Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The field behind the high school was still slick with morning dew, the grass clinging to Sam’s cleats as he jogged toward the edge of the practice line. He was early. The only other person out was a groundskeeper, dragging corner flags into place with the kind of slow, practiced motion that didn’t need thinking anymore.

Sam adjusted the straps on his shin guards and tried not to mess with the compression shirt under his jersey. The one keeping his new, sleeker heart monitor flat against his chest.

He breathed in. Deep. Steady.

Everything felt good. Better than good. For the first time in months, there was no tug of a sling, no haze from pain meds, no ache beneath his ribs. Just quiet anticipation. A clean slate.

It was quieter in other ways, too.

The visions had stopped sometime after the leaves fell. No flickers behind his eyes. No half-dreams yanked from nothing. Since the courthouse, since the fall, his head had gone still. Like someone had finally turned the volume down. It didn’t feel like peace, exactly. More like a pause. But he wasn’t about to question it.

Instead, he focused on what he could hold. What he could do.

Like soccer.

He’d played rec since he was six. His dad still kept the photo from his first team: Sam, grinning with half his front teeth missing, curls wild, plastic trophy in one hand, neon green jersey three sizes too big. Back then, it was orange slices and clumsy high-fives. No pressure. No stakes.

But this? This was different. His first real tryout. Real team. Real cuts.

Sam was quietly grateful their division played in the spring. He didn’t know why; it wasn’t typical, but if the season had started in the fall, right after the hospital, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Would’ve been stuck watching from the sidelines, wrapped in gauze and what-ifs. Now, though? It felt like a second chance. A narrow window he’d slipped through just in time.

But slipping through a window didn’t mean he landed with anyone.

He didn’t have friends. Not here. Not yet.

He’d had a few in middle school - kids from the bus, lab partners who stuck around at lunch - but they’d all scattered to different schools. And that was before everything.

Before the courthouse.

Before his name hit local news next to a history of police contact, prior missing persons investigation, alleged attack.

Before he returned to school in a sling and bruises, heart monitor blinking green beneath a zipped-up hoodie, and felt how the hallway always seemed to hush behind him.

Before the stares, too long and careful, and the way everyone suddenly had somewhere else to be the moment he walked in.

He hadn’t even had the chance to try.

But he wasn’t entirely alone.

Dad was parked at the fence. Sam didn’t have to look to know. His presence pressed against Sam’s shoulders, steady and unshakable. The Impala’s engine clicked as it cooled. Dad leaned on the hood, arms crossed, aviators on despite the overcast sky. He hadn’t said he was nervous.

But he hadn’t taken his eyes off Sam since they got there.

Sam jogged a slow lap. Then stretched. Then passed and dribbled solo until more kids trickled in. Most of them were older, bigger, louder. Upperclassmen with buzz cuts, booming laughs, sleeves shoved to their elbows like it made them faster. A few glanced Sam’s way. One or two nodded. No one talked to him.

That was fine.

He wasn’t here to talk.

When the whistle finally blew, everyone gathered into lines. Sam stood tall, even though his heart was hammering harder than he liked.

And in the breath just before that first drill started, he noticed something else:

No flicker. No pulse behind his eyes.

Just cleats on turf. Just sky and wind. Just breath.

For now, that was enough.

Warm-ups were easy. Sprints? Not bad. Passing drills? Fun.

Just before the scrimmage, Sam slipped behind the water station for a moment, half-hidden by the rack of cones and stacked folding chairs. He crouched down and tugged up the edge of his jersey just enough to check the monitor on his side. Still green. Still steady.

It wasn’t about fear. Not anymore, not exactly. It was just part of him now, like shin guards or laces double-knotted tight. A ritual, not a weakness.

He let the shirt fall, took a breath, and jogged back into place.

They split into teams, and Sam found himself across from a senior who clearly didn’t think much of freshmen. On the first pass, the guy tried to shoulder-check him. Sam stumbled but stayed upright. On the second, Sam ducked under his arm, faked left, and slipped through. On the third? He nutmegged him clean through the legs and bolted down the line with the ball.

Coach Miller blew the play dead and called for a rotation. Sam jogged off, his cheeks still pink and his chest heaving, but the good kind. The kind of breath that came from effort, not fear.

At the end of tryouts, Coach pulled him aside. “Winchester, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You played with good control. Fast feet. Good instinct.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re varsity.”

Sam blinked. “Wait. What?”

“You earned it.”

He walked off before Sam could even react.

Sam stood there a moment longer, mouth slightly open. Then, slowly, he walked toward the fence where Dad was waiting.

Dad was already smirking. “Well?”

“I made varsity.”

Dad whooped and clapped him on the shoulder, tugging him into a half-hug before Sam could even finish the sentence. “Knew it. Knew they’d be dumb not to want you.”

“But I’m a freshman.”

Dad shrugged. “Freshman who made a senior look like he had cement in his cleats.”

Sam tried to play it cool; he really did. But the grin gave him away.

Dad opened the car door and gestured grandly. “To the house for post-tryout celebratory pancakes?”

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, please.”

____

The Impala’s tires crunched up the gravel drive, kicking up a low cloud of dust in the late afternoon light. Sam had changed out of his cleats, but the shin guard marks still left faint red impressions down his calves. He’d been quiet for most of the ride. Not tense, just sort of dazed. Content. A little stunned.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye as he cut the engine. The kid hadn’t stopped smiling since the coach said the word “varsity.”

The front porch creaked under Dean’s boots as he swung open the door. “Bobby!” he called, already grinning. “You got a second to celebrate your grandson being a certified field menace?”

From inside came a gruff, muffled, “He bleed out or win something?”

Dean shot a look back at Sam. “That’s Bobby-speak for ‘I care deeply.’”

Sam laughed, a little breathless, still riding the high.

Bobby was in the kitchen by the time they stepped through the door. His brows arched the moment he saw Sam’s face.

“You make the team?”

Sam nodded, trying not to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I made varsity.”

Bobby blinked. “You’re a freshman.”

Dean threw his hands up. “That’s what he said!”

“And Coach Miller still put you on varsity?” Bobby asked, this time with something almost like a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess we'd better reinforce the fence. Your head’s gonna get too big for the property.”

Sam shrugged, biting back a grin. “He said I earned it.”

Bobby didn’t say anything at first. He looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and gave his shoulder a quick, proud squeeze.

“Well,” he said, “you better keep earning it. Don’t coast just ‘cause you’re fast.”

“I won’t,” Sam said, then added, a little sheepish, “Thanks.”

Dean grinned and nodded toward the fridge. “So. We celebrating with pancakes or pie?”

Sam perked up. “Can we do both?”

Bobby didn’t miss a beat. “You make varsity, you get pancakes and pie. You make captain someday, I’ll even add ice cream.”

Sam’s eyes lit up.

Dean leaned back, arms behind his head. “Just don’t ask for it all in one bowl. He tried that once. Unholy.”

Bobby looked at Sam. “You pulled it off, huh?”

Sam nodded. “I think… I think I did.”

And for a moment, the kitchen felt warmer than usual. 

____

The paper was crumpled along the edges, soft and slightly damp, probably from being wedged between textbooks in Sam’s backpack all day. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table with both hands, glancing up just once to gauge Dean’s reaction.

Dean was rinsing out the coffee pot, pretending not to notice, when Sam spoke.

“Coach gave us these today.” His voice was casual. Almost too casual. “Clearance form. Medical stuff. Has to be signed before I can play in the first match.”

Dean wiped his hands on a towel, then crossed the kitchen and picked it up. The paper crackled softly between his fingers as he read.

Medical Release for Participation in High School Athletics.

Most of it was standard stuff. Name. DOB. Emergency contact.

Then the line that always hit a little harder than it should:

Does this student have any known heart conditions, respiratory disorders, or circulatory concerns?

Dean’s jaw shifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away. His thumb rested against that one line for a beat too long.

Sam leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “Dr. Lewis has never stopped me from playing before. You know that. She told me I could go for it.”

Dean nodded, but his eyes were still locked on the form. “Yeah. I know.” He hesitated, thumb now smoothing a corner down that didn’t need smoothing. “I just… I see this line, and it’s like I’m back in the hospital room again.”

Sam’s face fell a little, then tightened with understanding. “That’s not where we are anymore.”

Dean finally looked up.

There was something in Sam’s eyes that was older than fourteen, steady and clear. Not a demand, not a challenge. Just truth.

“You’re not fragile,” Dean said quietly.

“I’m not,” Sam replied. “But I’m also not stupid. If something feels wrong, I’ll stop. I promise.”

Dean exhaled slowly, then folded the paper in half. “We’ll take it to Dr. Lewis. Let her put it in writing.”

____

The pediatric cardiologist’s office still smelled like lemon disinfectant and old carpet glue. Sam sat on the edge of the exam table, ankles crossed, the paper beneath him crackling every time he shifted. 

Dean stood nearby with his arms crossed, watching like a man who’d long ago made peace with the fact that hovering was just part of his personality now.

Dr. Lewis greeted them with a warm, measured smile. She'd known Sam since he was seven and knew the shape of his chart like a favorite book.

“First official school season, huh?” she asked as she slid on a pair of gloves. “You excited?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Nervous, too. But mostly excited.”

Dean added, “First time there’s been stakes.”

Dr. Lewis took Sam’s vitals with efficient grace, her eyes flicking between the monitor readings and his chart. “Heart rate looks excellent. Rhythm’s steady. And your portable monitor has been reporting clean data; no irregular spikes, no dips. Breathing’s even, BP’s great.”

Sam sat straighter, his chest swelling slightly with quiet pride.

“You’ve been taking care of yourself,” she said, smiling at him. “Good.”

“I run drills after school. And I’ve been using the pulse oximeter if I feel off. It’s only been once. That one rainy day a few weeks ago.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“It passed. It was like thirty seconds. Didn’t even set off the monitor.” Sam shrugged. “I sat down. Uncle Bobby hovered like a hawk. I was fine.”

Dean didn’t argue, but his arms tightened across his chest.

Dr. Lewis looked at them both.

“I’m clearing him,” she said. “With caution. You keep the monitor on during the season, full-time, just as a precaution. I don’t care how sweaty you get. And, Sam, you speak up if you feel even a little off. Dizziness, pressure, lightheadedness. I don’t care if it’s just nerves. You say something.”

“I will,” Sam promised.

“And you,” she added, looking to Dean, “need to let him try.”

Dean let out a breath. “I know.”

She signed the form at the bottom, sharp and neat, and handed it to Sam. “Don’t lose it.”

It was raining by the time they got back to the Impala. The wipers moved in slow arcs as they pulled out of the lot, and the hum of the engine was the only sound for a while.

Sam stared down at the folded paper in his lap.

Dean drove one-handed, tapping the wheel with his thumb.

“I meant what I said,” Sam said quietly. “I’m not gonna push myself too far.”

Dean didn’t look over. But his jaw flexed. “I know.”

“It’s not like before.”

Dean nodded. “I know that, too.”

They rode in silence for another block.

Then Dean said, voice low, “It’s just… I see that form, and I remember sitting in a waiting room thinking I might not bring you home. Seeing your name next to ‘complication risk.’ Seeing you so still. I don’t forget that, Sammy. Even when I want to.”

Sam’s fingers tightened around the form. “You did bring me home.”

Dean blinked once. Then he pulled over right there on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking, and turned to look at him fully.

“I did,” he said. “And now you’re running laps around half the kids on that field. I’m proud of you. I’m scared sometimes. But I’m proud.”

Sam reached over and offered the form. “You can sign it, Dad.”

Dean took it gently, pen already in his pocket. He signed his name slowly and steadily. And when he handed it back, his eyes lingered just a little too long.

Sam didn’t look like he minded.

____

The whistle blew like it meant to cut through bone.

“Midfield, rotate!” Coach Miller barked, voice sharp against the cold late-winter air.

Sam was already moving. His legs ached. Not the limp-heavy kind from the hospital months ago, but the burn of a body working again. He liked that kind of pain. It meant he was still here. Still strong.

Sweat soaked through his jersey, and his heart thudded in his chest, steady but loud. The monitor under his compression shirt hadn’t beeped once. That was something. He’d checked it twice already: once during water break and once out of habit. It was green both times. Still, he kept thinking about it. About the fact that even if it didn’t make a sound, they all knew.

He wasn’t sure who started it, but he could feel it.

Some of the older kids watched him too closely when they ran drills. Others barely acknowledged him at all. They didn’t shove him or mock him outright, but there was a distance. Like they were still deciding if he was for real or just some fragile charity case.

Sam could guess why.

The story had gotten around. It always did, in towns like this. That Winchester kid - the freshman on varsity, the one with the monitor under his shirt - was the one who got taken back in the fall. The one with the bruised ribs and the busted shoulder and the silence that lasted weeks. No one said it to his face, but he’d heard the whispers.

He went missing back when he was seven, once. And then his real dad came back. He roughed the kid up. That’s what they’re saying. Coach only picked him 'cause he felt bad.

No one ever said the word heart. No one said hospital or open heart surgery or abusive father. But Sam could see it on their faces sometimes, especially the veteran players. They looked at him like he might fold any second. Like they were waiting for him to break.

So he didn’t.

He ran every drill like he meant it. He made the passes sharp, kept his feet light, and didn’t flinch when the ball came in hot. He stayed quiet, steady, and focused. He didn’t need them to like him. He just needed to be good enough that it didn’t matter.

Until the scrimmage.

They split into squads. Sam ended up across from Jake, a tall, older sophomore with a flat stare, dark hair, and a mouth that never quite closed all the way. Jake hadn’t said a word to him since day one, but now he lined up opposite him with a smirk that said everything.

“Freshman’s mine,” he muttered to one of his teammates, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam rolled his shoulders, not rising to it. He didn’t have to. He’d been hit harder by worse.

The ball dropped.

Eight minutes in, Jake came in hard on a rebound. Too hard. His hip caught Sam at just the wrong angle and sent him sprawling across the grass, ribs first.

For a split second, the breath went out of him like someone had popped a balloon in his chest. He hit the ground and saw nothing but sky.

But then he moved. Rolled, sat up, and grinned.

“Nice try,” he muttered and tossed the ball back in.

Coach didn’t call it. Jake didn’t apologize. Sam didn’t let himself show the wince that caught him when he stood.

The monitor stayed quiet. That was something.

He played the rest of the scrimmage with a dull ache blooming low and slow along his ribs. Familiar. Manageable. He could handle it.

From the fence line, he knew Dad was watching. Always was.

Sam didn’t have to look to know what he’d see: arms crossed, jaw tight, expression unreadable but watching.

____

The Impala smelled like sun-warmed leather and sweat as they drove home, windows cracked to let in the fading heat. Sam peeled a blade of grass off his shin and flicked it out the window.

Dad said nothing.

Sam waited.

“You’re mad,” he said eventually.

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re something.”

A pause. “He hit you pretty hard.”

Sam shrugged, staring out the window. “I bounced.”

“You winced.”

Sam didn’t answer.

Dad’s voice came quieter this time. “Ribs?”

“Just sore. Nothing sharp. It’s fine.”

“Heart?”

"Monitor’s green. Didn’t flutter once.”

His dad didn’t say anything else, but Sam could feel the tension pulling tight between them, like the space inside the car had shrunk.

Back home, Sam sat on the edge of his bed, freshly showered, dressed in sweatpants and an old AC/DC shirt, an ice pack pressed lightly against his ribs. He didn’t want to admit they hurt. He didn’t want to give anyone - Jake, the team, the town - any reason to think he couldn’t do this.

Dad stepped in with a glass of water and a stare that could carve marble.

“You shouldn’t have to take hits like that,” he said finally.

Sam didn’t meet his eyes. “Sometimes it’s the only way they stop looking at me like I’m gonna break.”

Dad crouched in front of him. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Sam whispered. “I’m just trying to play.”

His dad nodded slowly, then rested a hand on his shoulder. “You did good today.”

Sam looked up. “Even after the fall?”

“Especially after the fall.”

He managed a small smile at that. “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad squeezed his shoulder and stood. “Tomorrow we’ll talk strategy. You’re not just fast, you’re smart. You can dodge next time.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, curling carefully onto his side. “Next time.”

From the hallway, Uncle Bobby’s voice called: “Tell me he didn’t bust a rib already!”

“I’m fine!” Sam called back, voice muffled.

Dad smirked. “Yet.”

Sam chuckled and let his eyes drift closed, the ache in his side dulling beneath the cold pack and the steadiness of his heartbeat. He wasn’t the broken kid from the fall anymore.

And no matter what they whispered, he belonged there.

____

The jersey felt heavier than Sam expected. Not in a bad way, but solid. Real. Like proof.

Coach handed them out at the end of practice, fresh from the box, the scent of new polyester still clinging to the folds. The seniors got theirs first: bright red with white stripes down the sides, crisp white numbers stitched clean across the back. A few fist bumps, some whooping. Someone popped off a joke that Sam didn’t catch. Laughter rolled down the bench like thunder.

Then the juniors. Sophomores. One by one, names were called. Jersey after jersey passed hands.

Sam sat at the end of the bench, bouncing his knee, not enough to look nervous, but enough to burn off the edge. His cleats tapped lightly against the concrete pad. His water bottle felt too warm. He wiped his palms against his shorts and tried not to look like he cared.

“Winchester.”

He stood, quick and controlled. No wobble in his steps.

Coach didn’t say anything else; he just held it out, a sharp block of color against his arm. Sam reached for it and-

Number 11.

His heart stuttered. Just once.

He didn’t say a word. He nodded and slung the jersey over his shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times before. But his fingers curled tightly into the collar, knuckles white, holding it like it might vanish if he didn’t anchor it. Like, if he let go too fast, someone might call him back. Sorry, wrong kid.

He jogged back to the line, chin up, eyes forward, pulse hammering in his throat.

He didn’t smile.

Not yet.

The car ride home passed in a blur of late sun and humming tires. Sam sat with the jersey in his lap, folded once, then unfolded again. The number 11 stared up at him from soft fabric like it meant something more than digits. Like it had been waiting for him.

He’d worn that number since he was six. Back then, it had just been the one jersey that didn’t drown him in fabric. Now it felt different. Like it belonged.

Dad didn’t say anything, which was… honestly perfect. No teasing. No jokes about looking like a tomato. No “You gonna autograph that for me, sport? ”

Just quiet. Respectful. Like he understood that Sam was still figuring out what this meant to him.

Sam turned the number over in his hands. It was just thread. Just fabric. But it felt like something earned.

And he wasn’t ready to let go of that yet.

Not even a little.

____

The high school gym smelled like floor wax and faint teenage panic. It was nostalgic and gross in equal measure.

Dean stepped through the double doors with Bobby beside him and immediately felt like a beer at a wine tasting. Fold-out chairs had been arranged in uneven rows facing a whiteboard at the far end, where “WELCOME VARSITY PARENTS!” had been scrawled in red Expo marker, half bold, half smudged. The marker was clearly dying. So was Dean’s patience.

A table near the bleachers held grocery store cookies and plastic cups of lemonade, already sweating under the fluorescent lights. Dean clocked the whole setup in ten seconds flat. Exit points, sightlines, cluster patterns. Old habit. You could take the man out of the hunt, but you couldn’t take the hunter out of the man. Especially not when his kid’s heart was involved.

They looked out of place, he knew it. Bobby in his worn cap and plaid, Dean in boots and a layer of residual oil from that afternoon’s engine work. The rest of the crowd? Pastel windbreakers, yoga pants, expensive water bottles that probably had names. People who didn’t worry about heart monitors and trauma cover stories. People whose biggest fear was missing the carpool rotation.

A woman in a maroon scarf leaned over with a practiced smile. “Oh! Are you here for…?”

“Winchester,” Dean said, offering a handshake he didn’t want to give. “My kid’s Sam. Midfield.”

He watched her face register recognition. A flicker of something he couldn’t quite name passed behind her eyes.

“Oh, you’re the dad. We’ve heard a lot-”

His smile tightened just a notch. He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He already knew.

She flinched a little. “I mean... he’s very talented.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, cool but polite. "He is."

Bobby reappeared, saving them both. Paper plate in one hand, cup in the other. “He’s good,” he said flatly. “That's all you need to know.”

Dean barely suppressed a snort. The woman blinked again and turned toward safer company.

Dean coughed into his fist and muttered, “We’re working on tact.”

They found two seats near the back. Dean didn’t touch the cookies. He pulled a folded notepad from his flannel pocket, clicked his pen, and braced himself. His handwriting was already crammed with notes from the school’s health office, bus schedule, and three backup doctors within a 30-mile radius.

Coach Miller stepped to the front, friendly and efficient, launching into the welcome with the cadence of someone who’d done this too many times and just wanted to make it home for dinner.

Dean took notes like he was prepping for a salt-and-burn in enemy territory.

Hydro stations? Check. CPR-certified staff? Confirmed. Locker room ventilation? Questionable. AED locations? Ask after.

Every word that hit the topic of medical policy made Dean’s spine straighten another inch. His fingers twitched, not from anxiety exactly, but from readiness. He wasn’t worried about whether something might go wrong. He was calculating what he’d do when.

Beside him, Bobby watched the room the way he might watch a bar full of werewolves. Anytime someone whispered or glanced their way, Bobby met it with a stare that could strip paint. His face didn’t move, but he popped a second cookie into his mouth like it was a threat.

When the assistant coach brought up medical clearance forms, Dean’s jaw ticked. He didn’t say anything, but the notepad in his lap folded an extra crease where his grip tightened.

He had the form. Laminated. In the glove box. Two more copies in the house. A scan on his phone. He’d timed the route to the ER.

Sam didn’t know that part.

But Dean remembered what it looked like when the monitor went red in the middle of the night. He remembered what it sounded like when the flatline screeched like a banshee in mourning. He remembered pulling Sam’s body against his chest and praying to every god he didn’t believe in just to hear a heartbeat.

So yeah. He had a few copies.

When the floor opened to questions, a few parents chimed in with talk of team dinners and whether black socks were allowed. Dean let them talk.

Then he raised his hand.

“What’s your procedure if a player’s monitor goes off mid-game?”

The room shifted. Quieted. He didn’t flinch.

Coach blinked. “We pull them immediately. Staff trained in AED and CPR. We notify the parent on file.”

Dean nodded slowly, eyes locked on the man like he was deciding whether or not to trust him with a bomb.

“Good.”

Afterward, the woman in the scarf practically sprinted around them on the way out.

Outside, the halogen lights buzzed like sleepy wasps as Dean and Bobby stepped into the cool spring dark. Gravel crunched under their boots. The night felt wider here, away from the tension of fluorescent lights and forced friendliness.

Bobby cracked open a toothpick. “That was about as fun as a colonoscopy.”

Dean let out a tired breath, flipping open the notepad one last time. His eyes scanned the lines again, even though he already knew them by heart.

“Sam’s gonna be okay out there,” he said, mostly to the paper. Partly to the sky.

“He’s tougher than most of those kids combined,” Bobby said. “Just don’t let him know you laminated anything.”

They climbed into the Impala, headlights washing over the parking lot.

And just before they pulled out, Bobby added, quieter this time, “You’re doin’ good, y’know. He’s not scared. That’s on you.”

Dean didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The weight in his chest shifted, just a little. Not gone, but lighter.

The engine purred to life, and they drove into the night, heading back toward home. Toward Sam.

____

The sun was brutal, beating down on the field like it had a personal vendetta despite the late winter air. Practice was going long. Too many turnovers, too many lazy passes, and Coach wasn’t in the mood to let anything slide.

Sam dropped into a light jog as they transitioned drills, his legs already heavy and lungs dragging a little. The heart monitor under his shirt blinked green, so it was nothing serious. Just the sun and overwork. He told himself that twice.

He slowed near the water coolers, wiping his sleeve across his forehead, when he heard it.

“You always run drills like you’re being chased by something with teeth?”

Sam turned, slightly startled.

The kid standing a few feet away had a wild mess of red hair that flopped into his eyes every time he moved, and enough freckles to make it look like his nose had been hit with a paintbrush. His socks were inside-out, one shin guard was askew, and he swung his water bottle like it had something to prove.

Sam blinked. “Uh… I guess I don’t know how not to.”

The redhead grinned. “Fair. Fear-based motivation works. Just ask my math teacher.”

He stuck out a hand. “Connor. Sophomore. I know we’ve technically been on the team together for like… three weeks, but this is me formally introducing myself. Mostly because Coach made me do partner drills with you and said I had to stop calling you ‘Mysterious Freshman.’”

Sam gave him a wary side-eye but shook his hand. “Sam.”

“The rookie,” Connor said, like it was already law. “The stories are true.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Pretty sure I’m gonna regret talking to you.”

Connor cackled. “Probably." He held out two bottles. "You want the good water or the one that tastes like melted hose?”

Sam took one. “Does it matter?”

“Probably,” Connor said. “But I’m not a scientist.”

They leaned against the bench together, catching their breath. Across the field, Coach barked something about hustle and heart and started waving the defensive line into a reset.

Connor turned to Sam again, this time with a squint. “Hey, I saw you checking your monitor earlier. You good?”

Sam stiffened. “Yeah.”

Connor didn’t say anything at first. He nodded and took a swig from his bottle.

Then, totally casual: “Cool. If it ever goes off, I’m carrying you off the field like a princess.”

Sam choked on his water. “You are absolutely not.”

Connor shrugged. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Sam tried to glare, but his face cracked into something dangerously close to a smile. “Has anyone told you you’re weird?”

Connor raised his bottle in a mock salute. “Often.”

Coach’s whistle blew again. The moment snapped.

“Back to drills,” Connor said, loping off toward the midfield cones. “Don’t die. I didn’t stretch today, and I don’t want to carry you and pull a hamstring.”

As he jogged away, Sam remembered something that he’d overheard in the locker room his first week: that Connor was technically a rookie too. Last spring, one of the starting midfield seniors had torn his ACL halfway through the season, and Connor had been pulled up from JV. He's had just enough time to learn the plays, get bloodied up by playoff pressure, and scrape together the minutes needed to keep his spot.

So this season was his first real shot at proving he belonged. Sam watched the way he ran to the cone line without hesitation, sock still inside-out, but with his arms loose and his energy high. Like someone who knew exactly what it meant to be underestimated and refused to care.

Sam shook his head, grabbed his ball, and followed him. Heart still steady, monitor still green, and something lighter settling into his chest.

Maybe Connor was weird.

But weird wasn’t the worst thing.

____

The ball left Sam's foot too soon.

It was supposed to be a quick one-two pass down the sideline. Clean, simple, automatic. But he’d rushed it, and it was just a beat off. The angle was wrong, and the ball curved wider than he meant it to, spinning out into space like it had somewhere better to be.

Jake cut in and stole it with an easy tap. He barely broke stride, already turning upfield with the ball tucked in like it belonged to him.

Sam cursed under his breath.

The mistake hit harder than it should’ve. It echoed through his ribs like a slap from the inside out. Not because he thought he’d be perfect, he didn’t, but because he knew what it looked like to them. A freshman screwing up a pass in front of half the varsity lineup? That was a confirmation bias waiting to happen.

He didn’t look toward Coach. He could feel the flicker of judgment from the sideline. The not-quite-hidden glance from some of the others. They didn’t say anything, but they didn’t have to. It was in the silence. The air.

