant music from someone’s earbuds. He gasped, catching himself against the lockers. His knees felt unsteady.
He was sweating. The collar of his shirt clung to the back of his neck, and the cold metal of the locker bit into his palm as he leaned against it.
Someone bumped into him.
“Watch it, dude,” the kid muttered, already gone.
The hallway was full again, bright and crowded. The floor was the same scuffed linoleum he always walked on. But his shirt clung to his back with sweat, and the hairs on his arms wouldn’t lie flat.
Down the hall, Jake and Connor were goofing off by the water fountains, Jake tossing a ball of paper into Connor’s hood. Neither had noticed he was missing.
Part of him wanted to go to them.
Tell them. Ask if they’d seen anything. Felt anything. Heard-
But how would he even say it?
Hey, I got pulled into a hallway that doesn’t exist, and someone I don’t know said my name like they’ve always known it?
Yeah, that’d go over great.
Sam turned the other way. He walked fast and took the back stairwell two steps at a time.
He locked himself in a bathroom stall and sat on the closed toilet lid, hands clamped to the edge of the seat, breath stuttering. There was a buzz in the air, in his head, like static clinging to him. In him.
He didn’t know what that had meant, but it hadn’t been a dream.
And he didn’t know the voice that said his name.
____
The sky was that kind of heavy gray that didn’t commit to rain, but hung low enough to press on your skin.
Sam stood near midfield, one foot resting lightly on the ball, listening to the wind shuffle dry leaves along the fence line. His breath fogged in short bursts, steady and controlled, but his pulse didn’t match it. It was too fast. Like it was trying to outrun something invisible.
Coach Miller’s voice cut across the field.
“Last run-through. No coasting. Game pace. Let’s go!”
Cones were set. Teams were split. Sam moved automatically, calling rotations, pointing players into gaps, trailing the play just far enough to adjust where needed. He knew every angle, every lane. His body responded before he could think. That part was muscle memory by now.
But his mind was somewhere else.
The vision hadn’t come back, but the pressure hadn’t faded either.
That hum was behind his eyes - faint, metallic, like a warning shot without a siren. His temples ached, not sharp enough to stop him, but enough to remind him they were there. Enough to keep him on edge. Every time he blinked, he half-expected to open his eyes and be back there. Alone, with that door at the end cracked open like it had been waiting for him all along.
He hadn’t told anyone.
Not Dad. Not Uncle Bobby. Not Ryan, Jake, or Connor.
Connor, who was watching him now from the top of the diamond, hands on his hips, waiting for the next shift. Sam nodded once, late, and Connor jogged into position, eyebrows furrowed just a little too tight to be casual.
They ran the drill clean. Better than clean, honestly. Everyone was sharp. Everyone was synced. But Sam still felt it, the sense that something wasn’t quite right.
Like the air was a second too slow. Like the wind knew something he didn’t.
Then came the whistle, sharp and sudden.
Sam flinched.
It was barely noticeable - just a twitch in his shoulders, a half-step backward before he caught himself - but Connor saw it. Sam could feel his gaze flick over before he even turned.
“You on Earth?” Connor called, jogging over as the others broke for water.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”
Connor didn’t answer right away. He grabbed his water bottle and leaned against the goalpost beside him.
“You’ve been off,” he said finally. Not accusing, just stating a fact.
Sam didn’t respond. He bent to retie his cleat even though it didn’t need fixing.
Connor watched him for a beat. Then added, quieter, “You flinched like you were expecting a shot.”
Sam’s jaw flexed. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Connor said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
The next drill started. Coach shouted something about the speed of transition. The team reassembled.
Sam stepped into the formation like it meant nothing, but the air still felt wrong. Like static. Like pressure building behind the walls. Like something was coming, and he’d feel it before anyone else.
He just didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
Not yet.
____
Sam moved barefoot through the dark house like a ghost, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, steps practiced to avoid every board that groaned. He didn’t turn on a light. He didn’t need to.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Not really.
Just… down.
The living room was dark, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlamp leaking through the blinds. The couch sat like a shadowed mountain. The quilt folded over the back looked too far away to bother with.
Rumsfeld stirred when Sam padded in. Not startled, just aware. His big head lifted slowly from where he lay curled near the window, paws crossed like a sentry on break.