He’s the freshman. The one with the story. The one with the monitor.

Sam shoved off the grass and ran.

Jake was already ten yards ahead, long legs eating up the field, confidence pouring off him like sweat. His cleats bit into the turf with every stride, and he moved like he knew he wouldn’t be caught.

The field stretched ahead, wide and long, every second pulling taut like elastic. Sam could almost feel it in his bones - the difference in age, in height, in muscle.

You’re younger. Smaller. Softer. Fragile.

He didn’t care.

His feet pounded the grass; clean, even strides. The heart monitor stayed flat beneath his compression shirt, silent and secure. He didn’t think about the hum of breath in his chest or the dull ache still tucked under his left ribs from last week’s hit. He didn’t think about Jake or the pass or the whispers he’d caught in the locker room last Friday.

Sympathy pick. Coach just felt bad. Kid’s gonna break.

He ran.

The breath in his lungs burned, but it didn’t tear. The wind in his ears rushed louder than the shouting from midfield. Jake neared the box, already setting up for a shot, lining it with the easy rhythm of someone who assumed no one was coming for him.

But Sam was.

He caught him.

Not with brute force, he wasn’t built for that yet, but with timing. With instinct. One clean step across Jake’s body, hips angled just right, and a low sweep of his foot. No foul. No contact. Just the quiet snap of skill.

The ball slipped away like it had always belonged to him.

Jake stumbled. It was just a step, nothing dramatic, but it was enough. Sam was already turning. He trapped the ball, pivoted on his heel, and sent a sharp pass down the opposite wing where one of the forwards caught it in stride.

The field froze for a beat.

Then: “Play on!”

Sam didn’t look back.

He jogged into midfield, legs heavy, breath ragged, but his pulse thumped steadily beneath the fabric at his ribs. Not fear. Not panic. Just adrenaline.

Just alive.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t pump his fist. He just kept moving.

Behind him, a senior from the opposing squad muttered low but audible, “Damn. Kid’s got wheels.”

Sam heard it, but he let the words fall behind him like dust.

Coach didn’t say anything either. But when Sam glanced toward the sideline, he caught it - just a flicker behind the usual flat stare.

Sam kept his expression blank. But inside, something eased. Unclenched.

He wasn’t there to win anyone over.

But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to be more than the kid with the monitor. More than the story. More than the freshman people felt sorry for.

Maybe now, they were starting to see him as a player.

____

The folder was the color of a construction vest and twice as aggressive.

Sam dropped it on the kitchen table like it might hiss at him. “Coach said we have to get this signed tonight.”

Uncle Bobby looked up from where he was flipping through a lore book on poltergeists. “What, your soul?”

Sam snorted and flopped into the nearest chair, the folder still glowing like a warning flare in front of him. “Game day info. Schedules, permission slips. Nutrition handouts.”

Dad reached for it mid-sip of his late-night coffee, brows already lifting like he expected it to bite. “Why is it yellow? This folder’s practically yelling.”

Sam leaned his chin on his water bottle and muttered, “That’s the point.”

The packet opened with a papery crackle. Inside were at least six neatly stapled bundles: the travel itinerary for tomorrow’s away game, two emergency contact forms, a rehash of the medical clearance they’d already submitted twice, and a page that earnestly recommended pre-game quinoa and dried fruit. Sam had barely made it through the list without laughing.

Dad didn’t laugh.

He was already flipping pages with the same intense focus he used on hunting logs: jaw set, pen in hand, scanning like it was mission intel. Sam watched from behind the rim of his bottle, half-expecting him to start drawing salt lines around the emergency contact sheet.

“You’re more stressed than I am,” Sam said, voice muffled.

Dad didn’t look up. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen what happens when a bus forgets to carry an EPI-Pen. I’m allowed.”

Uncle Bobby, still reading, chimed in, “You’re allergic to anything, kid?”

“Nope,” Sam said. “Unless you count the cafeteria meatloaf.”

Dad circled a note next to bus driver contact info and muttered, “I’m still asking if they’re CPR certified.”

“Dad,” Sam groaned.

“You’re gonna be on a moving vehicle going fifty miles an hour with a bunch of teenage boys and one adult who has a whistle but no medical degree.”

“It’s just a bus.”

“It’s a rolling liability.”

Uncle Bobby popped a peanut M&M into his mouth and muttered, “Now you sound like your old man.”

Sam blinked. “Wait, you mean...?”

“I mean,” Bobby cut in flatly. “The one across from you. Not that other one.”

Sam hid his smile behind his bottle.

The kitchen felt warm around them, even with the winds rattling faintly at the windows. Dad had that look. The serious, grounded one, like he wasn’t going to let anything slide, no matter how many times Sam rolled his eyes. And Uncle Bobby, well, he was Uncle Bobby. Which meant he acted like he didn’t care, but always read over Dad’s shoulder just to double-check the details.

Sam loved them both for it.

“Coach said we can bring snacks for the bus ride,” Sam offered, trying to shift gears. “But no soda. Or nuts. Or anything red-dyed. Or things that ‘smell too enthusiastic.’”

“Smell too enthusiastic?” Uncle Bobby repeated, deadpan. “The hell does that even mean?”

Dad shook his head. “Means I’m sending you with unflavored rice cakes and water.”

“Dad. ”

“I’m kidding. Mostly.” He signed the last permission line with a flourish. “But you are getting a banana.”

Sam groaned, then leaned back in his chair, bottle in hand. “You know this is kind of adorable, right?”

Dad paused mid-paper stack, looking mildly affronted. “What is?”

“This,” Sam said, gesturing vaguely at the yellow folder, the checked boxes, the aggressively annotated margins. “The fact that you’re treating a bus itinerary like a top-secret mission briefing.”

Dad narrowed his eyes. “You’re not too old for me to swaddle in bubble wrap.”

Uncle Bobby grunted. “You already do. It’s just metaphorical now.”

Sam grinned and sipped his water. “Still adorable.”

“Tell anyone that and I’m pulling you off the roster myself.”

“You can’t. You’re not even on the booster email list.”

Dad muttered something about “working on that,” but the fight had no heat. He was already flipping through the folder again. Uncle Bobby shot Sam a sideways smirk, and Sam felt the grin still tugging at his face as he looked toward his folded jersey, the 11 bright against the red.

Uncle Bobby reached over and flicked the edge of the yellow folder. “You sure this isn’t gonna combust?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“Good thing we’re fire-safe.”

Dad set the pen down and leaned back in his chair, finally relaxing now that every box was checked, every form initialed. He looked at Sam for the first time in a while, then nodded toward the folder.

“You starting tomorrow?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe. Coach told me at the end of practice.”

Uncle Bobby gave a low whistle. “First game, first start?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, quieter now. “It might be kinda big.”

Dad didn’t say anything for a second. He nodded again, slowly, like he’d expected it but still had to sit with it.

“You earned it,” he said.

Sam ducked his head, mouth tugging up. “So… pancakes after the game?”

Dad grinned. “Only if you hydrate.”

Sam tapped the water bottle against the table. “Already ahead of you.”

And across the table, with Uncle Bobby sighing over the banned snack list and Dad flipping the folder closed like he was filing away an exorcism, Sam felt it settle in his chest.

Tomorrow would be big, but he wasn’t going alone.

____

Sam checked his backpack a third time. Cleats in the drawstring bag, jersey folded just right, permission forms tucked into the folder between geometry notes and a wrinkled packet on The Great Gatsby. He’d put a fresh battery in his heart monitor, double-checked the alert volume, and even packed an extra set of socks. Not because he thought he’d need them, but because Dad always said it was better to have too much than to be caught empty-handed.

The house was quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind of quiet that usually came before something big.

Downstairs, the kitchen still smelled faintly of toast and syrup from the waffles Dad made for breakfast. Sunlight slanted across the floorboards in soft gold streaks, catching the edge of Sam’s gear bag as he slung it over his shoulder and made his way toward the door.

Dad was already waiting in the entryway, keys in one hand, travel mug in the other. He hadn’t shaved yet, and his sweatshirt was on backward like he hadn’t noticed in his rush to get them out the door. But he looked calm. Focused. Ready in a way that settled some of the nerves churning in Sam’s chest.

“Ready?” Dad asked.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Just… first game.”

“First official game,” Dad corrected as he locked the door behind them. “You’ve been running circles around people since you were six.”

That made Sam smile a little as he climbed into the Impala. The leather was cool under his legs, and the seatbelt clicked home with a familiarity that grounded him. He kept his gear bag in his lap, arms folded loosely across it like the fabric could anchor him.

The drive was quiet.

Not awkward, just thoughtful. The kind of silence that held space for what was coming. Sam watched the trees slide by outside the window, branches bare against the pale sky. His brain buzzed with a hundred things: where he’d be playing, if the away field would feel different, if anyone would say something about the monitor, or about the fall - the fall, the one no one said out loud but everyone seemed to remember.

He wondered if Jake would pass to him. If anyone would.

His knee bounced before he caught himself and stilled it.

“You nervous?” Dad asked, eyes on the road.

Sam hesitated. “A little.”

“Good.”

Sam blinked. “Good?”

Dad smiled, just a little. “Means you care. Just don’t let it get too loud.”

They pulled into the school parking lot, the building still half-lit in the early morning haze. The buses hadn’t lined up yet for the game; those wouldn’t leave until after lunch, but already a few players were trickling in, cleat bags slung over their shoulders like armor.

Sam’s stomach twisted, not in fear but in expectation.

He was ready. He’d been ready. Still, his fingers curled a little tighter around the bag strap.

“You need me to bring anything to the field later?” Dad asked, shifting into park.

Sam shook his head. “Got it all. Coach said we should eat early, hydrate during third period. I packed the good water bottle.”

Dad reached over and gave his shoulder a quick, steady squeeze. “Keep your head up. Don’t push to prove something. You’ve already earned your place.”

Sam nodded, eyes down.

“And if someone tries anything cheap, don’t rise to it. Just play clean. Smart. You’re faster than you think.”

“I know,” Sam murmured. “I’ll remember.”

Dad reached into the backseat and handed over a granola bar. Peanut butter chocolate. Sam smiled despite himself.

“You’re enabling me,” he teased.

“Damn right I am.”

They got out together, Sam adjusting the strap of his bag as they approached the front doors. A few other parents were saying goodbye at the curb, and Sam felt the pressure of eyes. Brief flickers, curious or cautious. He didn’t flinch. Just stood taller.

Dad added quietly, “We’ll be there tonight. Me and Uncle Bobby. Third row, visitor side.”

Sam paused. “Yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The words settled somewhere deep in Sam’s chest, low and warm and anchoring in the best way.

“Thanks for the ride, Dad.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

Sam turned toward the school, each step echoing a little louder than usual in the morning hush. He glanced back once, just before the doors opened.

Dad was still standing by the Impala, mug in hand, watching him go.

____

Dean parallel-parked the Impala with surgical precision between a dented Subaru and what looked like someone’s rusted-out farm truck pretending to be a minivan. The high school’s visitor lot was full of clumsy parking jobs and a handful of half-inflated balloons tied to fences. The sun had just started to drop, tipping the sky with gold at the edges like someone had dusted it with bronze.

From the passenger seat, Bobby muttered, “Could’ve parked closer if you’d let me bring the cowbell.”

Dean shot him a look as he cut the engine. “We’re trying to be supportive, not get excommunicated from rural South Dakota soccer.”

“It wasn’t even loud,” Bobby said, unbuckling. “Just a gentle encouragement bell.”

Dean stepped out and stretched his back, muttering, “You’re lucky I didn’t check your coat pockets.”

Bobby pulled a thermos from under the seat like a magician producing a rabbit. “You didn’t check everywhere.”

Dean groaned. “You’re impossible.”

They made their way across the gravel lot toward the visitor bleachers, the sound of whistles and sneaker scuffs drifting in from the other side of the field. Dean scanned the crowd automatically: points of entry, crowd density, exits. There weren’t many people in the visitor section yet. A few scattered parents, someone with a camp chair, and a bored-looking golden retriever tied to the railing.

Third row, visitor side. That’s where Sam would look.

Dean climbed the steps and chose their spot carefully. Centered, clear view of the midfield. He unscrewed the cap on Bobby’s thermos and took a sniff. “This better not be whiskey.”

“Peppermint tea,” Bobby said smugly, taking it back. “I’m not a barbarian.”

Dean smirked but said nothing. His eyes were already scanning the field.

The home team was warming up at the far end. Sam’s squad was gathered at the near side in a huddle, red jerseys bright under the lights. Dean found him fast: number 11, hair a little longer than regulation, socks too high in that weird way he insisted on. Sam was talking to someone on the wing, shoulders relaxed but energy wound tight beneath the surface.

Dean recognized that posture, he had worn it himself. Braced but ready.

“You see him?” Bobby asked, sipping loudly.

“Yeah,” Dean said, eyes locked on his kid jogging toward the sideline. “He’s dialed in.”

They settled into the bench as the teams broke their huddles. The crowd was picking up now. There was some scattered clapping, shouts from the home side, and someone trying and failing to get a chant going.

Dean didn’t cheer. He folded his arms, leaned forward, and watched like he was seeing something he didn’t want to miss.

Bobby elbowed him gently. “Bet you ten bucks he pulls some slick move in the first ten.”

Dean huffed. “Not betting on my kid’s game.”

“Because you’d lose?”

“Because I already know he’s gonna do something great.”

And for the first time since they’d parked, Dean smiled. Not the nervous, covering kind. The real one. The kind that said: He’s here. He’s okay. He’s mine.

And that was more than enough.

____

The away field felt different. Not because of the turf, though it was bumpier and patchier, but because none of it felt like his. No familiar fence line. No Dad leaning against the Impala. No Uncle Bobby watching from the truck bed. Just distant bleachers filled with strangers, the shrill call of whistles, and the nervous weight of waiting.

Sam sat on the bench with his warmup jacket zipped to his chin, his number barely visible underneath. His heart monitor pressed snug under his compression shirt. Green light steady, no chirps. No spikes.

Coach hadn’t said much, just a short nod after the warm-up. “Sit tight for now. We’ll see how it plays out.”

Which meant: You're a freshman. We’re easing you in.

Sam didn’t argue. Didn’t sulk. But as the first half ticked on, he clenched and unclenched his jaw every time the midfield shifted without him. He could see the gaps. He knew where he would’ve passed. He wasn’t cocky enough to think he’d save the whole game, but he also knew he wouldn’t have fumbled that trap in the 18th minute.

What no one saw, because he made sure of it, was what he did before warm-ups even started.

He stepped away from the others, crouched by the equipment bags where the shade from the bleachers stretched just wide enough to give him cover, and placed a hand gently over his chest.

"Just be steady," he whispered. "I’ll do the rest."

The monitor’s soft green light didn’t flicker.

By halftime, the score was still tied 1 - 1, and two of the midfielders looked gassed from where they rested on the bench.

Sam drank from his water bottle and kept his mouth shut.

Out in the bleachers, he’d spotted Dad and Uncle Bobby during the first corner kick. Third row, visitor side, just like Dad had promised. Bobby was hunched over a thermos. Dad had his arms crossed, a furrow between his brows. He was watching Sam. Hadn’t taken his eyes off him, even though Sam hadn’t played a single minute yet.

At one point, Dad tilted his head slightly, gave him that quiet, questioning look. Like what gives?

Sam just shook his head. It wasn’t up to him.

The second half kicked off, and three minutes in, Eric - a junior with strong legs and terrible cardio - waved toward the bench after chasing a run too hard. Coach turned, scanned the lineup, then pointed at Sam.

“You’re in.”

Sam stood. No hesitation. No whoop of celebration. He peeled off the jacket, jogged the sideline, and took position.

The moment he stepped onto the field, everything else dropped away. The noise. The sideline nerves. The whispers. It was all gone.

It didn’t take long for his first break. Four minutes in, a misstep from their left back sent the other team on a fast break. Sam saw it before it bloomed, adjusted his pace, and cut toward midfield. When the opposing striker pivoted to pass inside, Sam was already there.

One clean interception. No slide. No shove. Just perfect timing.

He pivoted, took two touches, and launched the ball forward into open space where their forward picked it up in stride. One pass later, they scored.

The sideline erupted.

Sam didn’t look at the bench. Just turned, reset, and jogged back to position.

Later, in the final minutes, he fed another clean assist from midfield. They won 3 - 1.

The locker room was a haze of heat and victory.

Someone blasted a speaker in the back. A half-empty bottle of Gatorade arced through the air and splattered harmlessly against a locker. Sam ducked and started unlacing his cleats.

He didn’t realize someone had tossed him a towel until it landed on his lap. He looked up. It was Ryan, the starting goalie, already turning away like it didn’t mean anything.

Sam didn’t say thanks. He just draped the towel around his shoulders, leaned back against the bench, and let the noise wash over him.

The bus ride back was loud: music, shouts, someone already trying to start a playlist war. Sam stayed mostly quiet, slouched in his seat with a damp towel over his head. No one teased him. No one asked questions.

But someone slapped his shoulder as they stepped off the bus.

Jake just said, “Didn’t think you’d save our asses. My bad.”

Sam blinked. “It’s cool.”

He wasn’t invisible here anymore. He wasn’t the kid with the monitor. He wasn’t the freshman with a story.

He was the one who’d turned the game around.

____

The school lot was mostly dark by the time the team bus groaned into view, its headlights sweeping across cracked pavement and chain-link shadows, engine rumbling like a tired dragon. Dean was already on his feet, pacing a slow, tight arc near the Impala. Bobby leaned against the hood, arms folded, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like he’d had too much coffee or was trying not to yell.

“Finally,” Dean muttered as the brakes hissed.

“They better check that turf for skid marks, Sam lit that kid up,” Bobby said, grinning widely.

The bus door folded open with a mechanical wheeze. A few players spilled out, laughing and elbowing each other. Then came Sam: jacket half-zipped, curls damp with sweat, towel draped over his neck like a champion’s sash, cleats tied and slung over his shoulder. His cheeks were still a little flushed, but his eyes were bright. Steady. Glowing.

Dean didn’t wait.

“You legend!” he whooped, jogging forward and clapping both hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Two assists? First game? Are you kidding me?”

Bobby was right behind him, thwapping Sam on the back hard enough to jostle the towel. “That pass to the wing? Chef’s kiss, kid. That other team didn’t know what hit ’em.”

Sam tried to duck his head, mumbling, “It wasn’t just me-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean cut in, beaming. “Team effort. Very noble. But you turned that game. You shifted the whole damn rhythm.”

Sam laughed, eyes squinting up at both of them. “Okay, maybe the midfield was a little loose until I went in.”

“Atta boy,” Bobby said proudly. “Say it with your chest.”

They walked to the car together, Dean ruffling Sam’s hair despite the sweaty curls and Sam half-heartedly ducking away.

Dean opened the trunk with a theatrical flourish. “Your chariot awaits, star midfielder.”

Sam tossed his bag in, then slumped into the front seat with the relaxed grace of someone whose legs had gone to jelly but in the best possible way.

As they drove, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was golden. Dean could barely keep from grinning.

“You proud of yourself?” he asked, glancing sideways.

Sam didn’t answer right away. He looked out the window, watching the blur of trees and streetlights. Then: “Yeah. I think I am.”

From the back seat, Bobby let out a proud grunt. “You damn well should be.”

Dean reached over at the next red light and squeezed the back of Sam’s neck affectionately.

“Next time, we’re bringing signs,” he said. “Big ones. Glitter. Maybe smoke effects.”

“No,” Sam groaned through a laugh.

“Too late,” Bobby added. “Already talked to Missouri. She’s crocheting your number on a banner.”

Sam covered his face with both hands.

Dean just laughed, heart so full it ached in the best way.

____

Sam woke up to pain.

Not the sharp, something’s-wrong kind. It was the deep, stubborn kind that had settled into his legs, shoulders, and lower back like it paid rent. His calves felt like they’d been run over by a lawnmower. His thighs might never forgive him. Even his toes ached, somehow.

The clock said 7:02 AM. Saturday.

He considered going back to sleep.

Then he tried to sit up and made a sound that could only be described as “ancient door hinge.”

From down the hall, he heard footsteps. Heavy ones.

“Don’t move,” Dad called. “Stay there.”

Sam flopped back with a groan. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A few seconds later, his dad walked in already dressed and already smug, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small handful of Advil in the other. Behind him, Rumsfeld trailed in like a personal medical escort.

Dad grinned. “You look like a scarecrow that got worked over by a tornado.”

Sam gave him the finger without much enthusiasm. “I think my hamstrings are in divorce court.”

Dad handed over the Advil. “Take those. I’ve got the heating pad warming up in the microwave and your stretchy bands laid out in the living room.”

Sam blinked. “You made a stretching station?”

He shrugged, like this was completely normal behavior. “You’re not gonna stiffen up like a board. Not on my watch.”

“Dad, it’s Saturday.”

“It’s recovery Saturday. Hydration, light stretching, and at least ten minutes on the foam roller.”

Sam squinted at him. “Is this… your version of a spa day?”

From the hallway, Uncle Bobby’s voice bellowed, “It’s obsessive, is what it is.”

Dad hollered back, “You didn’t see him hit that pass!”

“I watched the game, genius!”

He turned back to Sam. “Ignore the peanut gallery. You want breakfast before or after mobility?”

Sam groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “Just roll me into the yard and leave me there.”

His dad patted his calf through the blanket. “That’s the spirit.”

A few minutes later, Sam made it to the living room with all the grace of a collapsing bridge. The heating pad was waiting, the water bottle refilled, and Monty the Moose was perched on the couch in a mini jersey courtesy of Uncle Bobby’s late-night crochet rampage.

Sam flopped down with a sigh, clutching the pad to his ribs and already planning his nap. Outside, the day was warming. Inside the kitchen, Dad was hovering, Uncle Bobby was making enough bacon for a football team, and the living room smelled like coffee, eucalyptus, and pride.

Sam grinned into the pillow.

Being sore had never felt so good.

____

The sun was sharp today despite the cool air. It was high and unrelenting, the kind that pressed down hard and made the turf feel like sandpaper under his cleats. His practice jersey clung to his back, and his breath came a little quicker with every sprint.

Coach Miller’s voice rang across the field like a snapped branch. “Water break! Two minutes!”

Sam peeled off with the rest of the midfield line, legs dragging just a bit. His ribs still ached faintly. Not the kind of pain that stopped him, just the kind that whispered: I remember. 

He snagged his water bottle from the cooler and sank onto the edge of the low metal bleachers, letting the warmth of the seat soak into his skin. Around him, the team sprawled into messy clumps. Gatorade was chugged, jokes were tossed too loudly, and someone flipped the back of someone else’s jersey. He heard laughter. He didn’t join it.

Not because he didn’t want to. Just because… not yet.

He sipped slowly, eyes scanning the field out of habit. Then he set his bottle down and checked.

It was fast. Automatic. Muscle memory now. Just a flick of his fingers and he was lifting the hem of his compression shirt, eyes flicking down to the sleek square of plastic resting against his side. The monitor blinked once in calm, steady, green.

Still good.

He let out a breath through his nose and dropped the shirt back into place. Then rubbed his hand over his face. The break was half over.

“Hey.”

The voice made him jump. Not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t one he expected. Sam looked over and found Dylan Reid standing there, one foot on the bench rail, arms folded, chin glinting with sweat.

Dylan, the team captain. A senior. Midfield. Fast. He had wavy blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and tan skin that gave him the image that he belonged somewhere out in California instead of South Dakota. He was respected. 

Sam had barely spoken to him outside of drills. Not because Dylan was rude, just… not one to waste words on people who hadn’t earned them.

“Everything good?” Dylan asked.

Sam blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Just checking something.”

Dylan’s eyes dipped to Sam’s side, just for a second, like he’d caught the motion but wasn’t going to stare. “That's your monitor?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was quieter now. He wasn’t sure what he expected next. A joke, maybe. Or the too-careful look people sometimes gave when they didn’t know what to say.

But Dylan just nodded once. “Coach told us. Preseason. Said if you had a problem, we’d know, but that you probably wouldn’t.”

Sam gave a small, crooked smile. “Sounds like him.”

“You feeling it today?”

Sam hesitated. “A little. Just the sun. Monitor says it’s fine.”

“Then it’s fine,” Dylan said, simple as that. No fuss. No pity. Just certainty. Like a team captain was supposed to have.

He reached for his water bottle and added, almost as an afterthought, “You read the field better than half our lineup. Keep doing that, no one’s gonna care what’s under your shirt.”

Sam stared at him.

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sam said quickly. “Thanks.”

Dylan just nodded again, then turned and jogged back toward the field like the conversation had been no big deal. Like he hadn’t just dropped a weight off Sam’s shoulders he didn’t realize he was still carrying.

Sam sat there a moment longer, fingers idly brushing the hem of his shirt again. Not lifting it again, just resting there.

He wasn’t used to that. Not the attention, but the normalcy. The way Dylan had seen it, named it, and then moved on without making it a thing.

Sam picked up his water bottle and drained the rest, the cold finally sinking past his teeth.

____

It was just an elective. That’s what Sam kept reminding himself.

He’d picked music history because it sounded low-risk: no group performances, no participation grades that involved speaking into a microphone. Mostly listening, mostly writing. Safe.

So when Mr. Aldridge announced, “Pick a partner for the album analysis project,” Sam felt the usual knot tighten in his chest. He didn’t move. No one moved toward him either.

And then a chair scraped beside him, and Ryan Bissett dropped into the seat like he’d been assigned there by fate.

“You take notes. I’ll handle the timeline,” Ryan said, not looking at him.

Sam blinked. “Uh… okay.”

Ryan Bissett. Sophomore. Starting varsity goalie. Known for being quiet, fast-reflexed, and as blunt as a brick to the face. He had dark, perpetually messy hair that always looked like he’d just woken up and forgotten to care, and his wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of black hoodies and jeans. Even now, he had earbuds draped around his neck, one sneaker tapping a slow rhythm against the tile floor.

He had a reputation for being impossible to read.

Sam hadn’t expected to interact with him much. He definitely hadn’t expected this.

They listened to the opening bars of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust. Sam clicked his pen twice before starting to write. Ryan, meanwhile, pulled out a notebook already formatted with column headers - Track, Time Signature, Release Context, Cultural Impact - and started filling in cells like a machine.

Fifteen minutes in, Sam found himself genuinely impressed. Ryan didn’t just know the songs; he knew the context. Year, label, historical backdrop. Sam hadn’t even opened the project packet yet.

He focused on his handwriting. Tried to keep up. Tried not to make it obvious how out of place he felt.

Ryan didn’t glance over once, but his voice cut in low during the fourth track: “You’re on the wrong side of the margin.”

Sam paused. “What?”

“Your notes. They’re drifting. You’ll run out of room when we get to the synth layers.”

Sam adjusted his line and mumbled, “Right. Thanks.”

Another few minutes passed, filled only by Bowie’s voice and the scratch of their pens.

Then, without looking up, Ryan muttered, “You’re not as weird as Jake said.”

Sam froze mid-writing. “Was that him being nice?”

Ryan smirked slightly, eyes still on his notebook. “You should hear his insults.”

Sam snorted before he could stop himself. “I’ve heard a few.”

They didn’t talk much after that. But when the bell rang and Sam moved to collect his things, Ryan said without inflection, “Bring the notes next time. I’ll show you how to map the motifs.”

It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t cold, either.

And when Sam left the classroom, he caught himself smiling. Not because he’d made a friend, he wasn’t naïve, but because for the first time since he made the team, one of them had chosen to sit next to him.

And not once had they looked like they regretted it.

____

The locker room was quiet. That rare, almost eerie kind of quiet that only happened after a brutally long practice when everyone else had cleared out. Just the faint hum of the overhead lights, the echo of a slamming door down the hall, and the sharp chemical tang of someone overdoing it on the spray deodorant.

Sam sat at the far end of the bench, one leg stretched out, unlacing his cleats with fingers that were starting to feel like they didn’t belong to him. His socks were damp. His shin guards were off in a messy pile at his feet. His shoulders ached.

It had been a rough one, and not just physically. He’d been off his rhythm all day, and Coach had noticed. So had the rest of the team. But no one said anything, at least not out loud.

He was starting to think maybe that was worse.

The clatter of a locker closing too hard made him glance up.

Jake.

Of course.

He wandered over like he wasn’t sure he’d decided to, towel slung around his neck, one sock missing, one cleat still half-on. He carried his shin guard like it had personally betrayed him.

Sam blinked. Jake wasn’t usually quiet. He wasn’t usually nervous, either. He was… loud. Loud and bold and in everyone’s space by default. Which meant something was up.

Jake flopped down beside him with a dramatic groan. “Jesus, rookie. Did you personally offend Coach? Or is this just his way of saying ‘I love you’ now?”

Sam let out a breath, almost smiled. “Pretty sure it’s his way of saying ‘suffer quietly.’”

Jake snorted, but it wasn’t his usual explosive laugh. It was softer. Off-balance.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Jake glanced sideways and said, with zero preamble, “So, hypothetically… if someone was a jackass when you first joined the team, like, not evil, just dumb, and maybe acted like you were trying to steal his spot or mess with the team dynamics or whatever…” He was fidgeting now. Picking at the edge of his sock like it had answers. “…what’s the protocol for making that suck less?”

Sam froze. Not outwardly, but for a beat internally.

This wasn’t the kind of thing Jake did. Not the version of him Sam had met that first week. That Jake had barely looked at him. Had made everything feel just a little harder.

But this Jake? Sitting here, awkward and red-eared and pretending it was hypothetical?

Sam didn’t know what to do with this Jake.

So he played it straight. “Are you apologizing?”

Jake looked mildly offended. “No. Maybe. Yes. But in a cool, masculine way.” He fumbled around in his bag and produced a squashed granola bar, holding it out like a ceremonial offering. “Peanut butter. That’s friendship food, man.”

Sam just stared at it.

He wasn’t used to this. People didn’t usually double back once they decided what he was. Especially not guys like Jake. Loud, popular, the kind of teammate who knew how to own a room and pick up a chant without being asked.

The first few weeks had been rough. Sam had been new. Younger. Quiet. Coach had trusted him early, and that had only made it worse. Jake hadn’t been cruel, exactly, just cold. Dismissive. And that had stung more than he wanted to admit.

But this?

This was… an effort. And it mattered.

Sam took the granola bar.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Jake relaxed, just a little. “Cool. So we’re good?”

Sam nodded. Not a big gesture, but just enough.

Jake exhaled like he’d been holding the tension in his ribs.

“Awesome,” he said, springing to his feet with the grace of a baby giraffe. “Because Coach already told me we were running one-on-one drills next week, and I need you to go easy on me or my hamstrings will sue.”

“You’ll survive,” Sam muttered, but there was no bite behind it.

Jake was halfway out the door when he paused and turned back.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

Jake grinned, just for a second, small and real. “You’re a pain in the ass. But you’re a good one.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re terrible at this.”

Jake pointed finger guns at him like it was the greatest compliment he’d ever received. “Flawlessly terrible.”

And then he was gone, whistling something out of tune.

Sam sat there for a while, the granola bar still resting in his hand, half-crushed and weirdly warm. The kind of thing that would’ve made no sense to anyone else.

____

It started with thunder.

Not the polite, off-in-the-distance kind. The real stuff, sharp and guttural and close enough to rattle your teeth. Sam was halfway through tying his second cleat when Coach’s voice came booming across the field:

“OFF FIELD. NOW.”

They didn’t have to be told twice.

The team bolted, twenty pairs of cleats slamming the turf as the sky cracked wide open. Rain fell in thick, slanted sheets, drenching them before they even made it to the edge of the stadium. Someone cursed. Someone else slipped on the sidewalk, skidding into the fence with a thud and a laugh.

By the time they ducked under the aluminum bleachers, Sam’s hoodie was soaked clean through, and the air smelled like wet rubber, ozone, and the cheap turf cleaner Coach swore by.

Coach shouted something about lightning protocol, waved a hand vaguely in their direction, and disappeared toward the athletic office.

They were left alone.

Connor immediately flopped across two bench seats that had been abandoned underneath the bleachers with all the dramatic flair of a dying stage actor. “Tell my dad I fought bravely and died warm.”

Jake, unbothered, dug into his duffel and triumphantly pulled out a half-eaten bag of barbecue chips. “I’ve been preparing for this. I have provisions. I am the storm.”

Ryan sat cross-legged by one of the support beams, peeling off his goalie gloves like they’d personally offended him. Dylan sat nearby them, arms crossed, hoodie pulled up, scanning the storm with a slight frown, like he could will it to pass faster if he stared hard enough.

Sam stood back at first, hovering on the edge of the huddle. The concrete felt cold under his cleats. Water dripped steadily from his sleeves.

He could’ve stayed back. Found a corner. Scrolled his phone until the all-clear came.

But then Dylan glanced over and held out the chips without a word. “We have rations.”

The way he said it - dry, half amused, fully casual - felt like more than a joke.

Sam crossed the gap and sat down.

The chips were too salty and a little stale, but Sam took another anyway. And another. They tasted like something he hadn’t had in a long time: normal.

For a minute, they just sat and listened to the storm. Rain pounded the metal bleachers above them, wind whistled through the gaps, and thunder cracked again, shaking the air like a warning.

Jake finally broke the silence. “Alright. Honesty hour. Who joined this team by accident?”

Connor shot his hand up. “P.E. requirement in middle school. Didn’t think I’d actually like it. But then I slide-tackled a dude in seventh grade and got hooked.”

Ryan raised his hand, too. “Played football fall of my freshman year,” he said. “Wide receiver. Wasn’t bad, but I didn’t care about it.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Then Coach caught me in the gym one day. I was just shooting baskets to kill time after school, and he goes, ‘You ever think about using that hand-eye coordination for something useful?’ I thought he was joking.”

“He wasn’t,” Dylan chimed in. “We needed a goalie. Ryan was the only kid he could find who could track fast movement and wasn’t already on spring track or baseball.”

“So I said fine, I’d try it for a week,” Ryan said. “Figured I’d hate it. But I didn’t. I loved it. The pace, the pressure, getting to see the whole field. Stuck with it ever since.”

Jake turned to Sam. “What about you, rookie? What got you into this madness?”

Sam blinked. He wasn’t used to being asked stuff like that. For a second, he considered brushing it off, keeping it vague.

But something about the rain, the closeness, the way nobody was pushing, but just waiting, made it feel okay to answer.

“I’ve played since I was six.”

That got their attention. Even Ryan raised his eyebrows a little.

“Seriously?” Jake asked. “You?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. My dad signed me up for a rec league when I was little. We moved around a lot before that, but I’ve played as much as I can for as long as we’ve lived here.”

Connor tilted his head. “So wait- when you joined, and Coach said you had 'some experience'...?”

Sam gave a lopsided shrug. “Guess I undersold it.”

Ryan whistled. “That explains the ball control. And the creepy calm thing you do.”

Jake leaned in. “Okay, yeah, who moves like that under pressure? It’s like playing chess with a ghost.”

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re all ridiculous.”

Dylan was quiet for a beat longer. Then: “Well. Good to know you’re not a robot.”

Sam snorted. “Debatable.”

Jake tossed another chip at him. “You can stay.”

It was a dumb joke. It landed somewhere deeper than it should’ve.

They talked a little longer: about the worst games they’d played, the best goals, the time Connor split his shorts mid-scrimmage and didn’t realize until two full minutes later.

The rain started to lighten.

Nobody moved to leave just yet.

When Coach came back out to wave them off and call the session for the day, they filed toward the locker room in loose, laughing clumps. Their shirts were soaked, socks squelching, and Jake was still carrying the empty chip bag like it was a trophy.

Sam started to follow, tugging his hoodie down over his damp curls, when Dylan hung back beside him.

He nudged Sam gently with his elbow, voice low. “So, you’ve been playing since you were six, huh?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Kind of always found a way.”

There was a pause. Nothing awkward, just a space held between them.

Then Dylan said, soft and certain, “I guess you’ve been one of us longer than we thought.”

Sam blinked. He didn’t know how to answer that.

So he just smiled.

____

It was supposed to be a low-stakes Thursday scrimmage.

JV vs Varsity. Shake off the rust, sharpen spacing, and let the underclassmen feel like they had a chance for about ten minutes.

Sam had shown up early, headphones in, monitor blinking steadily beneath his shirt. He wasn’t nervous, but his stomach buzzed with the kind of electricity he couldn’t blame on caffeine. He’d been practicing hard, getting sub minutes in real games, but he’d never started. Not officially. Not when it mattered.

And today wasn’t supposed to matter.

So when Coach Miller climbed up onto the low riser by the speaker stand and tapped the mic - cheap PA crackling, feedback squealing - Sam was just stretching out his calves, not expecting anything.

“Alright, lineup for Varsity side,” Coach said, loud enough to cut through the tail end of Connor’s playlist.

The locker room speaker had followed them onto the field, still blasting chaotic hype songs chosen by committee. Sam tried not to think too hard about the fact that half the team was yelling over a track that sounded suspiciously like polka dubstep.

“Connor, left wing. Jake, center back. Ryan, keeper. Dylan, attacking mid.”

Nothing surprising so far.

Sam bounced lightly on his toes, watching the sun glint off the bleachers. He told himself not to hope. Not yet.

“Sam, central mid.”

He froze. His cleat caught slightly on the turf, and he stumbled, catching himself on the bench.

Coach moved down the rest of the line-up like he hadn’t just said the biggest thing Sam had ever heard.

That wasn’t a mistake. That wasn’t a throwaway spot. That was vision. Ball control. Responsibility.

Sam’s chest felt tight, but not in a dangerous way. More like his heart had just remembered how to sprint.

“Did he say…?” he started.

“Yup,” Dylan cut in, already jogging past with one sock half-on and his water bottle tucked under his arm. “You’re with us now, rookie. Don’t freak out.”

Sam blinked. “I- what?”

“JV doesn’t know what’s coming,” Dylan said, smirking. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Sam looked down at his cleats. Then back at the turf. He wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t imagining it. Coach had said his name. Starting midfield.

Jake walked by and slapped his shoulder. “Try not to trip over the weight of our expectations.”

Connor added, “If you mess this up, we will make you sing at the banquet.”

Ryan: “You’ll be great. Ignore them.”

Sam’s legs moved automatically, following the wave of the team as they started jogging to the line.

His monitor stayed green.

The JV team looked loose and confident. Mostly freshmen and a few aggressive sophomores with something to prove. They grinned like they smelled blood.

Sam didn’t smile back.

The whistle blew.

And just like that, it was on.

____

The locker room was louder than usual. Post-win chaos had a specific energy: half adrenaline and half exhaustion, with someone always yelling off-key and someone else trying to get ice down the back of someone's shirt.

Sam sat at his locker, untying his cleats slowly, his muscles still buzzing. The guys were loud, but it didn’t bother him tonight. Not like it sometimes did.

Jake was across the room, towel around his shoulders, tossing gummy worms into his mouth like popcorn.

“You realize,” Connor said, grinning at him, “you’re the only guy who’s had sophomore jerseys in two different color palettes?”

“Twice the years, twice the fashion,” Jake shot back without missing a beat.

The locker room laughed. Sam did too, but the words stuck in his head.

Later, after most of the team had filtered out, Sam lingered by his locker, stuffing gear into his duffel. Dylan sat nearby, re-taping a brace around his wrist.

“Hey,” Sam asked, keeping his voice low. “What did Connor mean about Jake and jerseys?”

Dylan looked up, then back down at the wrap. “Jake flunked out last spring. Barely passed enough to finish the season. Coach told him he had to get his GPA up over the fall or he was off varsity.”

Sam blinked. “He repeated the year?”

Dylan nodded. “Yup. Technically a second-time sophomore. No one really brings it up unless they’re trying to piss him off. And even then, he usually beats them to the punchline.”

Sam thought about that as he zipped his bag. Jake, always loud. Always deflecting. Always turning everything into a joke before anyone else could make one at his expense.

“He worked his ass off in the fall,” Dylan added. “You wouldn’t know it by how he acts, but he cares. A lot.”

Sam glanced over to where Jake’s locker still sat open, soccer ball sticker peeling off the inside door.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I believe it.”

____

A few days later, the locker room buzzed with the usual end-of-practice noise: zippers, muttered curses over shin bruises, someone thumping their cleats against a bench just to be annoying. It smelled like sweat and turf and whatever unlabeled horror lived in the vents. Dylan didn’t mind it, not really. It meant they’d worked. It meant the season was ramping up.

He wiped a towel across the back of his neck and dropped onto the bench beside his duffel, absently scanning the room.

Ryan was unwrapping athletic tape with the care of a surgeon. Jake had flopped dramatically across two seats like he'd been shot mid-sprint. Connor was tugging his jersey over his head, mumbling something under his breath.

Dylan’s gaze drifted automatically toward the far end of the row.

Empty.

Sam had already left. Again. No shower, no sitting around, no lingering for post-practice banter. Just: drills, effort, silence. Gone.

“You guys notice he doesn’t trash-talk?” Connor’s voice cut through the steam-heavy air, dry as ever. “Like, ever?”

“Sam?” Dylan replied, dragging the towel down his face. “Yeah. It’s weird. Like... eerie weird.”

“He doesn’t talk, period,” Jake chimed in from his sprawl. “I tried to ask what music he likes, and he looked at me like I’d asked his blood type.”

Dylan huffed softly through his nose. Sam did that, those long blinks when he wasn’t sure if you were serious or about to turn on him. Like he was bracing for the wrong answer to be used against him.

Ryan didn’t look up. “Doesn’t mean he’s not listening.”

That got a nod from Dylan. “He’s always listening. And watching.”

Connor made a skeptical noise, tugging off a shin guard. “What, like he’s studying us?”

“Not like that,” Dylan said, leaning back against the locker with a soft thud. “I mean… yeah, maybe. But not in a weird way. It’s like he’s trying to map the field before he says anything. Like he’s not convinced we’ll stay.”

He hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.

Jake, of course, broke the moment. “Okay, but hear me out: what if he’s an alien?”

Ryan, bless him, didn’t even pause. “Then he’s the fastest alien we’ve ever recruited.”

Connor snorted. “Nah. He’s just real careful. Doesn’t waste words.”

But Dylan wasn’t laughing. His voice dropped, quieter now. “He stays late sometimes, you know. After drills. I’ve seen him. Runs the same patterns over again. Alone. Like he’s trying to get something perfect that no one else can see.”

He thought of the other night: walking back to his car and spotting Sam at the far end of the field under the floodlights, alone, red-pink sunset cutting across his face, ball at his feet like it was the only thing holding him to earth.

“He works like it’s the only way to breathe,” Dylan added, almost to himself.

Jake peeked up from where he was now balancing a sock on his face. “Okay, but also alien.”

Connor shot a balled-up practice tee at him. Dylan ignored them both.

“Still,” he said, “when he does talk… You kinda want to listen.”

And it was true. There was a weight to it when Sam spoke.

No one argued.

The room settled again, the quiet sort of calm that only came after shared bruises and mutual exhaustion. Dylan rested his arms on his knees, staring at the scuffed tile floor.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he liked Sam. Not just because he was fast or smart on the field, but because something about him felt honest in a way Dylan couldn’t explain. Like he was still figuring out what it meant to belong.

Jake finally sat up with a groan. “I hate how much I like him already.”

Connor smirked. “Yeah. Me too.”

Dylan didn’t say anything.

He just smiled, slow and quiet, and thought: Good. So it’s not just me.

A beat passed.

Then Jake straightened suddenly, a glint of mischief already forming. “Okay. So what’s the move?”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “Move?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “The ‘bring him into the fold’ move. Do we lure him with snacks? Trick him into a group project and never let him leave?”

Ryan looked up from his tape, expression deadpan. “You think this is a sitcom?”

Jake grinned. “I think he’s already halfway in and doesn’t know it yet. We just need to make it official.”

“We could start small,” Dylan offered, voice thoughtful. “Let him pick the warm-up playlist. Or invite him to the good seat at the lunch table.”

Jake blinked. “You mean the throne?”

Connor nodded solemnly. “That’s a sacred spot.”

Ryan smirked. “Then it’s settled. Operation: Kidnapping by Friendship.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “You’re all idiots.”

Jake shrugged. “Yeah, but we’re his idiots. Or we will be. Eventually.”

They didn’t call it a plan, exactly. But it was one.

____

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos. Metal trays banging, chairs dragging, someone’s backpack thudding to the floor like a sandbag. Sam paused just inside the double doors, lunch tray in hand, backpack strap digging into his shoulder. He hadn’t meant to hesitate, but he did.

Old instincts.

He did a quick sweep of the tables, eyes flicking past the band kids, the freshman corners, the loud table near the vending machines. He normally sat by the windows, two tables down from the guidance office. Not hidden, exactly, but out of the way.

“Yo, Winchester!”

Sam startled, turning towards the voice.

Dylan was waving him over with two fingers, already seated at the middle table. The table where varsity soccer parked itself every day, like it was their designated territory. Dylan’s legs were kicked out in front of him like he owned the space, at least until Jake knocked them off and claimed the seat. Ryan sat beside him, half-finished sandwich in hand, and Connor was elbow-deep in chips.

There was an empty chair.

Sam’s feet moved before his brain caught up.

“You finally gonna sit with the living this time?” Connor asked as Sam reached the table.

“I was gonna haunt the corner again,” Sam said quietly, “but I think I got kicked out.”

That got a short laugh. Ryan nudged a chocolate milk toward him without looking up. “Catch.”

Sam blinked. “This isn’t mine.”

“Yeah, it is,” Ryan said. “You scored two assists.”

“He does this,” Connor said around a mouthful of chips. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wasn’t,” Sam said quickly, setting it beside his tray.

He sat down, and his heart monitor chirped softly once, just a sync noise. Nothing was wrong, but he still adjusted his shirt just in case. Nobody said anything.

Across the table, Dylan was pointing a fry at Jake. “You were the one who didn’t drop to cover. He got in behind you.”

“He got in behind me because you drifted left,” Jake shot back.

“Ball was left.”

Sam watched them go back and forth for a second, then said, “It was the left wing.”

Four heads turned.

Sam cleared his throat. “He got behind because our midfield shifted too late to cover when Dylan moved wide. Jake didn’t have backup.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Dylan grinned and leaned back. “Freshman sees everything.”

Connor let out a groan. “That’s what I said, man.”

Ryan raised his milk. “Wisdom of the youngest. We are but peasants.”

Sam felt his face flush, but it wasn’t the bad kind. It wasn’t that hot shame from the fall, when people looked at him like he was cracked glass. This was different. This was warm. Anchored.

He picked at the corner of his napkin, letting the moment settle. He didn't push it, but let himself just be in it.

The team kept talking. Dylan made fun of Jake for his shin guard tan lines, and Ryan complained about the pre-game spaghetti dinner. Sam listened for a while, sipping chocolate milk and nodding where it made sense. No one asked him to prove himself. No one asked about the monitor. No one mentioned the past.

They just talked. Laughed. Saved him a seat.

They wanted me here.

Sam hadn’t realized how much that meant until now. How different it felt to be included without the usual explanation. Not because someone told them to be nice. Not because of pity.

Just because he played hard. Because he could keep up.

Because he’d earned it.

And for the first time since tryouts, Sam let himself settle into the cafeteria table like it was a chair he’d always been meant to fill.

____

The locker room pulsed with chaotic energy.

It wasn’t loud exactly, but everything felt turned up a notch, the way it always was before a game. Cleats thudded against tile. Zippers zipped. Lockers opened and slammed again. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, like even the electricity had nerves. Somewhere in the corner, a speaker fought for dominance over the noise, cycling through a playlist that veered from pump-up rap to sea shanties with confusing enthusiasm.

Jake: sea shanty evangelist. Figures.

Sam sat at the edge of the bench, elbows braced against his knees, head down as he worked the fabric of his compression shirt over his monitor. The device blinked faint green under the edge, small and solid and always there. It didn’t hurt; most days, he forgot it was even on, but it still made him feel different.

Especially now. It was the first game he’d be starting.

His stomach buzzed with something more than pre-game jitters. It wasn’t just nerves. It was pressure. Eyes. Expectations.

But in the middle of it all, Dylan moved like a man on a mission.

He had a clipboard. A literal clipboard. Sam hadn’t even known those existed outside of P.E. teachers and marching band instructors, but Dylan wielded it like a general checking troop readiness.

“Connor, lace your left boot again. It’s crooked.”

“Jake. That’s not water in your bottle, is it?”

Jake: “…It’s like… half-water?”

“You’re banned from mixing. Again.”

He paused to check someone’s shin guards, handed out a protein bar from the side pocket of his bag (the dad bag, as Sam had heard it called), and redirected someone else to the trainer for tape. It was like watching someone steer a stampede using only sarcasm and hand gestures.

That’s when Dylan appeared in front of him, flipping a page on his clipboard.

“Winchester.”

Sam looked up, startled.

Dylan’s jersey sleeves were shoved to his elbows, and a roll of athletic tape was looped around his wrist like a bracelet. He wasn’t out of breath. Wasn’t rushed. Just steady. Focused.

Sam straightened automatically. “Yeah?”

Dylan scanned him top to bottom, eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on the monitor. “You good?”

Sam nodded too quickly. “Yeah. I think so.”

“No alerts on the monitor?”

“Still green.”

Dylan gave a short nod, lips pressing together. He didn’t crouch or lean in or make it a thing. He just stood like he’d already decided Sam belonged here, no question about it.

“Good,” he said. “Tell me if that changes. Don’t push.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught somewhere behind his teeth.

It wasn’t like Dylan was overly nice, at least not right away. But once he got to know you, Sam realized he was solid. Reliable in a quiet way. He noticed things. Checked in, like it was just part of being captain.

And for reasons Sam didn’t totally understand, that made him want to play harder. Cleaner. Smarter. Like he owed it to Dylan not just to show up, but to show up right.

Sam sat frozen for a beat, heart ticking harder in his chest.

He looked down at his monitor, still green. Then back at the gear in front of him. Socks, cleats, shin guards. Everything was lined up like armor. Everything was in its place.

And for the first time since he’d made the team, the noise in the locker room felt like one he was a part of.

____

Practice ended with a whistle and a barked reminder from Coach Miller about “hydration, rest, and not acting like morons.” The team broke apart in a clatter of cleats and groans, some guys dragging toward the locker room, others flopping onto the grass like dramatic casualties of war.

Sam lingered at the edge of the field, stretching out his calves and tugging lightly at his shoelaces. His chest still hitched a little from the last few sprints, heart monitor tucked under his compression shirt, ticking away like it had something to prove. He wasn’t in a rush to get moving again. Not until he had to.

“Hey, Winchester!” Dylan called, already walking backwards toward the parking lot. “Smoothies. You in?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Post-practice tradition,” Connor added, coming up beside him. “We destroy our muscles, then drink stuff that allegedly helps. Or just gives us brain freeze. Depends on who you ask.”

Jake chimed in with a grin, “You’ve survived this far. That means you’ve officially earned a deeply artificial fruit slush.”

Sam opened his mouth. Then closed it.

His instinct was to say no. He could already hear his dad in his head, checking in on dinner, the dog, if Sam needed to rest after the extra laps Coach had tacked on for late warm-ups. Going out wasn’t… routine. And these guys, they were great, but this was still new.

“I dunno,” Sam hedged, brushing grass off his shin guards. “I should probably head home, and I don’t have any cash-”

“I’ll drive you,” Dylan cut in smoothly, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Scout’s honor. Straight from smoothies to your front door. You can even pick the music.”

Sam glanced at him. “What if I pick something terrible?”

“Then we all suffer together,” Dylan said, grinning. “Team bonding.”

“Plus,” Connor threw in. “I have emotionally distant divorced parents who pretend throwing money at me is the same thing as parenting. So I’m buying.”

There was a pause. Brief, but real. Sam felt it stretch like a thread between the part of him that still braced for everything to fall apart and the part that, weirdly, wanted to go. To say yes.

He nodded once, almost before he knew he would.

“Okay,” he said, fishing his phone out of his hoodie. “Just let me text my dad.”

Sam sent the text before he could talk himself out of it.

SAM: hey, can i go get smoothies with the team? dylan said he’ll drive me home after.

The reply came fast. Typical Dad.

DAD: Yeah, go. Don’t let them peer pressure you into anything with more sugar than water.

SAM: too late. they’re loud.

DAD: Don’t die.

Dylan saw the exchange and grinned. “We good?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. He said not to die.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” Connor said, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. “We’ll do our best.”

They piled into Dylan’s beat-up Civic, legs overlapping, backpacks crammed under seats. The drive wasn’t long, but the windows were down and the music was loud: something poppy and terrible that Jake insisted was “ironically good.”

Sam didn’t say much, but no one seemed to notice or mind. They made space without asking for anything back.

When they pulled into the strip mall lot and parked under the flickering sign, Dylan threw the car into park and announced, “Prepare your taste buds. And possibly your insurance info.”

Sam chuckled despite himself.

The smoothie place was wedged between a tanning salon and a nail bar, its neon sign flickering like it couldn’t quite commit to being open. Inside, the walls were painted a blinding green and decorated with laminated posters of mangoes flexing cartoon biceps. It smelled like frozen fruit, floor cleaner, and something vaguely floral that might’ve been Ryan’s deodorant.

Sam stood just behind the others in line, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders still faintly damp from practice. His heart monitor felt like a quiet pressure under his shirt, more present than loud, but enough to remind him it was there.

“Alright,” Jake announced, bouncing on his toes as they neared the counter, “who’s brave enough to try the Tropical Meltdown?”

Connor groaned. “That thing’s like five colors and none of them occur in nature.”

“That’s the point!” Jake fired back. “It’s chaos in a cup.”

Dylan leaned toward Sam, voice pitched low like a conspiracy. “Last time he drank that, he was vibrating.”

“Like… actually?” Sam asked, not meaning to sound so serious.

Dylan grinned. “He tripped over a trash can and blamed the ozone layer.”

Jake pointedly ignored them and stepped up to order. “One Tropical Meltdown, please. Extra meltdown.”