“Hey, buddy,” Sam whispered, voice already frayed at the edges.
He sank to the floor without ceremony, back against the couch, knees pulled in close. Rumsfeld stood, stretched, and padded over with a soft chuff. The old shepherd circled once before settling next to him, side pressed firm against Sam’s.
For a second, Sam said nothing. Just pressed his hands together tightly and stared at the slant of shadows across the carpet.
Then his voice came, barely audible. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
His voice cracked halfway through it. He blinked hard. Swallowed harder.
“I thought it was done,” he said, eyes fixed on nothing. “After Callaghan, after the hospital, after everything. I thought, if I just stayed normal, stayed steady, it would all fade.”
Rumsfeld didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“But it’s not gone,” Sam whispered. “It’s quieter, but it’s still there. Like my head’s waiting for something. Like my body knows something’s coming before I do.”
The tears didn’t fall right away. They sat in his eyes, heavy and hot, blurring the edges of the room until he wasn’t sure if it was the light that was shaking or just his hands.
“I’ve been pretending it’s fine. I’ve been pretending I’m fine.”
Rumsfeld laid his head in Sam’s lap, weight solid and grounding. His fur was warm beneath Sam’s hand - coarse, familiar, steady.
“And I think I messed things up with Dad.”
The words caught in his throat like gravel. He didn’t even realize he was crying until one hot tear slid down his cheek and dropped onto his knee.
“He hasn’t said anything since I snapped at him. Not really. He just… he won’t look at me.”
More tears now. Not loud, not shaking. Just quiet, unstoppable.
“And I miss him,” Sam whispered. “I miss him and he’s right there.”
He curled in on himself a little, hand fisting in the leg of his sweatpants, like maybe if he could make himself small enough, the ache in his chest would go away.
Rumsfeld let out a long, slow exhale and shifted closer, nudging his head up until it rested beneath Sam’s arm. No questions. No pressure.
Just there.
“I don’t know if he’s gonna come tomorrow,” Sam murmured. “And if he doesn’t, I’m not sure I’ll be able to play like it doesn’t matter.”
He pressed his forehead to Rumsfeld’s fur and let himself breathe there. Just breathe. Slow. Shaky. Honest for the first time in days.
Rumsfeld didn’t leave.
And that, somehow, made it a little easier to stay.
____
The stairs creaked more than usual under Dean’s weight.
He paused halfway down, like maybe the house was warning him not to go any further. But the kitchen was pulling him with the promise of coffee, or at least motion. Something to break the restless silence that had sunk into his skin and hadn't let go.
He didn’t know what time it was exactly. Just that the sky outside the front windows had started bleeding into pale gray, the kind of quiet color that made everything feel a little less real.
He turned toward the kitchen and stopped.
Sam was asleep on the living room floor.
Dean’s breath caught mid-step.
At first, all he saw was the curve of the kid’s back, hoodie rumpled, legs pulled in like he was trying to make himself small. One arm was flung over Rumsfeld’s neck, fingers curled loosely in the dog’s thick fur. The shepherd didn’t so much as twitch. Just blinked at Dean, eyes heavy but calm. Guarding.
The light from the window cut across the carpet in soft bars. Sam’s face was half in shadow. The other half was pale, dried tear tracks silvering down one cheek.
Dean didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right, either.
It’s so strange not talking to him.
That was the thought that hit first.
Not the tears. Not the floor. Not the cold that probably seeped into Sam’s spine through the hardwood. Just this… weird, hollow space where their usual rhythm had gone silent.
They didn’t fight like this.
Not in the early years, when it had just been the two of them in a series of borrowed rooms, learning each other day by day. Back then, there hadn’t been room to fight. Just survival. Diaper changes in gas station bathrooms. Chicken nuggets rationed out of drive-thru bags. Nightlights made from salt lamps. Sam had cried sometimes, of course he had, but Dean never raised his voice. He couldn’t, not when Sam had looked at him like he was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
And maybe that was still true.
But now Sam was taller. Quieter. Holding things tighter. And Dean had no idea how to pull the pieces loose without making it worse.
He used to know how to fix everything. A Band-Aid. A grilled cheese. A cartoon and a blanket, and one hand gently rubbing Sam’s back until the sobs faded. He used to know what to say. What to do.