Sam eyed the menu. Most of the names were wild - Peach Punch, Banana Beauty Blast, Acai Avalanche - but he picked something with kale, protein, and banana. Something sensible. Something Dr. Lewis wouldn’t frown at.

He barely got the name out before Jake swung around, already sipping neon-orange foam through a straw.

“Try it,” Jake said, thrusting the cup toward him.

“I’m good.”

“No, no. This is important. It’s a rite of passage.”

Sam hesitated. But four sets of eyes were on him now, and none of them felt mocking. Just expectant. Loose-grinned. Curious.

He took the cup and sipped.

It tasted like liquefied Skittles and battery acid.

He coughed, then winced, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “That’s not a drink. That’s a warning label.”

The boys howled .

Jake laughed so hard he had to sit on the floor.

Ryan pointed and wheezed, “His face- oh my god- his face-”

Sam found himself laughing too. Not the quiet kind he did sometimes at practice, but a real one. It escaped without permission and settled like warmth in his chest.

They grabbed a booth near the back, drinks in hand, stretching their legs across each other’s laps like they’d done it a hundred times. Sam hesitated for just a second, hovering, unsure if he should wedge in or hang back, but Connor scooted over and thumped the seat beside him without looking.

“C’mon,” Connor said. “You earned sugar with us. Don’t waste it.”

Sam slid in next to him. No one blinked.

They didn’t talk about soccer. Or school. Instead:

“All right,” Ryan said, slurping his Strawberry Smash through a too-short straw, “important question: top three cartoon crushes growing up. Go.”

“Oh, easy,” Dylan said. “Shego from Kim Possible. Raven from Teen Titans. That girl mouse from The Great Mouse Detective-”

“Wait, the mouse?” Jake cut in. “You’re outing yourself as a mouse-lover on a smoothie run?”

“She wore boots and had good posture!” Dylan protested. “Respectfully.”

Sam choked on a laugh and covered it with his straw. Connor elbowed him lightly.

“Yours, Winchester?”

Sam blinked. “Me?”

“No, the other quiet freshman drinking kale,” Ryan said.

Sam hesitated, then shrugged. “Uh… Katara. From Avatar.”

Ryan snapped his fingers. “Solid choice. She had depth.”

“And water powers,” Sam added, a little more confident now.

“Yeah, but you strike me as more of a Toph guy,” Dylan said thoughtfully. “Small, angry, extremely smart. No offense.”

“I mean,” Sam said, tilting his head, “Toph would win a fight.”

“Toph would start the fight,” Jake added. “And finish it before anyone else notices.”

“Speaking of fights: worst injury?” Connor asked. “Like the dumbest way you’ve ever gotten hurt.”

Jake immediately raised a hand. “Broke my toe tripping over my dog. I was carrying Pop-Tarts. It was tragic.”

“Did you drop the Pop-Tarts?” Sam asked.

“No,” Jake said proudly. “I landed on the dog, the floor, and my dignity. But the Pop-Tarts survived.”

“King,” Dylan said, fist-bumping him.

“Your turn, rookie,” Ryan said. “Weirdest or worst injury. C’mon.”

Sam hesitated. Not that one , he thought as he flipped through his memories. Not the real ones. Not the ones that had heart monitors and echo tests and demons attached. So he went for something smaller.

“I ran full speed into a screen door when I was like ten,” he said. “Thought it was open.”

“Classic,” Connor said. “Did you bounce or crash through?”

“Crashed through,” Sam admitted. “Dean - uh, my dad - was so mad he made me fix the frame before dinner.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just registering the correction on the word dad.

Then Dylan grinned. “That’s character development right there.”

Sam relaxed into the seat a little more.

“Okay,” Ryan said, slurping the last of his smoothie. “Now for the hard one: zombie apocalypse. Who survives the longest?”

“Me,” Jake said immediately. “I have a machete under my bed.”

Everyone turned to stare.

“What?” Jake said. “It was a gift.”

“No follow-up questions,” Connor muttered.

“I feel like Dylan dies first,” Ryan mused. “But in a noble way. Like, sacrifices himself for the group.”

“Absolutely not,” Dylan said. “I’m pushing one of you down and running. Probably Sam. He’s fast, but he’s also light.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You think you could push me down.”

Dylan pointed. “See? This is why you die second.”

Sam snorted, then leaned back in his seat. “You’re all doing it wrong.”

That got their attention.

“What, oh, wise kale drinker, is the correct strategy?” Jake asked dramatically.

Sam didn’t hesitate.

“First week, you stay mobile. Find high ground. Get out of population centers, but don’t go too rural or you’ll isolate. Two-way radio, not a phone. Satellite towers will be the first to go. You want access to water, gear, fuel, and fallback shelter. Ideally, a place with choke points. Think fire escapes, back stairwells, basements that only lock from the inside. Canned food over MREs. Traps, if you know how to rig them, or at least glass on the ground near the door, so you hear movement. Oh, and stay away from hospitals. Worst place to go. Everyone panics and goes there first.”

Silence.

Four boys stared at him like he’d just spoken in Latin.

Sam blinked, suddenly aware of the stillness. “What?”

Connor tilted his head. “Dude, that was, like, ready.”

“I mean,” Sam said, voice going a little self-conscious, “I think about stuff.”

Ryan looked deeply alarmed. “You have choke point preferences.”

“It’s just logistics,” Sam mumbled, poking at the edge of his smoothie cup.

Dylan let out a low whistle. “Okay. Change of plan, Sam is the one who survives the longest. We all follow him.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “I rescind my machete. It belongs to our new warlord.”

Sam groaned and hid his face in his hands, laughing despite himself.

Connor leaned in with a grin. “Seriously, though. Glass on the ground?”

“Classic hunter move,” Sam said without thinking.

There was a pause.

Then: “What?" Dylan asked, cracking up. “Hunter like, deer? Or like, zombie hunter?”

Sam froze for half a second. Then shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Deer.”

No one questioned it.

Ryan was too busy saying, “I’m gonna start sleeping with shoes on just in case,” and Dylan was already planning an emergency kit that involved Cheez-Its and duct tape.

Sam just smiled into his drink and let it happen.

The parking lot had mostly emptied by the time they emerged from the smoothie place, sticky-fingered and loud. Dusk had rolled in while they weren’t looking, smudging the horizon with soft purples and haze. A streetlight buzzed half-heartedly overhead.

Dylan jingled his keys. “All right, clowns. Shotgun is survival of the fittest.”

“Called it!” Connor shouted, bolting toward the car.

“You can’t call it when you’re already running, man!” Jake yelled, sprinting after him.

Ryan sighed, shaking his head. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Sam hung back a few steps, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He didn’t know where he fit in this particular chaos. He still wasn’t sure if he did fit. But then Dylan glanced back and tilted his head.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Just thinking.”

“You always say that,” Dylan replied with a grin. “Thinking’s good. We just reserve the right to bully you about it.”

Sam huffed out a laugh. “Noted.”

By the time he reached the car, Connor had secured shotgun and was already DJ-ing, scrolling through a playlist called soccer dads but make it rage. Jake and Ryan piled into the back seat, arguing about whether smoothies should be considered soup.

Sam hesitated for a second, then opened the back door and slid in beside them. Dylan started the car with a cough from the engine and flicked the headlights on.

“Hey,” Connor said over his shoulder, “you still cool with us dropping you off?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Dylan said. “We don’t leave teammates behind. Unless you say something truly cursed about food. Then it’s every man for himself.”

“Like what?” Sam asked warily.

“Like…” Dylan drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Connor thinks ketchup belongs on mac and cheese.”

“It does,” Connor said without shame. “It’s tangy. It adds flavor.”

“You add flavor,” Jake muttered.

“Guys,” Ryan said with the voice of someone who had clearly tried to mediate chaos before, “please don’t fistfight in a Honda Civic.”

Sam grinned quietly and leaned his head against the window as the car rolled out of the lot. The breeze from the cracked windows tugged at his curls. A bass-heavy song kicked in, and Jake immediately sang the wrong words at full volume.

“You’re so loud,” Dylan muttered.

“I’m an artist,” Jake replied.

They turned down Sam’s street a few minutes later, the car growing quieter as the houses grew dim and familiar. But instead of stopping in front of a typical driveway, Dylan slowed near the entrance of a wide gravel lot framed by chain-link fencing and the iron arch that read Singer Auto.

He threw the car into park and blinked. “Uh… this it?”

Sam nodded, grabbing his bag and popping the door open. “Yeah.”

Jake leaned forward between the seats. “Dude. You live at a salvage yard?"

Sam shrugged, a little sheepish. “Yeah. My dad and uncle run it. We live in the house behind the main garage.”

Connor turned to squint out the window. “That explains the row of rusted bumpers and... is that a vending machine just standing there?”

“Only takes quarters,” Sam said. “Don’t trust the grape soda button.”

Ryan pointed at the sign. “Wait. Singer Salvage? No way, I think your dad fixed my family’s truck last winter. Red F-150, busted front axle?”

Sam grinned, already halfway out of the car. “Yeah, that sounds like us.”

“Well, damn,” Jake said. “Scrapyard prince. Respect.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “Next time we hang out, are we climbing car stacks or what?”

Sam shrugged again, this time with a smile. “If you’re not scared of tetanus and questionable upholstery, sure.”

Dylan laughed. “You’re officially the weirdest one of us now. Congratulations.”

“I’ll try to live up to the honor,” Sam said, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stepped onto the gravel.

“Next time, you pick the place,” Ryan called from behind him.

Sam paused, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “We believe in democracy.”

“Just not anything with wheatgrass,” Jake added. “I have standards.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He stepped toward the house, but the car didn’t pull away right away. The windows were still down. As he reached his front steps, Dylan called out from the driver’s seat, “Hey! We had fun tonight, rookie.”

Sam turned back.

“I mean it,” Dylan said. “Come with us again. You’re… y’know. One of us.”

The car lingered for a few more seconds, then pulled away with the windows down, music drifting behind them like an echo.

The porch light flicked on as Sam walked up, his dad opening the front door.

“You make it out alive?” Dad asked, arms crossed but relaxed, the way he got when things were okay and he didn’t want to spook it.

Sam nodded. “Barely. I think Jake’s smoothie was sentient.”

Dad grinned. “I warned you.”

As Sam stepped inside and dropped his bag by the door, he realized something strange.

His face still hurt a little.

From smiling.

____

Dylan didn’t plan on sticking around after the drop-off.

But somehow, one wrong turn and a shouted “We’re ordering pizza, deal with it!” from Jake turned into him parked in Connor’s driveway, upstairs on a carpet that smelled like old Doritos, with Jake horizontal on the bed like he’d just run a marathon and Connor sprawled upside-down in his desk chair like gravity was optional.

Ryan had claimed the beanbag. Dylan sat with his back against the wall, long legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, fingers idly scrolling through his photo gallery. He’d gotten a shot of Sam mid-laugh at the smoothie shop by accident. It was unfocused, but sharp enough to catch the way his eyes scrunched and his hand covered his mouth like he still wasn’t used to laughing that hard in front of people.

Jake broke the silence first, still facedown in Connor’s comforter. “That was the best night of my life.”

Connor snorted. “You say that every time you have sugar after practice.”

Jake rolled over, limbs splayed dramatically. “No, but like, Sam. He took one sip of my smoothie and made that face, you know the one, like his brain short-circuited and his ancestors felt the citrus. And then he hit me with that line. ‘That’s not a drink, that’s a warning label.’ I’m still recovering.”

Dylan let out a low laugh. “You sat down on the floor of a public smoothie place. You physically collapsed.”

“It was worth it,” Jake said, grinning. “I didn’t know the kid was funny.”

Ryan stretched his legs out across the beanbag. “I didn’t know the kid could talk so much.”

Connor hummed. “He’s got that quiet thing, y’know? Like you forget he’s there until he says something and it’s weirdly insightful.”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Like that apocalypse rant. I was halfway through mocking him, and then I was like, wait. Why does he actually sound like he has a plan?”

Ryan tilted his head thoughtfully. “You think he’s like that all the time? When he’s with other people?”

Dylan didn’t answer right away. He was still looking at the photo.

Sam had looked… not just happy. Light.

It hit something in his chest that he wasn’t ready to unpack.

Connor broke the silence first. “I like him more than I expected to.”

Jake made a noise halfway between a gasp and a scoff. “Rude.”

“You know what I mean,” Connor said. “At first, I thought he was just that quiet freshman who runs like he’s being chased. Now I kinda want to keep him.”

Dylan smiled a little. “He’s smart. Scary smart.”

Ryan nodded. “I noticed that.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “And he listens. Really listens. Like when he asked about Jake’s dog injury, he remembered the name and the breed.”

Jake blinked. “He did?”

Dylan shrugged. “Sam’s got a mind like a net. Nothing slips through.”

Connor ran a hand through his hair. “It’s wild. We invite him out once, and it already feels wrong imagining next time without him.”

Ryan grinned. “Y’all soft. We’re keeping the quiet one, huh?”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. He’s ours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Dylan tapped his phone screen off and leaned his head against the wall. “He’s getting there.”

He didn’t say the rest out loud: that they had to make sure Sam stayed. That the kind of quiet he carried didn’t come from nothing. That Dylan had seen too many people like that let themselves drift out of orbit the second they thought they weren’t wanted.

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

____

The day after the smoothie shop, Sam’s phone lit up with a text at 6:43 PM sharp, midway through mashed potatoes.

It buzzed once. Then again. Then, in a near-constant rhythm that made Uncle Bobby pause, fork halfway to his mouth. “Either there’s a fire,” he said, “or that thing’s tryin’ to give me a seizure.”

Sam jumped up and scrambled to pick it up off the counter before it skidded into the gravy. The lock screen was already glowing with message previews:

DYLAN: NEW BLOOD ALERT

RYAN: he lives

CONNOR: incoming chaos

JAKE: don’t let him leave

DYLAN: Winchester’s in  

Sam blinked. For a second, he thought they’d accidentally added the wrong Winchester. But no, there it was. A notification banner at the top of the screen: Added to: V-Team (Elites Only)

Their group chat. They’d added him.

His fingers hovered above the screen for a beat too long. Then he glanced up. Dad was still talking to Bobby about brake pads, completely unaware.

Sam looked back down and tapped it open.

Messages flooded the thread faster than he could read them. Some were memes. Some were play gifs. Some were emojis in languages no one spoke. Someone had photoshopped Coach Miller’s face onto a goat. Dylan was threatening to make everyone do burpees for “emoji misuse.”

And at the very bottom:

RYAN: srsly though

welcome aboard, kid

CONNOR: don’t screw it up

JAKE: or do, it’s more entertaining that way

Sam didn’t even realize he was grinning until he caught his reflection in the microwave door.

“You gonna join the rest of us?” Dad asked, finally noticing him hovering by the sink. “Your potatoes are getting cold. Or, colder.”

Sam slid back into his seat and forked up a bite. “Sorry. Got added to a group chat.”

His dad paused. “Yeah?”

“They called me ‘new blood.’ Also, possibly a cult. Not sure yet.”

Uncle Bobby snorted. “You say that like it’s not true of most team sports.”

Sam smirked and thumbed his reply into the thread, quick and dry:

SAM: statistically speaking, i’m already better than all of you

DYLAN: damn

RYAN: bold

JAKE: DELETE THIS MAN

CONNOR: oh i like this

Dad watched the buzz of the phone out of the corner of his eye, then gave Sam a look. “You okay?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I think I might be officially in.”

His dad didn’t say anything right away. He just reached over and stole a bite of Sam’s potatoes.

“I could’ve told you that,” he said around the mouthful.

Sam snorted. “Rude.”

Sam’s phone buzzed again. Then again. Then Connor sent a six-second voice memo of him screaming “WHEEEEEELLLLLS” into a wind tunnel.

Sam didn’t mute it.

He laughed, and he didn’t check his monitor once that night.

____

Sam didn’t expect to be ambushed outside of third period.

He’d barely shut his locker when Dylan slid up beside him like a shark on sneakers, grinning widely and holding up his phone like it was Exhibit A in a federal case.

“Okay,” Dylan said, “you need to explain this.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Dylan turned the screen toward him.

On it was Sam’s group chat reply from the night before: “statistically speaking, i’m already better than all of you” - with about fourteen crying-laughing emojis following it and one blurry picture of someone fainting.

“I was kidding,” Sam said, deadpan.

“See, that’s where you messed up,” said Jake, appearing on Sam’s other side like this was a coordinated ambush. “You said it like a joke, but now we’re making it your brand.”

“What brand?”

Connor appeared behind him somehow. “Confidence with spreadsheets.”

“Oh my god,” Sam muttered.

“You’re an icon,” Dylan said cheerfully. “We took a vote this morning. You’re now the official stat keeper and head of moral intimidation.”

“I didn’t authorize a vote.”

“That’s how you know it was democratic.”

Sam sighed and started walking toward math class. They followed.

“You guys are the worst,” he muttered.

“Yet here you are,” Ryan pointed out as he walked up, shouldering his backpack like this was a group hike.

“You like us,” Connor added.

“Debatable.”

“C’mon,” Dylan said. “We’re obviously your favorites. Admit it.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch of a smile. He didn’t respond. Not aloud, anyway. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and fired off a new message to the group chat:

SAM: didn’t realize bullying the “stat-keeper” was part of the strategy

Within three seconds, everyone’s phones buzzed.

DYLAN: IT BUILDS CHARACTER

JAKE: AND STAMINA

CONNOR: AND TEAM BONDING

RYAN: plus it’s funny

Dylan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his phone.

“Yep,” Sam said, pushing open the classroom door. “Regret.”

____

It started in the parking lot, as most of their dumbest moments did.

Dylan tossed his cleats into the trunk of his car with the kind of flair that said I’m done being an athlete now, and leaned dramatically against the bumper. “I’m just saying,” he announced, “if I had been in that drill, I would’ve scored at least twice.”

“You were in that drill,” Sam said, deadpan.

Dylan blinked. “No I wasn’t.”

“You tripped over your foot and Coach told you to hydrate before you concussed the grass.”

Connor made a strangled choking sound as he tried not to laugh. Jake didn’t bother trying.

Ryan pointed across the lot. “I think the grass is still mad about it.”

“Okay, wow,” Dylan said, pointing at Sam like he’d just been personally betrayed. “Et tu, midfield?”

Sam shrugged, sipping his Gatorade. “I’m just reporting the facts.”

“Oh no,” Dylan said. “This is slander. You realize this is slander, right?”

“Slander has to be false,” Sam replied.

That earned a full cackle from Jake, who doubled over against the passenger door. “He lawyered you, man.”

“He’s been waiting,” Connor said. “That one’s been marinating since the second Dylan ate it during the cone weave.”

“Whatever,” Dylan muttered, folding his arms. “I hope your kale smoothie turns on you.”

“It already did,” Sam said. “But at least I didn’t blame the ozone layer.”

That broke the group.

Jake wheezed. “Oh my god, he remembers!"

“You see what happens when you let him into the group chat?” Ryan added. “He gets mouthy. ”

“Traitor,” Dylan said, half-laughing, pointing again like Sam had betrayed some sacred trust.

“I’m evolving,” Sam said innocently. “Like a Pokémon. Only meaner.”

Connor reached out and clapped him on the back. “We're officially keeping you now. No returns.”

“Finally,” Jake muttered. “Now if we could just get him to stop stretching like an 80-year-old man after every drill-”

“I have a medical excuse,” Sam said, raising both hands.

“Yeah, well,” Dylan grumbled, “your sarcasm is fully functional.”

“Must be the kale,” Sam said with a smirk.

They stood there for a second, the five of them, loitering in the lot as the sun dipped low and Coach’s truck pulled away in the distance. Laughter still echoed faintly across the pavement. Someone’s car alarm chirped in the next row over.

No one said it, but the moment had weight. The kind that snuck up on him. The kind that told him this isn’t just a team anymore.

This was something better.

____

Sam was still catching his breath in the locker room - sweaty, grass-streaked, and half-drenched from drills - when Jake slung an arm across his shoulders like they’d known each other since birth.

“Sleepover,” Jake announced, tone booming like it was a public service. “Tonight. Mandatory. Non-negotiable.”

“What?” Sam blinked, one hand on his locker, the other still fumbling for his combination. “I- I didn’t know-”

“You heard him,” Connor said, leaning against the wall with a Gatorade bottle tucked under one arm like a coaching clipboard. “We’ve got pizza, movies, and those weird off-brand Oreos Jake swears taste better. My place. My dad’s on a business trip, so it’s just us.”

“They do taste better,” Jake said, already defensive. “They’ve got, like, extra chemicals or something. Real flavor.”

“I have to ask my-” Sam started, the sentence automatic.

My dad’ll never-

“Dean already said yes,” Dylan cut in, strolling past them like this wasn’t a social coup. “He texted me. Said to make sure you don’t try to bail.”

Sam froze. “He what?"

“Yeah,” Ryan added, peeling a sticker off his water bottle. “Said, and I quote, ‘He could use a night off from worrying.'"

Sam’s brain short-circuited.

“Wait, wait. How do you even have his number?”

Jake smirked. “Group chat.”

“What group chat?”

“The ‘We’re Adopting Sam’ group chat,” Connor deadpanned, then shrugged. “Kidding. Mostly. Dylan got it from Dean after that one time you bailed mid-lunch with a headache and didn’t say anything.”

Sam flushed. “I didn’t bail.”

“You disappeared,” Dylan said. “Dean said that happens sometimes when you push too hard. He wanted us to know what to watch for.”

Sam’s mouth opened. Closed. Tried again. Failed.

Ryan looked up. “You okay?”

Sam managed, “You… guys talk to my dad?”

Jake leaned in conspiratorially. “Bro. Your dad likes us. He called me ‘loud but functional.’ That’s practically a love letter.”

Connor grinned. “You’re already packed, by the way. I saw your bag in Dylan’s car.”

Sam blinked. “What bag?”

“Duffle with a cartoon sticker on the zipper,” Jake said. 

Sam stared at them. Every part of him wanted to protest, to say they shouldn’t have gone behind his back, that his dad didn’t just say yes to things, that he wasn’t… he wasn’t good at this.

“You’re part of the group now, Sammy,” Jake said, lighter this time. “Which means forced socialization and the legally required annual rite of pizza worship.”

Sam’s heart was beating too fast.

Not in the monitor-panic way. Just too full.

Connor thumped his back, a solid, brotherly pat that Sam braced for, but it didn’t hurt. “C’mon, man. You’re overdue for a night where no one talks about drills or biology quizzes or whatever it is you mumble to your notebook during lunch.”

Sam huffed a shaky laugh, still wide-eyed. “You guys are insane.”

“Absolutely,” Ryan said. “Now get in the car.”

So he went.

By the time they made it to Connor’s house and the chaos of pizza ordering began, Sam was a little less on edge.

Not relaxed , but the tension had shifted from tightrope to hammock: still there, still holding, but not straining. The house was lived-in and loud, the kitchen big enough for all five of them but cluttered like someone had tried to clean in a rush and lost steam halfway through. A backpack sat under the kitchen table. A Nerf dart clung to the ceiling like it lived there now.

It smelled like pepperoni, carpet, and that strange, musky teenage-boy combination of deodorant and something burnt in the microwave.

Sam hovered near the fridge.

Not fully separate, not fully in it either. Close enough to nod along. Close enough to fake it.

The others moved like they’d done this a hundred times: Jake waving pizza coupons like trading cards, Connor yelling from the couch about getting half pepperoni and “don’t screw this up again, Jacob,” Ryan and Dylan mock-wrestling for control of the speaker.

Sam didn’t know how to belong in moments like this. He was used to being in the background. Quiet and helpful, never disruptive. He laughed when they laughed and kept his arms folded close. One hand stayed near his chest, where the heart monitor blinked under his hoodie like a tiny, constant reminder: You’re not like them.

It didn’t hurt, but it made space hard to breathe in sometimes.

And then, midway through Jake doing a god-awful impression of a pizza place employee, Sam’s chest fluttered.

It was small. Barely there.

Not pain. Just pressure. The kind of tightness he’d learned to measure in seconds. To track in numbers. Five seconds in. Hold. Seven out. He didn’t panic. Didn’t show it.

He stepped back. His hand drifted to his waist and pressed through the fabric, feeling the familiar shape of the monitor. A quiet blink under his palm. A grounding point.

He leaned against the fridge. Tried to look casual. Tried not to check out completely.

But the air shifted.

He didn’t know if it was the way he moved, or how still he suddenly went, or maybe just the fact that his hoodie stretched wrong across his shoulders. Whatever it was, it registered.

Connor stopped talking. Jake trailed off mid-sentence. Somewhere behind him, Ryan’s soda fizzed softly in the quiet.

Sam could feel it. The focus.

Not cruel. Not mocking, but focused. Watching. Waiting.

And then Dylan was in front of him. He was calm; steady hands that reached forward and lifted the hem of Sam’s hoodie about an inch, just enough to see what mattered.

Sam stiffened slightly, but Dylan didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch, didn’t make it weird. He just waited for the light.

Blink.

Green.

He let the hoodie fall.

“Still green,” Dylan said simply.

Sam’s breath caught somewhere in his throat.

He waited for the tension to return. For the questions. For someone to say he should sit down, lie down, or call someone.

But it didn’t come. None of it came.

They weren’t afraid of the light, or the monitor, or him. That realization slid in, quiet and unfamiliar.

They weren’t afraid.

Ryan stepped forward and offered him a plate.

“Emergency pizza protocol,” Ryan said like it was a rule they all knew. “Sit and chew. We’ll handle the rest.”

Jake slung an arm across Sam’s shoulders and nudged him toward the counter. “And if you pass out, I’m eating your second slice.”

Sam blinked. “Rude,” he muttered, but he was already walking.

Connor slid a paper towel across the counter like it was a cloth napkin. “You good now?”

Sam hesitated, then nodded.

He sat on the nearest barstool and took a bite of the pizza. It was greasy and too hot and perfect.

The pressure in his chest hadn’t vanished. But it wasn’t tight anymore. Wasn’t sharp. It reduced to background static, softened by blinking green and familiar voices and the simple, absurd comfort of watching Jake argue about whether pineapple on pizza was a war crime or an evolutionary step forward.

Nobody hovered. Nobody stared. They just kept going.

Sam leaned back into the stool, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, and let the noise settle around him.

They were already debating Marvel characters and which one would win in a fight. Jake made a case for Spider-Man; Ryan loudly insisted it was Black Panther, “no contest.” Connor was halfway through a passionate defense of Iron Man when Dylan leaned over and said, “Sam’s probably a Hawkeye guy. Strategic. Quiet. Not flashy.”

Sam smiled at his pizza.

A few hours later, the pizza boxes were mostly empty. A few crusts lay abandoned like fallen soldiers, and Jake was on the floor with a pillow over his stomach, groaning theatrically about “cheese betrayal” while Ryan made vague gagging noises from the beanbag chair.

Dylan was half-dozing against the side of the couch, scrolling through his phone. Connor had turned the lights down and queued up a movie none of them were watching. It was just background noise now, full of dramatic violin stings and camera angles trying too hard.

Sam sat cross-legged at the edge of the carpet, hoodie sleeves half over his hands, his plate resting in his lap. He hadn’t moved much since the “emergency pizza protocol,” but the weight in his chest had stayed soft and steady. The monitor blinked against his ribs beneath the fabric. Still green.

Still okay.

Jake broke the quiet first, in typical Jake fashion.

“I’m gonna be a vampire for Halloween.”

Ryan tossed a popcorn kernel at him. “You say that every year.”

“This year, I mean it. I’ve matured emotionally.”

“You wore a cape and glitter last year.”

Jake sat up with great effort. “Exactly. This year: no glitter. Just fangs, drama, and a cloak that billows when I turn.”

Sam blinked. “You’d need a wind machine.”

Jake pointed at him. “You get me.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “You just want an excuse to wear eyeliner.”

Jake shrugged. “And?”

Dylan snorted and shoved a pillow over his face.

Sam didn’t mean to say anything. It had just slipped out, soft and automatic, the way facts always did when he wasn’t busy guarding the door in his chest.

“You know folklore vampires didn’t even bite people, right?”

The room stilled just enough to notice.

Jake blinked. “Wait. What?”

Sam hesitated. “They didn’t have fangs. Not at first. They were red and bloated, like… full of blood already. Not pale. More like decaying. And they didn’t bite. They crushed people’s chests and drank through the skin.”

Connor spoke without looking away. “Let him talk. This is my new favorite show.”

Ryan held up his hands. “I’m learning things. Do not interrupt the freshman.”

“In Slavic mythology,” Sam went on, encouraged now, “they were more like plague carriers. People blamed them when entire villages got sick. There were different methods of prevention depending on the region. Sometimes stakes, sometimes bricks in the mouth. Sometimes they just turned the body face-down so it couldn’t find its way out of the grave.”

Jake looked deeply alarmed. “Why do you know that?”

Sam blinked. “I read a lot.”

Dylan, now fully awake, lifted his head. “You just had that in the chamber?”

“I mean…” Sam’s fingers twisted in his hoodie sleeve. “I used to have a book. On… monster myths. Alphabetized by origin.”

Connor looked at him for a long second. Then said, perfectly sincere, “You’re amazing.”

Sam ducked his head. “I’m just weird.”

“No,” Jake said, sitting up straighter. “You’re our weird.”

Ryan nodded solemnly. “And we need to talk more about grave bricks. Immediately.”

Sam stared at them. Then he laughed. Quiet, breathy, and barely there, but real.

Dylan tossed a blanket over his legs without looking. “New rule,” he stated. “Sam tells one horrifying fact per night, or he doesn’t get dessert.”

“I don’t want dessert,” Sam said.

“You say that now,” Jake countered, “but wait ‘til Connor’s dad’s Oreos appear.”

“They’re off-brand,” Connor reminded them. “They’ve got a vaguely threatening mascot.”

“That raccoon has secrets, ” Ryan added.

Sam just smiled and leaned back against the couch, the corner of the blanket brushing his wrist. His heart hadn’t fluttered again. The monitor kept blinking.

And none of them seemed scared of the monsters he carried in his head.

Just fascinated. Like maybe the weird wasn’t something to fix. Maybe it was his.

____

It was supposed to be a quick pit stop. Coach had let them off the bus for exactly twenty minutes while he picked up catering from a local diner, and the boys had scattered like feral cats into the shops lining the town square. Most of them hit the gas station. Ryan made a beeline for the hardware store for reasons no one questioned.

Dylan watched as Sam slipped into the used bookstore.

He didn’t announce it. Didn’t invite anyone along. He drifted toward the sign with peeling gold letters and the smell of old pages curling in the open doorway. He wandered inside like someone following a thread.

Ten minutes later, Dylan walked in pretending to look for snacks and found Sam crouched on the floor of the sci-fi section, flipping gently through a dog-eared paperback. His bag was still slung across one shoulder, and his hair had curled slightly at the ends from the humidity outside.

Sam didn’t look up right away. He turned another page and then finally said, without glancing over, “Have you ever read Ender’s Game?”

Dylan leaned against the nearest shelf. “Yeah. Freshman year.”

Sam nodded once. “I figured.” He set the book aside and pulled another one off the shelf. “This one feels more like you.”

He held it out: The Dispossessed, its spine cracked and cover faded.

Dylan didn’t move for a second. Then he took it.

“Why?” he asked.

Sam just shrugged. “It’s complicated. But steady. Kind of... quiet intense. The kind of thing that makes more sense the longer you sit with it.” He stood, brushing his palms on his shorts. “I mean, you don’t have to get it. I just thought-”

“No,” Dylan said. He looked down at the book again. “Thanks.”

Sam gave a one-shouldered shrug and ambled toward the front counter, grabbing a slim poetry collection with a $2 sticker on the front. He was out the door a minute later, quiet and unassuming, like he hadn’t just handed Dylan something that landed like a weight to the chest.

Outside, Jake leaned on the brick wall under the awning, nursing a sports drink.

“Did he find the weird corner where they hide the cursed tomes?” Jake asked casually.

Dylan shook his head slowly, still holding the book. “He found the one that fits me.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

Dylan looked up, dead serious. “We’re adopting him.”

Jake snorted. “Took you long enough.”

Dylan didn’t answer at first. He thumbed the edge of the book cover, staring down at the worn title like it had more to tell him.

He wasn’t used to being read like that, not without a punchline or a label attached. Most people saw noises, grins, and deflection. Even Coach only noticed the focus when it bled onto the field. But Sam?

Sam had looked right through all of it and still thought it was a compliment.

“He just knew,” Dylan said finally, voice low. “Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second-guess it. He handed it over like it was obvious.”

Jake tilted his head. “That’s kind of his thing, though. He notices stuff. Like, quietly.”

A pause.

“Yeah,” Dylan murmured. “That’s what gets you.”

Footsteps clattered behind them. Connor jogged up, holding two melted candy bars and a receipt that looked like it had been through a war. “Okay. Update. Ryan bought four feet of chain, a clamp light, and a can of paint. We’re not asking why.”

Jake didn’t even blink. “Standard Ryan.”

Connor looked between the two of them, narrowing his eyes at the book in Dylan’s hands. “What’s that?”

“Gift,” Dylan said simply.

Connor stared. “Wait. Did Sam give you a book?”

Jake, grinning: “And made Dylan feel emotions. It was brutal.”

Connor gave a long, dramatic whistle. “All right. Well, that seals it.”

Jake smirked. “Dylan already claimed him.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t claim him, I just-”

“Nope,” Connor said. “You hesitated. That’s legally binding.”

Dylan crossed his arms, still holding the book. “I’m the oldest. That counts for something.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, what does that have to do with anything?”

“It means if anyone gets custody, it’s me,” Dylan said firmly. “Oldest sibling privilege. I know how to cook. I keep emergency granola bars in my bag. I’ve driven in a snowstorm without panicking. I qualify. ”

Jake snorted. “What, like we’re filling out an application to emotionally adopt him?”

“Exactly,” Dylan said. “And mine is already submitted. I have references. Coach would back me.”

Connor leaned against the wall with an exaggerated groan. “Unbelievable. You’re really pulling the big brother card.”

“I am the big brother,” Dylan shot back.

“I’m not calling you Dad,” Jake said immediately.

“Good,” Dylan muttered. “That’d be unsettling.”

Ryan, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. “So what I’m hearing is Sam’s got shared custody in a chaotic group home with no official paperwork, and Dylan gets seniority privileges if there’s ever a disaster.”

Dylan gave a small nod. “That sounds about right.”

Jake glanced toward the bus, then back at the group. “Guess we should go pick up our emotionally adopted freshman before he wanders into traffic.”

They started walking.

Sam turned when they reached him, eyebrows slightly raised. “Did something happen?”

“Nope,” Connor said brightly. “Just confirming family roles.”

Jake gave him finger guns. “You’re the youngest. Sorry, we voted.”

Sam looked at Dylan. “Did you vote?”

“I organized the vote,” Dylan said, deadpan.

Sam opened his mouth, baffled, but Ryan cut in dryly: “It was unanimous.”

“Also,” Jake added, “we’re making you a chore chart.”

Sam stared at them. “Is this because of the book?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

“And the poetry,” Connor chimed in.

Jake grinned. “And the thing with the dog.”

“What thing with the dog?” Sam asked, immediately defensive.

“You told her she was doing her best,” Dylan said calmly, tossing a hand over his shoulder. “Come on. We’re boarding. Let’s go.”

Sam stood there a second too long, stunned.

Then he followed them up the steps, still tucked under Dylan's arm.

Chapter Text

Sam didn’t quite love the locker room yet.

It was loud, and cold, and smelled like sweat and wet turf and whatever horror lived inside Ryan’s cleats. The boys were always shouting over each other, tossing towels, flinging tape balls, grabbing protein bars from their duffels like it was a race. But today had been brutal, and everyone was too wiped out to perform.

They sprawled where they landed. Sam sat near Dylan, hair still damp from his post-practice shower and his chest slowly settling from the run.

Coach had been in a mood . Silent during warm-ups, sharp with critiques, making them redo passing drills until Jake finally cracked and muttered something under his breath that earned them laps. Nobody fought him. Not today. Coach didn’t yell when he was mad. He got still. Measured. And everyone knew that was worse.

“I swear he threatened to bench me just for tying my cleats too slow,” Jake said, voice scratchy as he lay flat on the tile with his legs over the bench.

Connor snorted. “You do take forever. It’s like watching someone lace up a declaration of war.”

Ryan, who was curled in a tragic half-stretch on the floor, grunted. “He benched me once because I laughed during dynamic warm-up. I barely laughed.”

Jake groaned. “He benches people like it’s a love language.”

That got a laugh from the group. Loose, tired. The kind that comes when you’ve all survived something together.

Then Connor added, “He’d never bench Dylan though. Coach’d rather die.”

“Golden boy privilege,” Jake grinned, still sprawled on the floor. “He’s probably got diplomatic immunity.”

“Don’t give him that much credit,” Ryan said. “It’s just that Coach loves chaos and Dylan is chaos. Controlled chaos.”

Dylan chuckled - that easy, lopsided grin Sam was starting to recognize as his default - and leaned back against the wall, arms slung behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Try getting benched for real,” he said.

And just like that, the air shifted. Sam felt it before he understood it. The way everyone stilled, not dramatically, but just enough. Like they’d felt the tone underneath Dylan’s joke and couldn’t quite ignore it.

Connor tilted his head. “Wait, when?”

Jake blinked. “You got benched?”

Ryan looked over. “What’d you do?”

Dylan smiled - same wide grin, same brightness - but Sam was close enough to see how it didn’t reach his eyes. Not all the way. Just a flicker. A too-fast shrug.

“Long time ago. Doesn’t matter.” He said it like it really didn’t, but the room had already gone weirdly quiet.

Jake, of course, didn’t know when to stop. “Was it like, actual drama? Did you fight someone? Cut practice? Get caught partying with the other team or something?”

That earned a forced chuckle from someone, but Dylan didn’t laugh. He didn’t even pretend to.

Sam watched him closely. Watched the way his knee bounced once and then stopped. The way his fingers curled around the towel like they needed something to hold onto.

“Coach had his reasons,” Dylan said finally. 

That was the part that stuck. Not I messed up or I deserved it. Just: Coach had his reasons.

A deflection. A dodge.

Dylan stood, stretched, and slung his towel over his shoulder like it weighed more than it should.

Then, voice lighter now, rehearsed and even, he added, “Anyway. Y’all better hydrate before Ryan crumples into a tragic little cramp pile.”

Ryan groaned. “I’m already halfway there.”

“And Jake,” Dylan said, pointing lazily, “I swear if I see you tie your cleats that slow again, I’m dragging you to practice blindfolded.”

Jake threw a sock at him. “You love me.”

“Debatable,” Dylan grinned.

Then he clapped Sam’s shoulder once, solid and warm like always. “Get some food in you, rookie. You’re running too light.”

The words were easy. Familiar. Captain Dad mode fully engaged. For the others, it worked. They laughed again, moved on. But Sam saw it in the angle of Dylan’s shoulders, the tightness behind the smile.

Then Dylan walked off toward the showers like nothing had happened at all.

The boys didn’t say anything for a beat.

Then Ryan muttered, “What was that?”

Jake frowned. “You think it’s, like... a real thing?”

Connor just shook his head, voice softer. “Leave it.”

The conversation moved on, but Sam couldn’t.

____

The sun was starting to sink behind the goalposts, casting long shadows across the field. Practice had run long - extra laps, extra drills - and the players had peeled off one by one, sweat-soaked and dragging cleats behind them.

Dean stood near the fence, arms crossed loosely, watching as Sam lingered behind to help gather cones and collect stray pinnies. Not because anyone asked, just because that’s who he was. He laughed at something one of the seniors said, brushing damp curls back from his face, and tossed a ball into the bag with a casual flick of the foot.

Dean let out a slow breath, trying not to let the pride spill too obviously across his face.

Because damn if he wasn’t proud.

He still remembered last fall. Remembered the days when Sam could barely stand upright without wincing, when the house was quiet in the worst way, when Rumsfeld lived at the foot of the bed like a guard dog and Sam hadn’t gone near a field in months. Now here he was, joking with teammates and moving like the weight of it all had finally started to lift.

“Winchester,” a voice said beside him.

It was Coach Miller, tone unreadable.

Dean straightened slightly. “Coach.”

They both watched the field for a moment, the sound of car doors slamming and distant music drifting from the parking lot.

“He’s sharp,” Coach said. “Reads the field better than some of my seniors. Doesn’t second-guess, doesn’t coast. Quiet leadership. That’s rare.”

Dean kept his voice even. “He’s been through a lot. Worked for every bit of this.”

“I believe it.”

Another pause. The breeze kicked up across the grass, tugging at the loose flags strung along the fencing.

“I know people talk,” Coach added, quieter this time. “But, just so you know, I didn’t put him on this team because I felt bad. He’s not a project. He’s a player. And a damn good one.”

Dean blinked hard and looked away for a second before nodding. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

Coach nodded once in return, then walked off toward the shed.

Dean stayed where he was.

His fingers curled around the fence rail, the cool metal grounding. Down on the field, Sam zipped his bag and slung it over one shoulder, already looking toward the bleachers.

Dean just stood there a minute longer.

He thought about the monitor beeping in a hospital room. About the way Sam had flinched at the sound of cleats on tile back in October. About the way his voice had trembled the first time he’d asked if it was okay to try again.

Now he was here. Fully.

Back home, Dean jotted the words down on a Post-it: Your boy’s the real deal. He stuck it up next to the fridge, right beside the dog-eared practice schedule and Sam’s penciled playbook notes.

____

The bus rumbled low through the night. It was full of rustling gear bags, the occasional crack of a soda can, and the steady shuffle of cleats rolling under seats. Sam sat in his usual spot; second row from the back, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, legs stretched just far enough into the aisle to trip someone if they weren’t paying attention. He didn’t mean to take up space. But the rhythm of the ride, the team noise, the hum of it all, made him feel like he was allowed to.

Dylan’s voice broke through the chatter. “Alright, new tradition. Roast night. Who’s got a roster?”

Connor passed one up from his duffel, already creased and highlighted. “Straight from the scouting binder. The Haverford edition.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at the mention of their rivals but didn’t say anything. Haverford was fast, cocky, and dirty as hell; state-ranked last year and still riding the high. Their midfielders played like they were auditioning for a wrestling team, and their fans made student sections unbearable. Sam hadn’t played them yet, but he’d heard the horror stories from the older boys: cleats to the shins, elbows thrown when the ref wasn’t looking, and a keeper who once got a yellow card for taunting. Just hearing the name was enough to make Coach’s blood pressure climb.

Dylan cleared his throat like a dramatic announcer. “Number nine, Paul Dykstra. Midfielder. Known for tripping over absolutely nothing. I swear the grass moves just to mess with him.”

Laughter rang out.

Ryan chimed in, “Isn’t he the guy who took out his own goalie last year?”

“Confirmed,” Jake added. “They replayed it on the morning announcements.”

Dylan kept going, dramatic as ever. “Number fourteen, Patrick Lewis. Defender-slash-human-traffic-cone. Winded by the second half, rumored to be allergic to cardio.”

Sam couldn’t help it. Quietly, so quiet only the row around him heard, he muttered, “Guess that’s why they run a 4-4-2. Gotta hide him somewhere.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Connor snorted. Loud.

“Holy crap,” he said, laughing. “Did Sam just roast someone? Out loud?”

Sam blinked. “Wasn’t that funny.”

Ryan turned around in his seat. “No, that was perfect.”

Dylan grinned. “Alright, rookie’s in. Give the kid a mic.”

Sam flushed but didn’t pull his hoodie back up. The warm twist in his chest was unfamiliar, but not bad. They weren’t laughing at him; they were laughing with him.

He tilted his head. “Number seven,” he said, reading off the page. “Average yellow card every 2.6 games. Which feels low, considering he fouled a trash can in that scrimmage video.”

The entire back of the bus erupted.

Even Coach, half-asleep up front, muttered something about keeping it down.

Connor smacked Dylan’s shoulder. “We’re calling that a Winchester Classic.”

Jake leaned forward. “Say something about their keeper.”

Sam hesitated, then deadpanned, “He dives like he’s trying not to break a nail.”

Dylan slid out of his seat, fake-collapsed into the aisle, gasping, “Sam. Stop. We can’t all survive at this altitude.”

Sam shook his head, smiling despite himself. The laughter rolled on, loud and easy. For the rest of the ride, no one called him “the freshman” or “the kid with the monitor.” They just called him funny. And for Sam Winchester, that was new.

And kind of incredible.

____

The last of the sun was slanting gold across the far end of the field, setting the grass on fire and casting long shadows against the gear shed. Most of the team had already scattered; car doors slamming, cleats clattering over asphalt. Connor was on the bottom bleacher step unlacing his cleats while Dylan stood nearby, stretching and muttering about Coach’s “deep-rooted personal vendetta against anyone with knees.”

Jake flopped down beside him with a groan. “Sam still with Coach?”

Connor frowned, glancing toward the shed. “He was grabbing cones like twenty minutes ago.”

Ryan looked up from retaping his ankle. “You think he’s still in there?”

There was a pause.

Then Dylan said, “I’ll check.”

He said it too fast. Connor caught the shift; saw the way Dylan was already halfway across the field before anyone could even reply. The rest of them looked at each other, shrugged, and followed.

The shed door creaked when Dylan pushed it open.

Inside: dust, old turf tape, lopsided stacks of practice balls. And in the corner, curled halfway into himself between a stack of cones and a milk crate of mangled water bottles-

Sam. Dead asleep. Not unconscious. Not hurt. Just… folded.

His curls stuck to his forehead, one cleat off and the other still haphazardly laced. His head was tipped awkwardly to the side. The heart monitor cord peeked from under his shirt, blinking slow and green.

He looked like a fourteen-year-old whose body had simply given up on vertical living.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispered. “He fell asleep in a gear shed.”

Ryan grinned. “That’s dedication.”

“He looks like someone unplugged him mid-sentence,” Connor muttered.

Dylan didn’t laugh. He crouched slowly beside Sam, brows drawn, eyes scanning like he was checking for damage.

Jake leaned toward Connor and whispered, “Uh-oh,” his eyes locked on something over Connor’s shoulder.

Connor blinked, confused. “What?” he asked, shifting slightly.

Jake pointed with his chin, trying not to be obvious. “Look at Dylan’s face.”

Connor turned and stifled a groan as soon as he saw it. “Oh no.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“He’s looking at the freshman like he wants to swaddle him,” Connor muttered, voice dry.

Jake snorted, a grin already forming. “He’s got Sam listed under ‘fragile’ in his mental spreadsheet.”

Connor nodded slowly, watching Dylan hover like Sam was made of spun glass. “I think he’s calculating the thread count of the blanket he’s gonna wrap him in.”

Ryan murmured, “If he starts humming lullabies, I’m leaving.”

Connor held up a hand. “Let’s give it five minutes before he wraps Sam in a thermal blanket and declares himself legally responsible.”

Jake whispered, “I’ll go find a baby monitor.”

But still, none of them moved. None of them mocked, not really. The jokes came quiet, because Dylan hadn’t said a word, and Sam wasn’t waking up. Connor crossed his arms and let the quiet settle.

Then came the sound of heavy tread over gravel. Dean stepped through the half-open shed door, took one look at the scene, and let out a sigh that was all fond exasperation.

“There he is,” he muttered. “Knew it.”

Connor shifted slightly. “He didn’t come out with the rest of us. We thought maybe...”

Dean crouched beside Sam, same way Dylan had, steady and practiced.

“He’s fine,” Dean said, voice low and calm. “He’s not sick. He just does this sometimes.”

The boys stilled.

Dean glanced up at them, brushing Sam’s damp curls back. “Heart murmur’s under control. But when he overdoes it? He crashes. Doesn’t matter where he is: locker room, classroom, middle of a backyard BBQ. When his system runs outta gas, it doesn’t wait for an invitation.”

Sam blinked awake, groggy. “Was I supposed to... do something?”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Yeah, not fall asleep next to the smelliest crate in South Dakota.”

Jake opened his mouth, probably to make a joke, but Dylan shot him a look that shut him up instantly.

Dean stood, hauling Sam gently to his feet. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get you horizontal in a place that doesn’t smell like mildew.”

As they walked out, Connor caught the way Sam leaned into Dean’s side, loose-limbed and safe. Like his body knew where it was supposed to be.

Dylan lingered, watching them go. Connor didn’t say anything right away.

But behind him, Jake whispered, “He’s definitely already looking up flannel-lined blankets.”

Connor nodded. “And probably fireproof bunkers.”

Ryan murmured, “We teasing him later?”

“Absolutely,” Jake said.

“But like,” Connor added, “softly.”

And they all agreed without saying more.

____

The applause was still echoing in the school gym when the soccer team turned to head back toward the bleachers, jerseys still on, hair sticking to foreheads, shoulders a little looser now that the spotlight had shifted to the track team.

Sam fell in step between Dylan and Ryan, the cadence of their sneakers against the gym floor a strange comfort amid the buzz of the rally. Jake trailed just behind, spinning a sweatband around his finger like it was some kind of fidget toy. Connor had already peeled off, detouring to high-five someone from the marching band and flash peace signs at the drumline.

Sam’s pulse hadn’t slowed.

The adrenaline from walking out in front of the whole school still coursed under his skin; it buzzed under the fabric of his jersey like static cling. The heart monitor hadn’t chirped, but Sam still felt hyper aware of it, like it was glowing through his chest. He breathed through his nose, slow and even, counting the inhales like Missouri had taught him.

He’d done it. He walked out there like it was no big deal. Kept his chin up, back straight, and even waved once when the cheer squad called his name.

Nobody booed. Nobody laughed.

Okay, maybe a few people whispered. He’d seen a few heads turn. Someone nudged their friend. He’d caught the edge of a smirk. But no one said anything. No one threw anything or made a joke about “heart defects” or “ambulances on standby.”

So far, it hadn’t been awful.

“Hey,” Dylan said beside him, voice low and easy, like it was just any other day. “You didn’t trip. That’s, like, a solid eight out of ten.”

Sam snorted. “Your standards are low.”

Dylan grinned, bumping his shoulder. “I’m grading on a curve.”

They were almost to the end of the bleachers. Sam could already see Connor climbing back up, pizza slice somehow already in hand. He let himself believe, for just a second, that maybe this whole pep rally thing had actually gone-

“Guess they’ll let anyone on varsity now, huh?”

The words cut through the air behind them, sharp, amused, and cruel.

Sam flinched before he even recognized the voice.

Kevin Brooks.

He was slouched against the bottom bleacher like it was a throne, basketball varsity jacket half-buttoned, one leg stretched obnoxiously across the aisle. Two other juniors from the team leaned nearby, all grins and smug side-eyes like they were backup dancers in some mean-spirited music video.

Kevin gave a lazy little wave, like this was a planned appearance. “Hope you remembered your warranty this time, Winchester.”

Sam’s whole body went rigid. His hands curled into fists before he could stop them. He didn’t even know what that meant. Warranty? Like he was broken? Like he came with parts that needed replacing?

Heat flushed the back of his neck, rising fast. He couldn’t even form a comeback. His mouth opened, but his brain was too busy scrambling.

Ryan slowed beside him. Dylan stopped dead.

Jake let the sweatband fall with a soft snap to the floor. “Oh hell no.”

Kevin smirked wider. “What?” he said, loud and lazy. “Just making sure we’ve got the medical tent ready.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Ryan spoke, quiet and cool, the kind of calm that made Sam glance sideways because he knew that tone didn’t come without warning.

“You do realize he’s the one who assisted both goals against Franklin, right?”

Jake added, stepping forward now, voice all faux-casual but with that edge of real steel: “And ran more miles than your entire bench combined. Maybe get your facts straight before you embarrass yourself and your weak-ass jumper.”

Kevin shifted, leaning forward like he was going to say something else, but Dylan got there first.

Dylan didn’t raise his voice. He stepped up, just enough to make Kevin look up.

“One more word,” Dylan said, slow and even, “and I’ll stop treating you like some jackass running his mouth and start treating you like a problem. And I solve problems.”

Kevin’s mouth opened. Closed.

Sam didn’t breathe.

Kevin scoffed, straightened, and muttered something under his breath to his friends, turning away from them.

Dylan turned back, eyes scanning Sam like he was checking for damage. Then, gentler, he clapped a hand to the back of Sam’s neck.

“C’mon, rookie,” he said. “Bleachers miss you.”

Sam’s feet moved before his brain caught up.

They walked in silence for a second, Ryan just ahead, Jake muttering something about wishing he’d gotten it on video. Sam kept his gaze on the stairs, willing his heartbeat to slow.

His hands were still shaking.

It wasn’t just the insult. He’d heard worse. He remembered worse.

But the way they’d all stepped in, fast and without hesitation, it pulled something loose in his chest, a knot he hadn’t known was still there. The kind that had formed years ago, in schools where he’d been the weird kid, the quiet one, the one with the chest scars and the excuses and the eyes that looked down too much.

Now? Now he had four guys between him and the worst of it, and they hadn't hesitated.

They were already at the top of the bleachers when Sam mumbled, barely audible above the roar of the pep rally, “Thank you.”

Dylan shrugged. “We’ve all got each other’s six,” he said, like it was just a rule. “You’ve got mine on the field. I’ve got yours off.”

Sam didn’t reply, but he sat a little taller.

____

The late afternoon sun sat low and blinding, slicing across the field in hazy streaks that made everyone squint during warm-ups. Sam hated it when the light hit like that. It made it harder to read movement, harder to focus, but he’d take sun over wind any day.

This wasn’t a playoff game, but it felt like one.

The other team had swagger. Black jerseys with blue accents. Too many buzz cuts. A couple of players Sam recognized from rec tournaments. They were fast, loud, and physical. They didn’t play clean, but they played smart. They knew how to get under your skin.

Sam kept his earbuds in until Coach called the pregame huddle. His hair stuck in curls to his forehead from the warm-up jog, and his heart was already ticking faster than he liked.

“You good?” Dylan asked, elbowing him gently in the shoulder as they fell into the circle.

Sam nodded once.

Connor smirked. “You look like you’re calculating their funeral arrangements.”