Now Sam was fifteen. Smart. Brave. Hurting.
And Dean had no idea how to reach him.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused, still smeared faintly with motor oil from a half-finished job in the garage. His fists clenched without meaning to.
You’re the grown-up, he thought bitterly. You’re the dad. So act like it.
But he’d been trying. He had tried. He’d knocked on Sam’s door the day after the fight. Twice. Once with hot chocolate. Once with nothing. Both times, he’d stood there too long and left without saying a word.
He didn’t want to push Sam further away. He didn’t want to hear another sharp, painful sentence fired in self-defense.
But this silence?
This was worse.
He studied his kid, curled up around the dog like he’d drifted there out of instinct. Like his body had carried him to the only spot in the house where his walls could drop.
Dean’s chest ached.
He’s still your kid, he thought. Even when he’s mad. Even when you’re fumbling this. He’s still yours.
He looked exhausted. All curled in like that, hoodie bunched around his wrists, knuckles pale. Rumsfeld hadn’t left his side. Of course, he hadn’t. The dog always knew when something was off. Always stood guard when Sam couldn’t sleep.
Dean realized then that Sam hadn’t come down to sleep.
He’d come down to fall apart. Quietly, alone, where no one could hear him.
That knowledge made something deep in Dean crack. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a hairline fracture in the part of him that had always sworn he’d never let Sam feel alone in this world again.
He swallowed hard and reached slowly for the quilt draped over the back of the couch. He laid it gently across Sam’s frame, hands careful, like smoothing down a storm.
He stood there for a long time after that, just watching. Breathing. Letting the moment settle in his bones.
Then, finally, he let out a breath.
“I’ll talk to you,” he whispered, barely audible. “After the game.”
Because he would.
No more waiting for the right moment. No more excuses. Sam didn’t need perfection. He just needed to know Dean was still here. Still in his corner. Still his, even when things cracked and bent and went silent for a while.
He took one last look.
Then turned and headed toward the kitchen. The sun was beginning to rise, and his kid was still here.
____
The locker room was loud in the way that only nervous energy could make it.
Zippers rasped open. Cleats thudded against tile. Jerseys rustled as they were pulled overhead, some right side out, some inside out. Someone blasted a thirty-second loop of a hype song from their phone before Ryan snapped at them to turn it down.
Sam sat on the end of the second bench, one leg bent, foot propped on his thigh as he tightened his laces for the third time.
Too tight.
He loosened them, retied them. Still too tight.
His stomach twisted in on itself, a low coil of adrenaline and static. The locker room buzzed like it was too close to a lightning storm: voices bouncing, laughter overlapping, gear being passed down the row.
He wasn’t even sure if he’d eaten lunch. He couldn’t remember breakfast either.
The elastic strap of his heart monitor itched faintly under his compression shirt. It was one of the newer models. Smaller, thinner, tucked discreetly just under the ribs. But even now, when it barely registered against his skin, he could feel it.
A soft vibration, nothing alarming. Just a reminder: still beating. Still there.
He glanced down at his monitor. The readings were steady. There was a slight spike in resting rate, but that tracked. His chest felt tight, buzzing, like the whole inside of him was being held in a closed fist.
Don’t tank before it starts, he told himself. Just breathe.
But it was hard not to think about it.
The flickering lights.
The vision.
The phantom twist of something that hadn’t happened yet.
And Dad. The silence that still sat between them was like broken glass. Whole days without a real word from his dad, just motions around each other: plates passed, doors opened and closed, muttered goodnights with too much space in them.
He’s probably not even coming, Sam thought, biting the inside of his cheek.
It hit harder than he wanted it to.
He ran a hand through his hair and dug his phone out of his bag. His thumb hovered for a second over his texts with Dad, unopened since Thursday.
Then it buzzed.
It was the group chat, the one that changed names once every few weeks, but was currently titled DYLAN’S DISASTER CHILDREN.
DYLAN: I want blood on the cleats.
Sam blinked. Then he laughed out loud. Not a huge sound: just a short, startled breath of a laugh that cracked through the fog in his brain like a lit match.
Connor looked up from where he was pretending to stretch. “We killin’ somebody already?”
Sam tilted the phone so he could see.