Sam didn’t smile, but something eased behind his ribs.

Coach Miller gave the usual speech: focus, control, quick transitions, no dumb fouls. Sam half-listened, already replaying formations in his mind, trying to guess who’d start marking him. The last time he’d played against people from his time in rec, he’d been shoved into the grass twice before the whistle blew.

“Eyes up,” Coach finished. “You want this? Go take it.”

They broke with a cheer and scattered across the pitch.

His dad was leaning against the fence just beyond the far bleachers, arms crossed and sunglasses on. Sam didn’t wave, but he caught the faint nod.

The first half was fast, physical, and choppy in places. Neither side wanted to give up control.

Sam didn’t score, but he created space. He drew defenders wide, flicked passes through gaps, and forced chaos in the back line. He took a shot in the 18th minute that dinged the post, and even though it didn’t go in, it made the keeper twitchier after that.

By the time he took the field again for the second half, the score was still 1 - 1.

Sam’s calves burned. His heart monitor blinked steadily under his compression shirt. His jersey clung to his back, and the sun hadn’t stopped glaring, but he felt locked in. Centered. He could feel the shape of the game now like muscle memory. All he had to do was read it right.

The read came from a drive up the left side. He beat his mark on a cutback, streaked past the last defender, and sent the ball low, sharp, and curling, hitting the defender’s shin on the way out.

It was obvious, loud, and blatant.

Sam raised his hand, already jogging toward the corner flag, but the whistle didn’t come.

“Goal kick!” the ref shouted, pointing downfield.

Sam stopped short. He blinked. Then turned.

A few of the boys barked from the box: Dylan’s arms flailed in disbelief, Jake shouted something not printable, and Connor threw his hands up in protest. The bench exploded.

Sam didn’t. He just stood still for a second, jaw tight, eyes scanning.

The opposing keeper lined up for the kick, careless. Their back line was shifting sluggishly, resetting with the casual arrogance of a team that thought it had time.

They didn’t.

The ball went wide. A lazy rollout, bouncing once, twice, meant for the left back who hadn’t even looked up.

Sam moved. He was there before anyone registered it, cutting off the angle, shoulder dipping just enough to bait a move, and then he was gone again, boot meeting turf with a clean thump. One touch to settle. One to send it.

The cross curled like it had a mind of its own.

Connor was already sprinting, eyes locked, cleats churning mud. He launched himself between two defenders and met it mid-stride, head snapping the ball clean past the keeper’s outstretched hands.

Back net. Goal.

Dylan screamed something unintelligible but victorious. Jake tore down the line like his cleats were on fire. Even Coach Miller cracked a rare, sharp whistle of approval.

Connor slid to a stop just past the box, fists pumping. “Justice served!”

Dylan reached Sam first, nearly tackling him mid-hug. “You’re a menace, you know that? A full-blown quiet assassin.”

Sam just shook his head, cheeks flushed, breathing hard. “Wasn’t gonna let that stand.”

Connor jogged up next, grinning. “That was a perfect ball.”

Sam shrugged, a little breathless. “Felt right.”

Behind them, the ref was already pulling the other team to center, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it. The scoreboard flicked over. The lead was theirs again.

Dean was still leaning against the fence, and Sam didn’t have to look to know.

He could feel it, the weight of that gaze. Steady. Proud.

Sam didn’t need the corner. He had made his own.

____

The bus rumbled low and steady as it crawled back to the school. The windows were fogged from post-game heat and breath. One part celebration, two parts sweat. It was the kind of humidity that made the vinyl seats cling and the air smell like turf, socks, and whatever discount deodorant brand half the team swore worked miracles.

Somewhere near the back, someone popped a bag of pretzels so loudly it sounded like a firecracker. A moment later, Jake's off-key voice cut through the din, belting the chorus to some aggressively nostalgic anthem like he’d been dared.

Groans followed in protest. Dylan added dramatic harmony. Coach Miller, two rows ahead, didn’t even flinch. His head was tipped back, his mouth slightly open. He looked either fully unconscious or was expertly practiced in selective hearing. Sam suspected the latter.

Sam sat curled in the middle section, hoodie sleeves tugged past his knuckles, one leg tucked under the other. A battered paperback balanced on his knee: Cold War Ciphers and Espionage Ethics. He’d found it on a dusty shelf in the corner of the library where no one went unless they’d already given up on ever being cool. The spine was cracked. The paper was soft and yellowed, like it had history in it.

Sam liked that. It felt like something that had lasted.

He flipped a page. SHAMROCK and the Watchers Within.

He could practically hear Uncle Bobby’s voice in the back of his head, gravel-rough and unimpressed, “What kinda idiot names a surveillance op after a clover? That’s a breakfast cereal, not black ops.”

Sam didn’t notice the shadow until Connor dropped into the seat beside him with a crunch of chips and a loud sigh.

“Dude,” Connor said, leaning way too close. “You’re reading a spy book? On the bus? After we won?”

Sam barely glanced up. “Technically, it’s Cold War cryptography.”

Connor stared at him like he’d just grown a second head. “That’s worse.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion.”

Connor grinned. “I’m giving it anyway.” He craned his neck. “Wait- Espionage Ethics? That’s a real thing?”

Sam turned a page. “Apparently.”

Connor rummaged through his bag and emerged with a crumpled worksheet that looked like it had been used as both a snack wrapper and a coaster. “Okay, I’m calling in a favor. This Church Committee stuff makes zero sense, and Mr. Harrow keeps saying ‘assume prior knowledge.' I don’t have current knowledge.”

Sam blinked. “You’re in AP History?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Connor said, then added with a shrug, “They let me in by accident.”

Sam took the worksheet, scanned it, and flipped back a few pages in his book. “Here. This part talks about how SHAMROCK and CHAOS got exposed after Watergate. Led to Senate hearings in ’75. Church Committee. The report forced reforms.”

Connor squinted. “That sounds important.”

“It was.”

Ryan peeked over the seat in front, one arm dangling, cheek resting against the back cushion like he was halfway to sleep. “Wait, is this the thing where the CIA tried to drug people with acid?”

Sam nodded without looking up. “MK-Ultra. That was part of it. Unethical testing. Some people died.”

Ryan whistled under his breath. “Man, America is messed up.”

“Was messed up,” Sam corrected.

Ryan lifted a brow. “You sure about that?”

Sam opened his mouth, then paused. “Point taken.”

Across the aisle, Jake twisted around, shifting with the grace of someone who’d practiced dramatic entrances. “Are you guys seriously doing homework on a victory ride? Nerds. Actual nerds.”

Connor shot him a look. “It’s educational bonding.”

Jake huffed. “No such thing.”

He made to turn away, then hesitated. “...You got anything in there about the NSA, though? Or like... COINTELPRO?”

Sam blinked. “Why?”

“I think I picked the wrong protest for my current events paper,” Jake muttered. “My draft’s due tomorrow, and if I have to read one more Wikipedia footnote, I’m gonna staple myself.”

Sam snorted and turned another page. “Yeah, it’s in here. Also, don’t cite Wikipedia.”

“Too late,” Jake said cheerfully, hooking himself into the seat across from Sam. “But I’m open to extra credit.”

Connor held up his worksheet like it was Exhibit A. “We’re all just trying to survive.”

Just then, Dylan drifted down the aisle, Cheez-Its in hand and expression as casual as if he’d been headed that way all along.

“Wait, is this that CIA thing?” he asked, already grabbing the book without asking.

Sam didn’t resist. “It’s about surveillance overreach. CIA, NSA, FBI. Post-Watergate reforms.”

Dylan flipped a few pages, squinting. “This chapter sounds like a metal album title: Operation MINARET and the Great Betrayal.”

“Read the footnotes,” Sam said. “It’s even worse.”

Dylan whistled and handed the book back. “You need a hobby.”

“This is my hobby.”

Jake leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. “You know what this means, right?”

Sam blinked. “That I read too much?”

Jake pointed at him with mock seriousness. “That we’re putting you in charge of game-day psychological warfare.”

Sam flushed, caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then just shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t quite hold back the smile.

Dylan nudged his shin. “Careful, Winchester. That’s how it starts. First, it’s playbook notes. Next thing you know, you’re masterminding team strategy from a lair.”

Jake grinned. “He already has the lair. It’s called the library.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

The conversation kept going, circling between conspiracy theories, fake spy names, and who would survive the longest in a Cold War thriller (Connor claimed he’d die heroically in act two). Sam didn’t say much more, but he listened. He laughed. He leaned back into the bus seat and let the weight of it all settle into his chest in a way that didn’t feel heavy this time.

____

The newspaper was already open when Sam came down the stairs.

He blinked once at the table, thinking maybe he’d imagined it. The way the headline sat clean and bold at the top of the Sioux Falls Journal sports page, like it had been waiting for him. The photo was in black and white, but he recognized the moment: mid-sprint, ball at his foot, and jaw set.

Freshman Midfielder Stuns for Sioux Falls.

Sam stared.

The smell of eggs and toast drifted from the kitchen. Dad’s boots were by the back door. Uncle Bobby’s coffee mug, chipped and eternal, sat by the sink. Normal things. Familiar.

But that was his name in the pull quote. His stat line under the box score. His assist totals were highlighted in neat type like they meant something outside his head.

He didn’t sit down right away. He hovered at the end of the table, backpack still slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on the ink.

Dad’s voice called from the garage. “Hey, you see it yet?”

Sam blinked again. “Yeah.”

His dad appeared a second later, wiping his hands with a rag, grease smudged faintly on his jaw. He looked at the paper like it might start levitating.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, casually. Too casually.

Sam shifted, the backpack slipping off with a thump. “You opened it already.”

Dad raised an eyebrow. “It was folded open like that when I found it. Must’ve been the wind.”

“You used a mug to hold the page flat.”

He looked unbothered. “Smart wind.”

Sam huffed a small laugh and slid into the chair. His fingers hovered over the page, not quite touching. It didn’t feel real. Not all the way.

“They spelled your name right,” Dad added. “Small-town miracle.”

Sam glanced up. “You think it’s stupid?”

“What?”

“I don’t know. That they made it a thing. It’s not like I-” He broke off. Shrugged. “I was just playing.”

His dad didn’t say anything. He walked past him, lifted a second copy of the Journal off the counter, one Sam hadn’t noticed, and carried it out to the garage without a word.

Sam frowned, hesitating, then followed.

Sunlight poured through the high window of the garage, streaking across the cluttered workbench and an empty picture frame leaning against the wall.

Dad stood in front of it, carefully slipping the newspaper inside.

“You bought two copies?” Sam asked.

He didn’t turn around. “One’s for framing. The other’s for bragging.”

Sam’s mouth opened. Closed. Something warm and awkward twisted in his chest.

“I’m putting it right here,” Dad said, adjusting the angle, “beside the torque wrench and that thing I welded wrong last year, so I remember what good work looks like.”

“Dad.”

Dad finally looked at him, something quiet and proud in his eyes. “You did that, Sammy. Not luck. Not hype. You.”

Sam didn’t say anything right away. His throat felt tight.

Dad looked back at the frame, nodded once, and added, “Oh, and I wrote the date on the back. Just in case we forget the day you started breaking the world open.”

Sam pressed his palm against the edge of the workbench, grounding himself.

He didn’t need to say it. But as he stood there beside his dad, staring at a newsprint version of himself pinned in motion like a story just beginning, he let the smallest smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

By lunch, half the school had seen the paper.

Sam could tell before he even reached his usual table. There were glances. Not the bad kind. Not pitying or curious or cruel. Just wide-eyed. Respectful. People nudged each other as he passed, like they weren’t sure if they should say something out loud or not.

The boys didn't hesitate to say anything.

As soon as Sam dropped his tray onto the table, Dylan yanked a folded newspaper page out of his backpack with dramatic flair. “You absolute menace,” he declared, waving the sports section like it was a banner in a war parade.

“Oh my God,” Sam muttered, flushing. “Where did you even get that?”

“Coach printed ten copies from the school office. He said, quote, ‘If that doesn’t go on a bulletin board, I’ll retire in shame.’”

Ryan leaned over, squinting at the photo. “You look like you’re sprinting into battle.”

“I was sprinting,” Sam said, biting into a sandwich. “And it was just a game.”

Connor scoffed. “Just a game? Dude, you spun that kid like a top in front of half the town. Mrs. Halversen wept in the bleachers. And she hates soccer.”

Jake slid into the seat across from him. “My mom taped it to the fridge.”

Sam blinked. “Why?”

“She said it’s the first time I’ve ever been friends with someone famous.”

Sam almost choked on his water. “Stop.”

“‘Freshman Midfielder Stuns’!” Dylan quoted, loud enough that someone from the next table turned. “Man, that’s poetic. That’s frame-worthy.”

Sam tried to hide his smile behind his hand. “My dad already framed it.”

The table went momentarily silent.

“You’re kidding,” Ryan said.

“He hung it in the garage. Next to his busted wrench.”

Connor let out a low whistle. “That’s the Winchester stamp of immortality.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but it didn’t land with any real heat. The warmth in his chest had started the moment Dylan pulled that page out and hadn’t left since.

He wasn’t used to this part, being noticed without it costing him something. But this? Jokes and photos and blurry pride across cafeteria tables?

This he could live with.

____

The bleachers rattled with every stomped foot, the buzz of the crowd turning sharp as the first half wound down. Dean paced behind the railing like a lion in a too-small cage, boots kicking up gravel with every pass. He had his arms folded tight across his chest, but that did nothing to stop the nerves from clawing up his throat. He'd tried to stay seated, really tried, but that only lasted about ten minutes. Watching was bad enough. Watching and doing nothing? Worse.

On the field, Sam was a blur of red and white and sweat. He’d taken two hits already: one shove that earned a foul and another full-body collision near the corner flag that had Dean halfway over the rail before Sam popped back up, waving it off like it was nothing.

Dean didn’t buy that for a second.

“He’s fine,” Bobby muttered beside him, arms braced on the top of the fence, watching with narrowed eyes.

“He took that shoulder like it was a brick wall,” Dean snapped.

“And he got back up like it wasn’t. Kid’s made of tougher stuff than you think.”

Dean didn’t answer. He watched, jaw tight, until the halftime whistle blew.

As the team trotted toward the bench, Dean made a beeline for the gate. He didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t heading straight for his kid. A few other parents gave him curious glances as he passed, but he ignored them all. He wasn’t here for them.

Sam spotted him immediately and peeled off from the cluster of players. His cheeks were red, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes were sharp and clear. Grounded.

“I’m fine,” he said before Dean even opened his mouth.

Dean’s eyes dropped immediately to the faint bulge of the heart monitor under Sam’s compression shirt. “No beeps?”

“No beeps,” Sam confirmed. “Still green. Still steady.”

Dean squinted. “Ribs?”

“Sore. Not bad.”

“You sure?”

Sam huffed, a half-laugh, half-sigh, and tugged the hem of his jersey up just enough to show the green blinking light. “I wouldn’t lie about this, Dad.”

That word still hit Dean like a sucker punch sometimes, in the best way. He never got tired of hearing it. Not when it was said like that: casual, confident, and full of trust.

Bobby ambled over and handed Sam a sports drink. “Don’t let him breathe down your neck too much,” he said, jerking a thumb at Dean. “Boy’s about five more paces from setting up an emergency aid tent.”

Sam took the drink and grinned. “He’s pacing like a caged bear.”

“I’m concerned,” Dean muttered, clearly not amused.

“You’re hovering,” Bobby corrected, then looked at Sam. “Drink up. Get your head clear. Go make somebody regret lining up across from you.”

Sam snorted and tipped the drink back, swishing it in his mouth before swallowing. Then he pulled the jersey back into place, adjusted his shin guards, and glanced toward the field. “They’re weak on the left side. Number 17 overcommits every time.”

Dean didn’t know soccer like Sam did, but he knew tactics, instincts. And he knew that look on Sam’s face. That spark, the confidence. It hadn’t been there like this before October. 

“You got this,” Dean said, quietly now. “But if you feel anything weird, anything, you wave to the sideline.”

“I will.”

Dean let him go, finally, with a squeeze to the shoulder.

Sam jogged back to the rest of the team, light on his feet, posture strong. The kind of posture Dean hadn’t seen in months. The kind that said I belong here.

Bobby glanced at Dean sideways. “You done twitchin’?”

“Not even close,” Dean muttered, but his arms dropped from his chest. Just a little.

And when the ball rolled out to Sam at the start of the second half, Dean didn’t even flinch.

____

The bus ride home was quiet in a way that felt personal.

Not the usual tired kind of quiet, full of half-asleep groans and someone snoring under a hoodie. This one was weighted, thick with the sting of a game they should’ve had. There was no music. No bad singing. Just the low hum of the tires and the occasional shifting of cleats in gym bags.

Sam sat in his usual seat near the middle, forehead against the window, watching the blurred lights of the highway slide past. His leg bounced, not from energy, but from nerves that hadn't settled since the final whistle. The score still rang in his ears: 2 - 1. Not devastating, but just enough to hurt.

They could’ve won. Should’ve, maybe. But they didn’t.

Dylan sat across the aisle, chewing a piece of gum like it had insulted him personally. Ryan had his hoodie pulled halfway over his head, arms crossed, face unreadable. Jake looked like he was writing mental essays about every missed pass. Connor kept kicking the base of the seat in front of him like it might give him a different outcome.

No one said anything.

It wasn’t just that they’d lost; it was that this was the first time they’d had to sit in the aftermath. First loss of the season. First time the ride didn’t feel like a celebration or momentum or even relief.

Eventually, Coach stood from his seat at the front, clearing his throat.

“You played hard,” he said. “But I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t suck. Because it does. But I saw effort. I saw a fight. That’s what counts. We regroup on Monday.”

That was all. No lecture. No breakdown. Just the acknowledgment that yeah, they lost, but it wasn’t the end.

When the bus pulled into the lot, no one moved right away. Gear bags shuffled, water bottles capped. The kind of quiet that used to feel like isolation to Sam.

But now?

Now, Connor bumped shoulders with him on the way out. Ryan offered him a half-hearted smirk. Dylan muttered, “We’ll smoke ’em next time.” Jake didn’t speak, but he gave Sam a look that said they were still in this together.

And when Sam reached the Impala, he saw his dad already leaning against the driver’s side, arms crossed, eyes scanning for him.

No big speeches. No pressure. Just presence.

Sam exhaled slowly and nodded once, more to himself than anyone else.

Next time.

____

The sun was slipping down past the gym roofline, casting long shadows across the gravel lot. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but Sam was still lacing up his sneakers beside the Impala, jersey clinging damp to his back. His cleats thudded into his gear bag one at a time as the soft din of post-practice chatter buzzed around him.

A few of them still lingered in the lot, joking near a tired-looking silver truck that had refused to start. Connor sat in the driver’s seat, turning the key with mounting irritation while the engine gave a half-hearted whine and died again. A chorus of mock advice followed.

“Try sweet-talking it,” Dylan called.

“Pop the hood,” Ryan said, leaning on a knee. “I think I heard it cry.”

“Offer it a sacrifice,” Jake added. “Preferably a soda and a prayer.”

Connor muttered something and yanked the latch. The hood thunked open, but no one moved.

Sam zipped his bag and stood, already anticipating the familiar crunch of boots over gravel that would sound whenever he noticed what was going on.

Sure enough, his dad appeared beside him, sleeves rolled, engine grease already on his knuckles despite not having touched a car all day. He handed Sam a cold bottle of water without a word, eyes already flicking toward the growing circle around the truck.

“Something up?” Dad asked casually.

Sam took a sip. “Connor’s truck’s dead. They’ve been standing around it like it’s a crime scene.”

Dean gave a quiet grunt that meant either “I’ll take a look” or “these kids need divine intervention.” Then he started walking.

Sam followed, but hung back when they reached the group. He knew the look on his dad’s face. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t even amused. It was pure focus, like this was just another kind of hunt.

“Uh-oh,” Jake muttered. “He’s got that face on.”

“Which face?” Ryan whispered.

“The ‘step aside, children’ face,” Dylan replied, eyes wide.

His dad leaned over the engine block, squinting for all of three seconds before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a multi-tool. Not a big one, but big enough to gleam in the late light.

Connor, usually unshakeable, cleared his throat. “Uh… Dean?”

He didn’t answer. Just twisted one connection, tapped something metal with the tool’s handle, and said flatly, “You’re flooding it.”

Connor blinked. “I- what does that-”

His dad shut the hood with one hand, already done. “Try it now.”

Connor scrambled back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the truck came alive with a guttural roar like it had never even considered being dead.

There was a full beat of stunned silence.

Then Jake whispered, half-awe, half-dread, “Did he just resurrect a Toyota Tacoma?”

Sam buried his face in his water bottle to hide the grin.

Dad stepped back, brushing his hands off on his jeans like he’d just exorcised a demon instead of fixing a misfire. “Tell your dad his spark plugs are garbage,” he said. “And try not to drive it like you’ve got a death wish. I only fix things I like.”

Then he turned and walked off.

Connor blinked after him, mouth half-open.

Jake let out a long breath. “Every time I meet your dad, I feel like I’m failing a vibe check.”

“Same,” Ryan muttered. “But, like, in a respectful way.”

Dylan turned to Sam, one eyebrow raised. “Dude.”

Sam shrugged, trying to keep his tone flat. “That’s just how he is.”

“Your dad’s Batman,” Connor said faintly.

Sam just smiled. “Yeah. Kinda.”

There was a pause, then Jake pulled out his phone. “Should I text him a thank-you?”

Connor looked back at the now-purring truck and shook his head. “Is it weird if I ask him to fix my life next?”

____

Sam sat at their usual cafeteria table, half-focused on his sandwich and half-listening to Dylan dramatically reenact Coach’s attempt to parallel park the bus last Wednesday.

The table smelled like old ketchup and too many Axe body spray experiments. The sun slanted hard through the high windows, catching on every aluminum water bottle and glinting off the glossy tile. Normal. Noisy. Predictable.

Sam took another bite of his sandwich. Turkey, no crusts, a little too much mustard.

Then, from behind them, Sam heard a voice:

"I heard his dad beat him."

Sam didn’t breathe.

The voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. It had just enough volume to make sure it carried. A second voice chimed in:

"No, seriously. That’s why he missed so much school last semester. He came back all bruised up, right? My cousin said…"

Sam’s jaw locked. His grip on the sandwich tightened until the bread bent beneath his fingers.

The air around the table changed. Jake stopped laughing mid-sentence. Dylan’s shoulders went still. Ryan looked up like he’d heard a dog whistle.

Connor didn’t turn around. He stared at his tray and said quietly, “I heard it too.”

Sam stood up too fast. The table rattled.

Dylan didn’t ask. “Let’s go.”

Sam didn’t wait for them. He was already moving. Backpack half-zipped, tray left behind, breath too shallow to count. His heart wasn’t racing exactly, but something cold had cracked open under his ribs. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, in the tips of his ears, a different kind of flush. One that didn’t burn, just stung.

He hated this part.

The not-looking. The pretending he didn’t hear. The pretending it didn’t matter.

The hallway hit cooler than expected. Fluorescents hummed overhead, sterile and sharp. Sam leaned back against the lockers and folded his arms, pressing his hands into his sides like maybe he could hold the rest in.

Dylan was the first one out after him. Then Ryan, Jake, and Connor fell into place like puzzle pieces that already knew where to go.

No one said anything for a moment. The noise of the cafeteria muffled itself behind the door.

Connor leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Jake slid down to the floor like it was habit. “Didn’t realize we were doing cafeteria gossip now. Cool. Love that.”

Ryan sat cross-legged beside him, pulling out a half-crushed bag of pretzels from his hoodie pocket and holding it out like peace. “They’re not worth it.”

Dylan stayed standing next to Sam. Not too close, not pushing, but just there.

Sam didn’t move.

“I hate that it gets said at all,” Dylan muttered after a minute. His voice wasn’t angry, just heavy. “People don’t know a damn thing.”

Jake added, mouth full of pretzels, “You want us to fight them, we’ll do it after school. I got elbows.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “We’re not throwing punches in the name of cafeteria justice.”

“Yet,” Jake said.

Sam still hadn’t spoken. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “They don’t even know who they’re talking about,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “They think he’s still my-” He broke off.

Dylan cut in, low and even. “He’s not.”

Ryan nodded. “We know who your real family is.”

No one said Dean’s name, but they didn’t have to. It hung there anyway, sturdy and understood.

Sam’s chest eased by degrees. He didn’t unclench all the way, but the vise loosened enough to let air back in.

Jake offered him a pretzel. Sam didn’t take it, but Jake didn’t retract it either.

Connor nudged the toe of Sam’s sneaker with his own. “For the record? You don’t have to explain a damn thing to us.”

Ryan leaned back against the wall. “And anyone who talks like that again? We’ll handle it. Quietly.”

Dylan glanced sideways. “But if you do want to talk… any time, any place. We’ll listen.”

Sam nodded once, tiny but real, and let his arms fall to his sides. Dylan shifted just a little closer, shoulder brushing Sam’s for half a second before settling beside him.

Jake whispered, “Pretty sure that counts as emotional growth.”

Connor elbowed him. “Pretty sure you’re an idiot.”

Sam let out a breath. That one felt better. Real.

They stayed in the hallway a little longer, talking about nothing on purpose. Gatorade flavors, whether Coach secretly lived in the gym supply closet, Jake’s war against the vending machine’s B3 button. No one rushed him. No one made it weird.

And when the bell rang, they walked to class together. Sam’s steps felt steadier. Lighter.

The rumor didn’t matter as much anymore, not in the way it tried to.

Because he wasn’t alone anymore. Not even close.

____

It was Dylan’s first time coming inside the house. He’d dropped Sam off out front before - carpool days, quick handoffs, those weird late-night rides home from away games - but he’d never actually stepped through the door.

Now he stood in the entryway like someone waiting to be handed a rulebook.

Dylan had wanted to review game footage after practice, but the other boys were swamped with a project for one of their history classes. When Sam had offered to review with him, his dad had overheard and said, “Bring him over. We’ve got food. Or something that used to be food.”

So here they were. Rumsfeld had greeted Dylan like he lived here. Bobby had shouted a hello from the kitchen. Dean was already yelling at the washing machine in the hallway.

Dylan stood perfectly still until Sam shoved a soda can into his hand and said, “You’re not gonna break anything.”

He didn’t look nervous, exactly. Just… alert. Like he was cataloging everything at once: the framed photos on the stairwell wall, the faint smell of motor oil and takeout, the coat hook that didn’t hold any actual coats.

Thirty minutes later, Sam sank deeper into the couch cushion, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw locked so hard it ached. His left sock was halfway off, but he didn’t have the energy to fix it. The TV showed a freeze-frame of his screw-up: the moment the other team’s forward slipped past him and scored.

Dylan had paused it right there.

“Don’t pause it there,” he muttered, not looking over.

Dylan, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the remote in one hand and a notebook in the other, tilted his head. “Why not? You love reliving your worst moments.”

“Funny,” Sam muttered, eyes on the carpet.

“You missed the read by half a second. Not even. It happens.”

Not if you’re good, Sam thought. Not if you’re worth the spot on the roster. Not if you want to be more than a kid with a medical record longer than his play history.

He didn’t answer, just shoved his sock the rest of the way off and stared hard at the screen like he could change the play by sheer will.

From the kitchen, Uncle Bobby slammed a cabinet. “Dean, you left the oven on again.”

“No I didn’t!” Dad called from somewhere down the hall. “It’s preheating for the chicken thing.”

“What chicken thing?”

“The one I’m gonna make after I finish yelling at the washing machine!”

The oven beeped indignantly.

Rumsfeld barked once from the back door.

Dylan let out a low chuckle. “It’s loud here.”

Sam glanced sideways, his pulse still fast with frustration. “Yeah. Sorry.”

But Dylan shook his head, still watching the screen. “No. I mean it’s nice. It’s… full.”

Sam’s chest pinched at that. He looked away before Dylan could see.

Dylan leaned back a little, shifting his weight. “You know, I haven’t had someone ask if I ate since seventh grade?”

From the hallway, his dad shouted without missing a beat, “Well, you have now!”

Dylan smiled faintly but didn’t say anything more.

The game looped back to the start. That stupid goal was coming up again. Sam could feel it like a bruise being pressed on.

“I should’ve closed that angle,” he said, voice low. “It’s basic. I know better.”

Dylan reached for the remote and shut off the TV completely.

Sam blinked. “What are you doing?”

Dylan turned, leaning his shoulder against the couch. “I used to wish I had brothers growing up,” he said. “Thought maybe it would make the house feel less empty.”

Sam stilled.

“I've never met my dad. He’s just a name on a piece of paper. My mom’s a nurse. Nights and doubles and more shifts than hours in a week. I got good at making boxed mac and cheese and not expecting anyone to be around.”

He shrugged. “Eventually, the team kind of became that for me. Jake, Connor, Ryan... they’re like brothers now. Maybe not by blood, but they show up. That counts.”

Sam looked at him, silent.

Dylan gave him a small smile. “You’re part of that, too, now. Whether you think you fit or not.”

Sam swallowed, throat tight.

He thought of all the times he held back. The way he kept his guard up was like it was a second uniform. The way he still braced for someone to say it: you’re too much work, too much risk, not worth it.

But Dylan wasn’t saying any of that. He was saying: you’re here. And that matters.

“Thanks,” Sam said quietly. “For saying that.”

Dylan bumped his shoulder lightly against the couch. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Later, his dad walked in holding a dish towel like a hostage and tossed it at Sam’s face. “Dinner’s in twenty. Dylan, you’re staying, or I’m feeding your portion to the dog.”

Dylan grinned. “Yes, sir.”

And for the first time since the game, Sam didn’t feel like a mistake wrapped in skin.

He felt like someone’s family.

____

The porch light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pool of amber over the warped wood planks and the two battered chairs that had stood there longer than either of them could remember. The air smelled like the start of spring - pine, cut grass, warm dirt, the kind of quiet that only existed after a good day.

Dean leaned back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankles, a beer sweating in his hand. Bobby sat two feet away, nursing coffee that probably should’ve been thrown out an hour ago. Rumsfeld snored beneath the bench, twitching occasionally like he was chasing something invisible. Maybe a raccoon. Maybe a ghost.

Inside, the house was still. Sam had gone up to shower nearly half an hour ago and hadn’t come back down. Not because he was upset, but because he was tired. Earned tired. That kind of good-exhausted you only got from running hard, pushing yourself, doing something that mattered.

Dean had seen it in him that afternoon - shoulders looser, chin lifted, eyes steady.

Sam had talked the whole ride home, half-breathless, words tumbling over each other in a way Dean hadn’t heard in months. He talked about the pass he cut through the midfield line, how Connor had called him “Stat Dad” like it was the highest form of praise, and how Jake nearly tackled him after the assist. Dylan, apparently, just grinned and muttered, “Rookie genius,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean hadn’t said much. Just listened, heart full and quiet, trying to memorize every word like it might vanish if he looked too proud.

He remembered October, how Sam hadn’t smiled with his eyes. How he’d press his fingers to his chest like he was trying to hold himself together from the inside out. There were nights Dean would wake to the faint chirp of the monitor, and Sam would already be sitting up, knees drawn in, pale and shaking but silent.

“You notice it too?” Dean asked now, voice low, not needing to explain what it was.

Bobby didn’t answer right away. Just took a long sip from the chipped diner mug and stared into the dark yard.

“Kid’s standing taller,” he said finally. “Doesn’t flinch when folks look at him. Doesn’t glance for exits every time someone laughs too loud.”

Dean nodded slowly, eyes on the edge of the yard where the trees blurred into night. “He’s different. In a good way.”

“‘Course he is. He’s not just surviving anymore.” Bobby leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s living again.”

Dean let that sit.

God, he remembered exactly how it felt, that first time Sam said he was afraid to go back to school. How Dean had tried not to show the way his gut twisted hearing it. How Sam had clung to him after waking from dreams he couldn’t explain. How he’d watched the other kids from behind his bangs like he didn’t believe he belonged.

But now? Now Sam was out there running plays, holding his ground, making jokes in a group chat full of loudmouthed, half-feral teenage boys Dean hadn’t asked for, but who, somehow, had turned out to be exactly what his kid needed. Sam was sharp again. Brave. Not just in the grit-your-teeth, white-knuckle way Dean had come to expect, but in the quiet, steady, show-up-anyway way that cracked Dean’s heart wide open every damn time.

“I just-” Dean exhaled hard. “So many times, I haven’t known if we’d ever get this Sam back. The one who teases and plans and gets too competitive about pancakes. He’s had weeks where he wouldn’t even look in a mirror. Weeks when he wouldn’t talk. Now he’s joking around and having sleepovers with his friends.”

Bobby snorted. “And probably beatin’ them at their own damn game.”

Dean chuckled. “He’s got your mouth.”

“He’s got your grit.”

Dean took a sip of his beer and stared down at the bottle for a long moment. “You know, when he came home from the hospital, I remember thinking if he never laughed again, if he never wanted to run or draw or play again… I’d still love him the same. I’d still keep him safe.”

He shook his head, eyes distant. “But watching him now? Watching him come back to himself like this? It’s better than any win I've ever had. It’s better than surviving.”

They fell quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Crickets hummed in the yard. A breeze stirred the leaves above the porch, rustling like a lullaby.

Then Bobby added, softer this time, “You did good, Dean.”

Dean looked down. His jaw tightened, like the words didn’t sit easily in his chest.

“I just kept him breathing.”

Bobby looked over, sharp now. “Yeah. And now he’s running. That’s you, too.”

Dean blinked. Swallowed. And for a moment, he let the truth of that sink in. Not just Bobby’s words, but the weight behind them. The long nights. The ER visits. The parent meetings. The whispered reassurances. The casseroles no one wanted. The fear. The hope.

The fight.

He didn’t say anything after that.

But when the porch light buzzed again and the upstairs window creaked open just a little, just enough for warm yellow light to spill out onto the grass, he looked up.

And smiled.

____

The field was shiny and brutal, sun high, and reflecting off the turf under his cleats.

And the second half was unraveling.

They were twenty minutes into a scoreless deadlock against Westbrook High, a team that played like they'd been built in a lab for aggression: fast, lean, relentless. Their midfield pressed hard and rotated quickly, grinding Sioux Falls’ rhythm into dust. Dylan had gone down ten minutes ago with a cramped calf, nothing serious, but enough to pull him from the field with a frustrated shake of his head.

Sam had watched him limp off with a tightening knot in his gut. Not because Dylan was invincible, but because he anchored them. He was gravity. Without him, everything felt off.

Coach didn’t call a timeout. He didn’t yell directions; he had just motioned for them to hold shape and keep going.

Which would’ve been fine if their shape had held. But it didn’t.

Jake kept drifting too far up, hungry for a break. Connor was overcorrecting left, trying to fill space that wasn’t his. The defense was sagging deeper every minute. Westbrook’s midfield sensed the wobble and pressed harder.

From the back, Ryan’s voice was starting to rise, short bursts of warning from the goal box, growing sharper, more clipped.

Sam saw it happening in real time. He didn’t wait for Coach. Didn’t wait for Dylan. He just started yelling.

“Connor, drop center! You’re leaving the lane wide!”

Connor, blinking hard, nodded once and slid in, catching a crossfield runner just in time to break the rhythm.

“Jake, don’t chase it! I’m pushing left, fill in behind!”

Jake slowed, circled back, and fell into formation. Sam could practically see the gears start turning again.

Westbrook surged again down the right wing. Sam sprinted to intercept, heart pounding, monitor thudding lightly under his compression shirt. He stuck the mark just enough to force the pass wide.

“Ryan, watch the split! Far post!”

Ryan shifted in the goal box like he’d read Sam’s mind, barking orders to the back line, feet planted, hands ready.

The next shot came from outside the box, low and fast, but Ryan had already adjusted. He caught it clean, dove to smother the rebound, and launched the ball back into play before anyone could regroup.

The tempo changed. Not dramatically, not instantly, but enough.

Sioux Falls found their shape again. Not perfect, but steady. Clean.

And for the first time in the whole half, it didn’t feel like they were clawing uphill just to stay afloat.

Sam didn’t think about what he’d done until they subbed him off five minutes later for a rotation. As he jogged to the sideline, lungs tight, jersey clinging to his back, he caught Coach Miller’s eyes.

Coach said nothing at first.

Then he stepped forward, clapping him once on the shoulder with a palm that hit solidly. “Didn’t know we had another field general out there.”

Sam blinked. “I just saw the lane collapsing.”

Coach nodded. “Yeah. And you fixed it.”

Sam sat on the bench, heartbeat still pulsing in his ears. He could still see the play: Connor shifting in, Jake pressing forward just enough, Ryan catching the read.

As he leaned back, the team pushing back upfield, someone bumped his arm. It was Connor, passing behind him with a grin. “Nice calls, rookie.”

Sam shook his head, but didn’t stop the smile. He didn’t need credit. Just the field. Just the game.

And the knowledge that, when it started to fall apart, they’d listened.

To him.

____

Coach Miller’s den smelled like pepperoni from the stack of pizzas on the side table, floor polish clinging stubbornly to the baseboards, and the faint, sharp scent of whatever muscle rub he kept stashed near the armchair. The projector hummed steadily in the corner, casting a grainy image onto the drop-down screen, where a paused frame showed a Haverford midfielder mid-sprint, elbow raised just enough to be dirty.

Sam sat cross-legged on the carpet, a folded beanbag slouched behind him like a tired dog. His notebook was balanced on one knee, pencil tucked behind his ear, a row of shorthand scribbles already lining the margins. He wasn’t new to these nights anymore. Not to the quiet crunch of pretzels, not to the rustle of hoodie sleeves against shag carpet, not even to the quiet anticipation that hung in the air before Coach hit play. This wasn’t the first time he felt like part of the circle.

But it still mattered. Every time, it still mattered.

Dylan slid into place beside him, legs stretched long across the floor, popping the tab on a can of Dr. Pepper. He took a sip, nudging Sam’s shoulder with his own. “You know they’re gonna mark you hard Friday, right?”

Sam looked up from his notes. “Me?”

Dylan snorted. “Yeah, you. After you broke through that back line like Moses parting the Red Sea last week? They’re gonna have someone glued to you.”

Connor, stretched out backward on a kitchen chair with a slice of pizza flopped dramatically across a paper plate, chimed in through a mouthful of crust. “Our secret weapon’s not so secret anymore.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Coach cleared his throat and clicked the remote. “Alright. Eyes up.”

The play started in slow motion. A Haverford midfielder, Number 7, cut inside, threw a theatrical elbow into a forward, then stumbled dramatically to the turf. The ref’s whistle followed a half-second later.

“Number 7’s a flopper,” Coach said. “But he’s smart. He waits ‘til he’s near the ref’s blind side. Sells it just right and he gets the call.”

Groans echoed across the room.

“I hate playing drama kids,” Jake muttered.

“You are a drama kid,” Ryan countered, tossing a crumpled napkin at him.

Coach paused the film. “So? Tell me how to shut it down.”

Sam hesitated. Just for a second. Then he raised a hand. Small, not showy. “You bait him into a foul early,” he said. “First ten minutes, something obvious. Let the ref see it. Then when he tries again, he won’t get the call.”

Coach gave him a look, measured and sharp. Then nodded once. “Exactly.”

No one laughed. No one made a face.

Dylan tossed a pretzel at him. “Told you. Secret weapon.”

Sam ducked, grin twitching. “Can we not call me that?”

“Too late. It’s sealed now.”

Sam shook his head, scribbled the words #7 = bait early into the margins of his page, and let the hum of the projector and the quiet thrum of belonging sink in.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been included. Not the first time someone passed him a soda or asked him what he thought mid-clip. But tonight it felt clearer somehow, like all the pieces were clicking together.

He remembered sitting at the end of the bench during that first game, jacket zipped to his chin, ribs still aching faintly beneath the monitor. He remembered the whispers, the too-careful glances, the half-step of space always left between him and the upperclassmen. He hadn’t hated them for it. He’d understood it, but it had felt cold.

Now Dylan sat close enough to bump his knee, and Connor had tossed him the last slice without thinking. Jake had tried to steal his notes, which was honestly more flattering than it should’ve been.

Coach rewound the play, started it again, and this time, Sam watched the body language: shoulders, hips, foot placement. He saw the opportunity before it happened.

He jotted another note.

Beside him, Dylan peered over his shoulder. “You missed your calling, dude. You should be a spy.”

Sam snorted. “I’m fourteen.”

“Exactly. Think of the potential.”

Sam shook his head again, but something warm curled beneath his ribs.

____

The sky had gone soft around the edges, all honey light and long shadows spilling across the far end of the field. Practice had run late again. Drills were tightening and pressure was mounting, the Haverford game looming like a held breath.

Sam sat on the lowest bench near the fence, cleats braced in the grass, elbows resting on his knees. JV was still running laps on the other side, their coach’s whistle slicing through the twilight. Somewhere behind him, cleats clattered on concrete. Someone shouted about rides. Sam barely heard it.

His fingers worked slowly at the laces on his right cleat, a rhythm that was more habit than focus, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Untethered, drifting.

The tongue of his shoe flipped forward, catching on his sock. He shifted, reaching to tug it loose, and that’s when he saw it.

The edge of his sleeve had ridden up just high enough to expose the pale scar circling his wrist. It was thin and old, but not faded. The matching scar on his other wrist itched like it knew it was being seen, even if he hadn’t touched it.

They weren’t usually visible. Most people didn’t notice.

But today, Sam did.

Because his body knew something the calendar didn’t have to say. It remembered this week. The chill of it. The silence of it. The way a dark cabin could press in on a kid’s lungs until breathing felt like drowning.

He’d been six. And then seven, recovering. And then years later, here. Still trying to be a normal kid who didn’t flinch every time rope brushed skin or memories snuck in through the smell of damp wood.

Dad hadn’t said anything, not directly, about the date. He never did around this time of year. But he’d been in the garage longer the past few nights, tinkering with things that didn’t need fixing. The Impala’s oil had been changed twice. The toolbox was already organized. Still, his dad lingered out there until long after Sam had gone to bed.

And in the mornings, there’d been pancakes. No comment. Just a plate left warming on the stove.

A shadow fell across his lap. Sam looked up quickly, his hand already pulling his sleeve down on reflex.

Dylan stood a few feet away, bag slung over one shoulder, brows drawn low. Connor and Jake hovered behind him, uncertain, and Ryan stood just beyond them both, pretending not to stare.

“You good?” Dylan asked, voice low.

Sam opened his mouth and went to nod before any sound came out.

Then stopped.

He glanced down again at the faint mark just peeking from under the cuff. He pushed the sleeve up.

He didn’t mean to make a moment of it, but the truth sat heavy in his mouth and wouldn’t move until he saw the scar. He couldn’t tell them about the cabin and the demon, but there was another truth his family used to cover for the old scars.

“This week’s just…” He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not great.”

He turned his wrist slightly, the light catching the old wound like a memory still healing.

“That’s where these come from,” he said. “Minnesota. I was seven. I got taken.”

The half-lie slipped out of his mouth, practiced and sure. The scars weren't from Minnesota, but it was a truth that was public.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was weight-bearing. Careful.

Dylan’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “Cuffs?”

“Ropes,” Sam said. “He dragged me out into the woods. I don’t remember everything. Just… some of it.”

“Jesus,” Ryan muttered, barely above a whisper.

Sam nodded once. Not to confirm it. Just to say he’d heard.

“Dad found me with the search party. Right before…” He didn’t finish the sentence. “I didn’t talk for a long time afterward.”

Connor shifted, voice quieter now. “Your dad brought an entire thermos army to the game last week. I still don’t know how he fit that many in the trunk.”

Sam blinked. “Yeah. He gets weird about cold weather.”

Ryan smirked. “He handed me cocoa and threatened my GPA in the same breath. Guy’s intense, but he shows up.”

That somehow cracked the tension.

Dylan sat beside him, letting his bag thud to the grass. “Are you doing okay today? Like, actually okay?”

Sam hesitated. Then said, honestly, “Getting there.”

“You’re still faster than me,” Dylan added. “Trauma or not.”

“Barely,” Jake called from behind.

Ryan just nodded once, then added, “We got you.”

Simple. No fuss. No follow-up.

They didn’t crowd him. Didn’t try to fill the quiet. They just sat. Stood. Stayed.

Sam looked down at his wrists once more, then tugged the sleeves down and gathered up his cleats.

He hadn’t told them everything. Not about the first time. Not the visions. Not the dreams. Not the courthouse.

But he’d told them enough, and they hadn’t left.

That meant more than he could explain. More than he wanted to admit.

____

The four of them didn’t talk about it right away.

Not on the walk to the parking lot. Not on the ride back to Dylan’s, where the plan was pizza, game footage, and pretending midterms didn’t exist. Sam had been quiet in the backseat, earbuds in, sleeves tugged down again. No one pushed.

But later that night, after Sam had gone to the bathroom and the screen paused mid-playback, the silence settled in like a weight.

Jake tossed a popcorn kernel at the couch arm. “So.”

Ryan, on the floor with his back to the coffee table, said nothing.

Connor shifted forward on the carpet. “I keep thinking about the way he said it. Like he’d already decided it was too much.”

“It is too much,” Jake said, voice rougher now. “He was seven. Tied up in the woods? That doesn’t happen to kids. That happens in movies. That happens in nightmares.”

“And somehow he made it out of that,” Ryan muttered. “Still shows up to practice. Still jokes about juice boxes. Still runs until he can barely breathe.”

“Dean found him,” Dylan said. “He told us that part. And if you put that next to what happened at the courthouse last year…”

Connor nodded slowly. “Yeah. That news story. They said his bio dad took him there in some kind of custody mess, and Dean showed up and stopped it.”

“Stopped it,” Jake echoed. “They didn’t say how, but Sam came back to school after. Arm in a sling. Bruises. Didn’t talk much. We weren’t even friends yet.”

Ryan looked toward the hallway. “I remember that. No one knew what to say. The news made it sound messy, but not like… not like what it probably was.”

“And he still doesn’t talk about it,” Dylan said quietly.

He didn’t say the rest out loud, but it circled in his head like it always did. The way the other students had whispered about Sam, like his story was gossip, like his bruises were rumors to be traded between periods. Curious. Uncaring. Sometimes cruel.

That wasn’t what this was.

They weren’t trying to get details. They didn’t need the full story. They just wanted to understand enough to hold space for it. Enough to help.

Jake stretched his legs out. “I keep picturing him at seven. Just… gone. And then wakes up in the woods with scars and silence. Then again, bruised and bandaged after a fight in a courthouse? That’s not a life. That’s survival on repeat.”

“You don’t come back from that the same,” Ryan said. “You build new ground. You find new people. If you’re lucky.”

Dylan leaned forward. “He didn’t have to tell us about getting kidnapped, but he did. That counts.”

“Means he’s trying,” Connor said.

“Means he trusts us,” Jake added.

Ryan finally looked up. “Then we make sure he’s right.”

No one argued.

The bathroom door opened a minute later. Sam padded back in wearing sweatpants and a hoodie with the sleeves still tugged low. He blinked at the quiet.

“What,” he said flatly. “Did you all decide to join a cult while I was gone?”

Jake grinned. “We’re voting on robes. Ryan wants black.”

“Obviously,” Ryan muttered.

Sam shook his head and dropped back onto the couch between Connor and Dylan.

The game resumed. The popcorn passed hands.

No more talk of scars or silence.

____

The porch creaked under Dad’s boots as he settled onto the top step, setting down the bowl of popcorn between them with a soft thud . The night had cooled enough for Sam to tug an old hoodie around his knees and lean his shoulder against the post.

They’d watched a movie earlier at Dylan’s place, some loud, ridiculous action thing Jake swore was a classic. Sam had laughed through most of it, genuinely. But now the screen was off, the car ride home was over, and the house was quiet in a way that settled deep if Sam let it. The kind that made him think too much, if he wasn’t careful.

Dad didn’t push. He never did right away.

Sam’s hands were curled inside the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers picking at the seam. He didn’t look over when he spoke.

“They like me.”

Dad glanced sideways. “Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “Of course they do.”

“Dylan called me a genius today,” Sam mumbled. “Because I guessed what drill Coach was gonna run next.”

Dad smiled. “You probably were.”

“I think… I think I finally have friends.”

“You do,” Dad said, no hesitation.

Sam nodded, barely. His voice was smaller when it came again. “I’m scared they’ll leave.”

His chest tugged at the words. That worry never really went away, not even with Dad beside him, not even when things were good.

“I mean…” Sam dragged in a breath. “They only know the school stuff. Soccer. Homework. That I’ve got scars, and sometimes I freeze up. But they don’t know why. Not really.”

Dad kept his hands still on his thighs. “Have they asked?”

“Not really, but I know they want to.” Sam’s voice cracked just a little. “I brush it off. I don’t lie, exactly, but I don’t tell them everything either. I just-” He blinked fast. “I want to. I want them to know me. But I don’t know how.”

Dad didn’t speak, so Sam went on, quieter now.

“I told them about Minnesota,” he said. “Just the real-world part. That I got taken. That I was seven. That a guy dragged me out into the woods. I showed them the scars on my wrists and told them they came from that.” He pulled his sleeves down a little, almost subconsciously, then looked away. “I told them I don’t remember everything, just that it was bad.”

Dad’s expression didn’t change, but Sam could feel it. The way his body stilled. That deep, steady breath he always took when he was remembering things he didn't want to.

“They didn’t laugh,” Sam added, like it still surprised him. “They didn’t look at me like I was weird. They just asked if I was okay.” He huffed a small laugh. “They said I still run faster than them, trauma or not.”

Dad finally spoke. “You didn’t tell them about the rest?”

Sam shook his head. “How do you explain demons and symbols and why I still check under beds for hex bags? I can barely explain it to myself.”

Dad reached over, slow and solid, and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You don’t have to. Not unless you want to.”

The hand stayed. So did the silence. But it was gentler now, like something exhaled.

After a while, Sam’s voice came back, softer still. “I think they’d stay.”

Dad nodded once. “Then maybe one day you let them. When it feels right.”

This time, Sam didn’t just lean into the contact; he folded in fully, pressing his side against his dad’s, head tipped to his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dad adjusted slightly, settled an arm around Sam’s back, and held him there like it was easy.

A beat passed.

Then Dad pressed a kiss to the side of Sam’s head, solid and warm and unhurried.

“I’m proud of you, you know that?” he murmured. “So damn proud. And I love you, Sammy. More than anything.”

Sam didn’t say anything back. He didn’t have to. The way he stayed pressed in close, steady and breathing, said enough.

They sat there a long time, sharing the popcorn, not saying much else. There was just the stars overhead, the porch light buzzing soft and steady, and the house behind them quiet and safe.

Inside, the world could wait.

Out here, Sam let himself breathe.

And Dad stayed.

____

The locker room was still half-dark when Dylan shoved open the door the next morning, duffel bag thumping against his hip. Fluorescents hummed overhead but hadn’t fully warmed up, casting everything in a weird greenish haze. He stepped inside with a yawn - then froze.

The bulletin board at the far end of the room wasn’t cluttered with the usual taped-up schedules or fundraiser flyers anymore.

It was one single, thick message.

Written in permanent black marker, bold and jagged across the center of the cork:

#11 = Hospital Hero. Better bring your heart monitor Friday.

For a second, all Dylan could hear was the buzz of the lights and the thud of his own pulse in his ears. Then the door opened again behind him.

Jake walked in, still pulling on a hoodie. “Yo, you leave your cleats in-”

He saw it. Stopped talking.

“…What the hell is that?” Jake’s voice dropped. 

Dylan didn’t answer right away. He stepped forward, reading it again like the words might change.

Jake dropped his bag, crossed the room, and peeled a flyer off the corner of the board. It was one of the few that hadn’t been defaced. “Haverford. It has to be. Who else would be that low?”

The door slammed again.

Connor.

He didn’t need to ask. He saw Dylan’s face, then followed his gaze to the board.

“Unbelievable,” Connor muttered, stepping closer. “What the hell is wrong with people?”

Ryan was right behind him, and before anyone could speak, he moved straight for the janitor’s supply closet down the hall. He came back two minutes later with spray cleaner and a rag.

Jake grabbed one edge of the board while Dylan grabbed the other. “We’re taking it down.”

“No time to scrub it before Sam gets here,” Ryan added, already spritzing the cleaner on the wall underneath where it hung. “We wipe the wall. Toss the board. Done.”

“Is he coming early today?” Jake asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Probably,” Dylan said. “He always does.”

They worked fast. Jake yanked down the pins, Dylan folded the board in half and shoved it into a trash bag, and Connor stuffed the broken flyer into his pocket. Ryan scrubbed at the wall, fast and furious, until the ghost of the marker was gone.

The whole thing took maybe four minutes.

When the door creaked again, every single one of them flinched.

Sam stepped in, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds in. He paused just inside the door, blinking like he sensed something off.

“Morning,” he said, tugging one earbud out.

“Hey,” Jake replied instantly. “Coach made us take the board down. Said it was too cluttered.”

Sam raised a slow eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yep,” Dylan nodded. “Whole thing. Gone.”

Sam scanned the wall again. The faint tang of cleaning spray still hung in the air. A smear of dampness still lingered where the board used to be.

But he didn’t ask again.

He dropped his bag beside his locker, unzipped it, and pulled out his cleats. “You guys are weirdly chipper for six in the morning.”

Ryan grunted. “Coffee.”

Jake offered a grin. “That or rage.”

Sam gave them a look, but his smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

____

The bus groaned around a bend in the road, headlights cutting through mist and shadows as it crawled along the back route home. Inside, the noise had dimmed into something looser. The music was on low, wrappers crinkling, cleats thudding as they shifted beneath the seats. Even the loudest guys had started to fade, voices softening into nervous murmurs.

Sam sat near the middle, hoodie sleeves pulled over his knuckles, chin propped on one hand as he stared out the fogged window. His breath left faint ghost-marks on the glass, vanishing almost as soon as they appeared.

In his pocket was a torn scrap of cork.

He hadn’t meant to see it.