More messages rolled in.
JAKE: That’s so violent for a Wednesday.
RYAN: It’s Monday.
JAKE: Sam, blink twice if you need saving.
DYLAN: I will FaceTime the huddle. Don’t test me.
Sam huffed another laugh and shook his head. His fingers paused mid-lace.
“Dylan’s threatening war crimes,” he said.
Jake, across the bench, raised an eyebrow. “What else is new?”
Connor leaned over Sam’s shoulder, reading upside down. “Dylan still types like a man having a midlife crisis in a frat house.”
Sam smiled. Not all the way, but enough.
The thread kept pinging, half-memes and dramatic threats, and one out-of-pocket Photoshop edit of Coach Miller wearing a gladiator helmet.
Sam didn’t respond right away.
Just looked at it. At them.
At the steady, absurd, relentless proof that he mattered to people who weren’t just his dad or his uncle or someone he owed everything to. These guys weren’t watching him to see if he was okay. They were just watching because they cared.
He let the phone fall to the bench beside him, screen still glowing.
The nerves didn’t vanish. The vision from earlier still echoed somewhere in the back of his skull, like an old bruise. But the noise in his chest eased.
The team was gathering by the door when Coach Miller walked in, clipboard under one arm, whistle already around his neck like punctuation. The boys stilled instinctively; some out of respect, some out of habit. The din cut itself in half.
Coach didn’t say much. He never did before a game.
“Start smart,” he said. “Keep your heads. Cover each other.”
Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two white bands, a single black word stitched on each of them.
He tossed one toward Ryan, who caught it without looking. He held the other out to Sam.
“Captain,” he said simply.
It shouldn’t have hit like it did. But when Sam reached for it, his fingers hesitated. Just a half-second stall, like the fabric might shock him.
He took it anyway and wrapped it just above his left bicep. It was tight, snug. It clung like it meant something.
The buzz in his head didn’t fade. If anything, it swelled, like the moment had cracked open a pressure valve behind his eyes.
He blinked. The room felt a little off-axis. Not spinning, not quite, but tilted. Like he was trying to stand level on a floor that wouldn’t hold still.
He ran his thumb briefly across the edge of the band. It was real. Anchored. Unmistakable.
And his.
He’d seen that band on Dylan’s arm last year. Watched how people moved when he moved, trusted what he said before he even said it. He never thought it’d be his turn. Not this soon. Not with his brain fraying at the edges and his chest still buzzing like a radio trying to catch a signal no one else could hear.
Sam exhaled through his nose, sharp and steady.
Across the room, Jake was pulling his hoodie off in dramatic slow motion and mumbling something about “emotional armbands” to a rookie who looked both terrified and delighted. Ryan rolled his eyes and shoved him toward the tunnel.
Connor lingered. He gave Sam a look. Not concerned exactly, but weighted. Like he saw something behind the composure.
“Looks good on you,” he said again, lower this time. Then added, “You ready?”
Sam nodded once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t a lie, not quite.
The tunnel loomed ahead, narrow and washed in a yellowish light that made the field beyond glow like something distant and holy. The noise from the stands crept in now. Low at first, then rising. Footsteps echoed from the other team’s side. Whistles chirped. Cleats clicked.
The lights overhead buzzed. One flickered.
A jolt fired down Sam’s spine.
He didn’t flinch - he wouldn’t flinch - but he felt it. That twist behind his eyes. That phantom pressure. The one that had been building all week like weather trapped under his skin.
The vision hadn’t come back since the hallway, but the residue hadn’t left either.
It hovered. Quiet but sure. A knowing hum in his chest. Like a match waiting for the strike.
His hand hovered near his ribs. Not over the heart monitor exactly, but close. Just feeling. Still steady. No vibrations. No alarms.
Not now, he told himself. Not during this.
He didn’t know if Dad was out there in the bleachers.
He hadn’t checked. Couldn’t bear to.
The idea of looking and not seeing him felt worse than not knowing at all.
So he kept his eyes forward. He flexed his fingers once. Let the sounds of the field swell.
And stepped into the tunnel, the white band snug against his arm, the weight of it equal parts burden and shield.
Captain.
Whatever was coming - on the field or off it - he would meet it head-on.
Even if the static never stopped.