Hadn’t even realized what it was at first, just a crumpled piece of something in the trash can outside the locker room. He’d reached to throw it away, but something about the way it was ripped had made him pause. Unfold it. Look.

It wasn't the full message, just the edge of it.

He hadn’t told anyone, but it had sat with him since, rustling like static at the edge of his thoughts.

He knew the full thing must have been worse. He knew that one of his friends must have torn it down before he ever got there. He knew they were trying to protect him. That no one had meant for him to see it.

But he had.

And now it clung to the inside of his ribs, just tight enough to squeeze.

He didn’t notice Dylan until the other boy dropped into the seat next to him, one leg slung into the aisle.

“You’re thinking loud again,” Dylan said casually, nudging his shin.

Sam blinked. “What?”

Dylan tilted his head. “That look. Same one you had when the vending machine shorted last week and you started planning how to fix it with a paperclip.”

Sam tried for a shrug. “Just tired.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”

A beat of quiet passed, filled only by the soft bass line thrumming from the back of the bus.

Then Dylan added, quieter this time, like he already knew, “You know we saw it, right? The board. We took care of it.”

Sam hesitated. He hadn’t expected that.

“I didn’t see the whole thing,” he admitted, voice low. “Just a piece. Trash can in the locker room.”

Dylan’s jaw tensed, but he nodded slowly. “Good. You didn’t need to see the rest.”

Sam didn’t reply.

Dylan leaned forward, arms braced on his knees. “We don’t talk about this kind of stuff much. I get that. But that crap? What they wrote? That’s not who you are. That’s not what we think.”

Sam looked down at his hands, fingers curled loosely. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t get in your head.”

“No,” Dylan agreed. “But it doesn’t get to stay there.”

The quiet stretched.

Then Dylan added, almost offhand, “Coach is having you start first touch at the game.”

Sam blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” Dylan said. “You’re the best passer we’ve got. And because you got the best field sense on this team, even when your head’s full of garbage.”

Sam huffed a short laugh, the kind that surprised even himself. “That's a compliment?”

“Obviously not. I have a reputation.”

They shared a look.

Sam didn’t move at first. The weight of the scrap pressed cold against his ribs, all edges and ink and implication.

He didn’t want to show it, but something in Dylan’s posture - unbothered, grounded, waiting - made the air feel steadier. Made the silence feel like a place he could step into without falling.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and tugged out the scrap. He handed it over without speaking.

Dylan looked at it and scowled, before crumpling it again with enough force to wrinkle his knuckles.

“Next time someone pulls this crap,” he said, “we’re not waiting to tear it down. We’re starting with a phone call to Coach. Maybe the principal.”

Sam nodded once. “Thanks.”

Dylan shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Told you, man. You’re ours now.”

And somehow, even with the weight of everything still hanging over him, Sam believed it.

____

The tunnel buzzed - fluorescents above, crowd noise leaking in. Chants, drums, maybe even a cowbell. It thudded through Sam’s ribs like a second heartbeat, steady under his jersey.

He stood near the middle of them all. Number 11, his heart monitor calm and sleeves to his elbows. Focused.

Mostly.

Behind him, Dylan bounced lightly on his heels. Connor shook out his hands. 

From the far end, Haverford filed in, louder and looser. Their captain barked something Sam couldn’t hear. Someone else laughed.

Then: “Well, if it isn’t Miracle Boy.”

Sam didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at them.

“You bring your monitor, or just the pity points?”

Laughter bounced in the tunnel, and not from his team. Before the words could land, Dylan stepped forward, close enough that the noise cut off.

He looked the kid dead in the eye.

“Funny,” Dylan said, low and sharp. “You only run your mouth when the scoreboard’s off. Try it again when Sam’s the reason you’re down two.”

The Haverford player scoffed and turned away.

Sam exhaled slowly through his nose. His pulse was up, but not from fear. Not this time.

Dylan didn’t look over right away. Just rolled his neck, adjusted his sleeves. But when he did, the look said it all.

I got you.

Coach’s whistle blew and they surged forward. Sam’s cleats hit turf with solid weight. He didn’t look back.

The stadium exploded in sound: cheers, boos, bleachers thundering under stomping feet. The lights bore down like second suns.

Sam jogged out with the starters, the pressure wrapping around his chest like armor, not a weight. His skin burned warm beneath the chill air.

He scanned the crowd without meaning to. Hoodies, signs, foam fingers-

There.

Front row, visitors' side, just above midfield. Dad in his leather jacket, arms folded, jaw set. Eyes already locked on Sam. Uncle Bobby beside him, one foot on the bleacher, coffee in hand. No cowbell, but Sam wouldn’t put it past him.

His chest loosened. Not because the pressure eased. Because the sight of them cut straight through the static.

Dad raised two fingers. Just once.

I see you. I got you.

Sam dipped his head. It was subtle, no wave, but he stood a little straighter.

The whistle blew.

The game was seconds away.

____

The ball sat at center field, still and waiting, like the world was holding its breath.

Sam stood over it - cleats square, muscles coiled, the crisp white line of midfield beneath his right boot. Haverford's formation shifted across from them, all sharp angles and narrowed eyes. Their captain was already mouthing something cocky, but Sam didn’t bother translating.

Sam took a breath. Not too deep, he’d learned that after Minnesota. Shallow, controlled. He could do this.

Across the line, Dylan gave a subtle nod.

The ref raised the whistle.

Tweet.

Sam touched the ball first, light and fast, angling back to Dylan, and sprinted forward.

The turf was rougher than their home field, worn patches from too many cleats grinding the edges, but Sam barely noticed. The movement came easily now, second nature. He pivoted around the Haverford midfielder who tried to crowd him early and caught the pass, flicking it toward Connor, and looped wide down the flank.

They didn’t expect him to be that fast. Not the kid with the heart monitor. Not the miracle freshman.

Sam burned past their right wing and shouted for the ball.

Connor heard him and chipped it high. Sam trapped it one-touch, spun on his heel, and took off again. They weren’t even a full minute in.

Someone from the rival bench yelled, “Close him down!”

Sam wasn’t trying to score, not yet. He cut across the top of the box, saw Dylan slip free on the left, and slid the ball to him just as the defender committed.

The shot cracked against the crossbar and bounced out, but the crowd roared.

Cheers echoed from the bleachers. Sam heard his name shouted once, maybe twice, but the only voice that cut clean through was his dad’s.

“THAT’S MY KID!”

It hit him harder than the rush of the break. He didn’t turn, he just reset. He jogged back to center field, breath tight in his chest.

Tonight wasn’t about proving he belonged; it was about reminding them that he owned this.

And it started with that first touch.

____

The match turned. Not in the score, but in how it pressed. Harder. Closer. Haverford wasn’t just here to win, they were here to rattle.

Sam felt it by the 20th minute.

Their midfielders didn’t just mark, they crowded. Every bump carried a message.

The first one came on a corner kick, the sun already gone. Shadows stretched long across the turf. Number 7 slipped in behind him, too close. The elbow hit low and deliberate, right where an old bruise still lingered.

Sam staggered but stayed up. No whistle. He blinked through the sting, breathing past it.

Dylan saw from halfway across the pitch:  “Are you fucking kidding me? That was an elbow!”

A whistle came late. A yellow card, for dissent. Not for the hit.

Number 7 grinned.

Sam didn’t speak. He didn’t look at the bench. He jogged back to position, ribs burning.

He wasn’t imagining it anymore. It was a threat on a board or a leer in the tunnel. He was being targeted.

They were going to keep coming. Quiet hits. No calls. Little ways to chip away at him without drawing red.

He just had to hold. Sam exhaled and rolled his shoulders, stepping back into the zone.

Let them try.

When the first half was starting to close down, Sam could feel it getting worse.

The crowd behind the home bench was louder than any they’d faced this season, packed shoulder-to-shoulder on metal bleachers, armed with signs and smugness.

It didn’t take long for the crowd to start.

When Sam lined up for a corner, hands on his knees, heart still steady but breathing heavy, the chant started.

“PULSE CHECK! PULSE CHECK!”

The Haverford student section roared with it, clapping, laughing, voices sharp with mockery. The words landed like static in his chest.

Sam froze for half a second. He stared down at the turf, jaw locked. He didn’t look at the bleachers. He focused on the sting in his ribs, the pressure building behind his eyes.

But before the next verse could start:

“FASTER THAN YOU!”

The voice came from the visitors’ side, loud and certain.

“FASTER THAN YOU!” 

Then the sitting players joined in. The chant took hold like a spark in dry brush.

“FASTER THAN YOU! FASTER THAN YOU!”

It wasn’t the whole stadium, but it didn’t have to be. The bench was loud. The JV players and students, parents sitting in the overflowing visitors’ section, were louder. Even Coach Miller shouted something indistinct, sharp and encouraging.

And just like that, the Haverford chant cracked, faltered, and died.

Sam lifted his head slowly. His chest still buzzed, but the pressure was different now. Not humiliation. Not shame.

Something steadier. Sturdier.

He looked over his shoulder at his team.

Dylan gave him a look across the pitch, one that said, You good?

Sam gave the smallest nod, a the ball came to him on the left wing. It was just a little too slow, a little too wide. He adjusted his pace, dropped his shoulder, and split the gap between two Haverford players before they could close it.

The hit came from the side.

Sam barely had time to register the glint of studs before he jumped. He was midair when the cleats skimmed his ankle, not enough to cut but enough to sting. He landed hard, stumbled, and rolled once on the turf before scrambling back up.

The ref’s whistle stayed silent.

Connor didn’t.

“What the hell is your problem?” he shouted, storming toward the Haverford defender.

“Connor,” Jake hissed, grabbing his arm. “Leave it!”

But Connor wasn’t hearing anyone. His fists were clenched, chest heaving, eyes locked on the smirking Haverford kid already jogging back into position.

“Clean tackle, my ass!”

Sam jogged up, shaking out his leg. “I’m good,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

But his pulse was kicking hard behind his ribs. That one had been close. Too close.

The ref finally ambled over, half-heartedly telling Connor to calm down and gesturing for play to resume.

Sam pulled at his collar, heat threading up his neck. Across the field, another Haverford player pointed right at him. Said something to his teammate and nodded in Sam’s direction.

He turned to the bench. Coach’s jaw was tight. Dad was on his feet, yelling something he couldn’t hear. Uncle Bobby beside him, arms folded like he was holding himself back.

Connor finally relented, muttering under his breath as Jake dragged him a few steps back.

“They’re aiming for you,” Connor said lowly, just loud enough for Sam to hear. “That wasn’t a mistake.”

____

The locker room was all scuffed tile and sweat-soaked silence at halftime, the game tied 1 - 1 now. Echoes of the crowd still drifted in through the vents, but they were distant and muffled, like the game was happening underwater now. Sam sat on the edge of the bench, peeling off his shin guards with slow, practiced fingers. His left sock stuck a little where the turf burn still stung.

Across from him, Dylan was slumped back against the wall, a bottle of Gatorade pressed to his forehead. Connor was still pacing.

Coach Miller stood in front of the dry-erase board, but he hadn’t touched it yet.

"That first half..." he started, then stopped. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That wasn’t soccer. That was a brawl waiting for a whistle."

No one argued.

Sam rolled his ankle gently. It hurt enough to know the clip had been deliberate. He hadn’t said anything. Not when it happened. Not when Dylan scored on the rebound. Not when Connor spat curses under his breath back to kickoff.

“They’re trying to rattle us,” Coach said finally, looking right at Sam. “Trying to get under our skin. Especially yours.”

Sam didn’t flinch, but his stomach gave a small, sour twist.

He wasn’t surprised.

What did surprise him was the sound of boots outside the door.

Coach glanced toward it, then back at them. “Take five. Hydrate. Refocus. Don’t let them write the second half.”

He stepped outside.

Sam didn’t mean to listen as he taped his ankle, but he was closest to the door, and the hallway echoed.

He heard Coach say something low, too quiet to catch. Then his dad’s voice, sharp and cutting through like a blade.

“They’re fucking targeting him like he’s got a bullseye on his back.”

There was a pause. Then Uncle Bobby: “You want me to go talk to the ref?”

Dean again, quieter now. “No. Sam wouldn’t want that.”

Another pause.

“But if he takes another hit and they swallow the whistle again…”

Sam stopped listening. He looked down at his ankle again. The tape held. His pulse held steady.

Across the bench, Dylan watched him.

“They’re pushing it,” he said, low. “You good?”

Sam nodded. His jaw was tight. His ribs hurt. But his voice came out even.

“They don’t get to win just because they hit harder.”

Dylan grinned. “Damn right.”

Connor threw his jersey back on with a grunt. “Second half’s ours.”

The door opened again. Coach returned, stone-faced.

“Let’s finish this clean,” he said. “But don’t let ‘em think for one second you’re scared.”

Sam stood.

He wasn’t scared, but he was tired of being the target and tired of staying quiet.

Time to speak with his feet.

____

The ball spun into his path - a clean, perfect line off Jake’s boot - and Sam barely had to think. He stepped into it, let it roll just past his foot, body already turning, ready to fake left and burn past the last defender.

He didn’t see the cleats coming.

He just felt the jolt. That awful slam of bone against bone. The hit landed low and sharp, right above his ankle. His legs went out from under him before he could even try to jump.

The turf came fast. His shoulder hit first, then his hip, then his ribs, all the places that had already taken too much this season. The air tore out of his lungs in one sick, shallow wheeze. For a second, the whole field tilted sideways.

And then it started.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

Sam’s fingers dug into the turf. He couldn’t breathe. Not yet. His lungs weren’t working right. His ribs screamed under his palm. His brain said move, but his body wouldn’t.

The noise drilled into his ears.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

Not the yellow zone. Not red. Not yet, but close. Too close.

Sam closed his eyes, jaw clenched, and forced the air in. One shallow inhale. Then another. The green light blinked under his shirt. Erratic, but still there.

He opened his eyes just as someone stepped into view.

Not Dylan. Not the ref.

Haverford’s midfielder.

The kid looked down at him, all grin and sharp teeth and spit-slick hair, like none of this meant a damn thing. Like Sam being on the ground was the whole point.

“You drop easy,” the player said, quiet and cruel. “No wonder your real daddy didn’t keep you.”

Sam froze.

That wasn’t trash talk. That wasn’t about soccer. That was a knife.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t rise. Couldn’t do anything but stare at the kid’s cleats - mud-caked, worn at the heel - because looking up felt like giving something away.

Everything in his body screamed.

But before the words could sink deeper-

“THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Dylan’s voice cracked through the air like a starting pistol.

It was sudden chaos. There was a shove. Shouting. Ryan pulled Dylan back. The ref’s whistle finally blared.

But Sam barely heard it. He was still in the grass. Still trying to breathe. He turned his face into the turf, heart thudding against the monitor like it might punch straight through.

He didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of everyone. But the shake in his limbs was real. The blood under his ribs felt wrong. His foot was already swelling in his cleat.

Then Dylan was there. Dropping to his knees, voice low and frantic. “Sam? Hey. Hey. Talk to me.”

Sam blinked up at him, voice cracked from the dryness in his throat.  “Yeah. Just- just gimme a sec.”

And Dylan stayed, one hand steady on Sam’s shoulder like he could absorb the pain through contact. Not saying anything else. Just staying. Just there.

The whistle blew again.

His dad’s voice filtered in next, louder and sharper. It cracked across the field like thunder. “You call that a card? That was assault!”

Sam turned his head.

Dad was halfway over the fence, both fists white-knuckled around the rail like he was going to rip it in half. Uncle Bobby was behind him, trying to yank him down by the jacket.

“He could’ve broken his leg!” Dean roared.

The entire stadium held still. Even Haverford’s side went quiet.

His side felt like it had been crushed under a steel beam. His ankle was screaming in his sock, and the heart monitor had only just stopped wailing.

But Sam sat up. Slow and shaky, but upright.

Dylan hovered beside him like a bodyguard on the verge of snapping.

“We can get a sub,” he said, quieter now. It was fierce in a different way, like if Sam said one word wrong, Dylan would march to the ref and rip up the rulebook himself.

But Sam just shook his head. “I’m not coming out.”

Because he couldn’t. Because if he sat now, if he folded after everything, they’d win. Not just the score, but the whole game.

Coach stormed the field, yelling in the ref’s face. He got carded for it.

Sam barely registered it. He was watching the fence line.

Dad hadn’t moved. He stood solid, arms crossed now, but his whole body looked carved from concrete. Eyes locked on Sam like they were the only two people on the planet. And behind him was Uncle Bobby. Still tense. Still muttering. But there. Steady.

Sam pushed up to standing with Dylan’s help. His ankle wobbled. His ribs burned, but his legs held.

The green light under his shirt blinked steadily. For once, it wasn’t just his heart that was steady.

It was his will.

The Haverford player, the one who said it, smirked as Sam limped back into formation. “You think you’re something special, hospital boy?”

Sam looked the kid in the eye. “I think you just got beat.”

Then he turned. No swagger. No smile. Just spine straight, cleats digging into the turf, heart thudding steady in his chest.

The whistle blew again.

Sam didn’t look back.

____

The score was tied 2 - 2.

Time was bleeding out.

Sam could hear the countdown echoing from the bleachers - ten, nine, eight - cutting jagged through the blur of coaches screaming, benches rattling, cleats slamming turf. It wasn’t the clean, rehearsed chant they used in pep rallies. It was raw, hope and panic tangled together.

His lungs burned. Every inhale scraped across bruised ribs that still hadn’t healed right. His calves felt like fire, but he was still running.

Across the field, Haverford’s box devolved into chaos. One of their strikers launched a desperate cross. Another got a knee on it - too soft, too wild - and the ball pinballed between legs, shin guards, cleats. A defender cursed. Another slipped.

The ball shot loose, ugly, awkward and fast.

It skipped away from the mess like it was trying to escape. Like it wanted out.

And it rolled straight toward midfield. Straight toward him.

Sam didn’t think.

He didn’t check the clock. Didn’t flinch at the pain in his ribs. Didn’t feel the blood on his sock or the monitor pressing under his shirt.

He just moved, three strides. 

He matched the bounce. Lined up the arc.

He could hear Dylan yelling something: “Leave it!” or “Take it!” or maybe just “SAM!”

He didn’t trap it, didn’t cushion it.

He struck it clean.

Right foot. Full extension. The kind of shot you don’t plan, just feel. All muscle memory and instinct and trust. It left his foot like it had a mission.

Too fast. Too high-

No.

Perfect.

It climbed, cut through the air like it belonged to someone else. For a second, time stuttered. Sound dropped out.

Sam watched it spin over the halfway line, tailing just right, dipping as it neared the box. The Haverford keeper saw it too late - eyes wide, backpedaling - but he didn’t dive.

The ball hit the back netting with a sound that split the world wide open.

And the whistle blew.

For one perfect breath, no one moved.

Sam just stood there, chest heaving, hands curled loose at his sides, watching the net ripple like the world had just split open and let him through.

Then Dylan hit him.

He slammed into Sam, arms locked tight, nearly lifting him off the ground. It was laughter at first - a sharp, wild sound like joy had surprised him - but there was something else too. A tremble in the way he gripped Sam’s jersey, like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

“What the- Sam!” Dylan’s voice cracked halfway through. “You shot that? From halfway?”

Sam nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah.”

Dylan stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless, then shoved him in the chest with one hand. Not hard, just enough to make a point. “You maniac! You absolute miracle. Who even does that?!”

Sam grinned, dizzy and weightless, but Dylan wasn’t done. He pulled Sam into another hug, rough and brief. His voice dropped low, not for the cameras, not for the crowd.

“You don’t even know what you just did, do you?” Dylan said. “That wasn’t just a goal. That was yours. All of it.”

Sam blinked. “I just… I saw it. I knew it would go.”

Dylan laughed again, broken and overwhelmed. “Of course you did. Of course you saw the whole damn field like you were reading sheet music.”

Dylan let go, finally, brushing at his eyes again like the wind was suddenly everyone's problem. Sam would’ve laughed if his lungs were working.

Then Connor hit them like a cannonball.

“THAT WAS FROM HALFWAY!” he shouted, wrapping an arm around both of them like he planned to never let go. “I didn’t even see you take it! I blinked, and it was in! What the hell, Winchester?”

Jake wasn’t far behind, sliding to a stop and grabbing Sam’s jersey like he might shake the physics out of him. “He kicked it from Kansas! That wasn’t a goal, that was a hate crime!” He was laughing too hard to say more, chest heaving, face red with disbelief.

Ryan wandered up last. Quiet, wide-eyed. Still frozen in the box with both hands on his head. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Sam, looked at the net, then back again like maybe the universe was glitching.

“…That was from midfield, ” he whispered. “You- dude. ”

Sam opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find anything to say.

So Ryan said it for him, simple and honest. “You did it.”

And just like that, Sam felt everything loosen in his chest. He’d done it. He really had.

“SAMMY!”

There was no time to brace, his dad was already running. He cleared the last bleacher row like it didn’t matter, boots hammering the ground as he crossed the track, dodged an assistant coach, and made a straight line for his kid.

His arms hit hard, folding Sam into a hug that knocked the wind from his lungs a second time.

One arm around Sam’s shoulders, one hand on the back of his head, like he was anchoring him in place. Like if he didn’t hold him this tightly, Sam might vanish.

Sam staggered a step under the weight but didn’t fall. He leaned in, shaky-laughed against his dad’s collar. “You saw it?”

Dad pulled back just enough to see his face, both hands planted on Sam’s arms. “Saw it? Kid, you broke the fucking sky. What was that?!”

Sam shrugged, heart still fluttering. “Felt right.”

Dad blinked once, then cracked up, loud, messy, and totally unguarded. The kind of laugh that made strangers glance over.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Dean said, wiping his face.

Sam grinned. “Pretty sure that’s my job.”

From behind them, someone let out a sharp whistle that could probably shatter a window.

Uncle Bobby.

He made his way down slower, grumbling and grinning, and stopped a few feet away. He looked Sam over, head to toe, then back to the net.

“Well,” Bobby said, voice gravel-thick, “looks like we’re gonna need a damn trophy shelf.”

Sam ducked his head, suddenly shy under all the attention. “I don’t think they give those out for regular season games.”

“They will after that,” Bobby said. He nodded toward the Haverford goalie. “Pretty sure that poor kid’s still tryin’ to remember what century he’s in.”

Dad ran a hand over his mouth like he was trying to recover. Then he slung an arm back around Sam’s shoulders and pulled him tight. “You’re walking into school Monday like you own the damn building.”

Sam laughed. “Do I get a say in that?”

“Nope.” Dad was still grinning. “You midfield a win like that? That’s the law.”

Sam leaned in without thinking. His ribs still hurt. His legs were jelly. His hands were trembling again, not from adrenaline, but from the way it was finally leaving his body.

He looked around at Dylan, Connor, Jake, Ryan. At Uncle Bobby. At Dad.

This wasn’t a miracle. It was just his.

____

The morning after the Haverford game, Sam blinked awake to the low buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand.

It was still early, barely eight. The room was dim, washed in the soft gray of overcast morning light, the kind of quiet that only existed when no one else was up yet. Even the house felt like it was holding its breath.

Sam didn’t move at first.

Everything hurt.

Not in the bad, hospital way, but in the full-body, day-after-battle kind of way. His legs were lead-heavy, calves tight, quads aching with every small shift under the covers. His knees, bruised and scraped, throbbed in a slow pulse he could feel in his teeth. His right ankle twinged when he flexed it, a reminder of that illegal slide.

But it was his ribs that caught him most. Deep and dull, a leftover ache from every time he’d hit the turf or taken a shoulder to the chest. Every breath came in a little tight. Not dangerous. Just sore.

Earned. The kind of aching that proved he hadn’t backed down.

Sam exhaled through his nose and stared at the ceiling, letting the buzz of his phone fade to silence. His body was stiff, but not broken. He could still feel the adrenaline echo of last night humming somewhere under the pain. The goal. The final whistle. The way his team had tackled him after. The way his dad had looked at him - pride and terror and fierce, quiet love all wrapped into one.

Yeah, he hurt, but he’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

He rolled onto his side, wincing, and picked up his phone.

93 unread messages.

Sam squinted.

Group chat.

He opened it.

CONNOR: bro

BRO

YOU SNIPED THEM FROM SPACE

DYLAN: Sam “The Launch Code” Winchester

RYAN: fellas. we just watched a boy teleport the ball from midfield

he kicked it into another ZIP code

JAKE: MIDFIELD ORBIT 

Sam dragged a hand down his face.

SAM: you’re all insane

CONNOR: you VOLLEYED A WINNER AT THE BUZZER FROM 40 YARDS OUT

we’re legally obligated to treat you like a deity for 48 hours

JAKE: like holy fuck we might actually make playoffs this year

RYAN: long live the freshman snipe king

DYLAN: Play danger zone

SAM: i will unplug your speakers myself

JAKE: say the word and I’ll put the goal on a shirt

Sam flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his phone resting on his chest.

They weren’t making fun of him.

They were proud.

Outside his room, he could hear the clink of a mug and the low scrape of a chair. Uncle Bobby, probably muttering about teenagers and miracle kicks under his breath. Dad would be up next, already pretending he hadn’t cried when the whistle blew.

Sam smiled.

He tucked the phone under his pillow for now. Let them have their fun. He’d let himself have it, too.

____

After their next home game, the locker room smelled like sweat, wet grass, and the aftermath of whatever monstrosity Jake had sprayed from his gym bag two weeks ago. Lockers clanged. Someone’s music played low from a phone tucked in a shoe.

Sam sat near the end of the bench, cleats off, shin guards tossed into his duffel. His jersey stuck to him with sweat, and his compression layer itched where it clung too tightly to his ribs. He’d taken a few rough hits that game - midfield chaos and one slide tackle that left his ankle red and raw - but that wasn’t what had him hesitating.

He was sore, overheated, and the heart monitor under his shirt was blinking its steady green. No chirps. No alarms, but the wires itched against his skin, and he needed to breathe.

“Ugh,” Jake groaned as he limped past, towel around his neck, crutches clacking behind him. “Tell me someone else feels like they got body-slammed by a sentient lawnmower.”

Sam smirked faintly. “Sounds about right.”

Dylan dropped onto the bench beside him. “Nice footwork today,” he said, glancing down at Sam’s ankle. “Except for the part where you ate dirt.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Tactical dirt. Strategic tumble.”

Connor approached with two water bottles and granola bars, tossing one of each to Sam before plopping onto the floor to stretch. “Tell that to your bruise, man. That thing’s gonna have its own zip code.”

Sam grinned despite himself, fingers hovering near the hem of his jersey. He could feel the sweat cooling under the compression layer, the heart monitor wires shifting with every breath. He hated how it stuck to him. Hated feeling like he had to wait until the room cleared to exist.

But this time, he didn’t want to wait.

He exhaled, pulling his jersey up and over his head, the damp fabric clinging for a beat before peeling away. The compression shirt followed next, slower, and the moment it lifted past his ribs, the locker room quieted a fraction.

The full monitor revealed itself: a thin black device strapped over his sternum, blinking green. Wires looped from his chest and curved over his ribs, small sensors taped down in practiced patterns. And below it, down the center of his chest, the scar: long and pale and unmistakable, cutting through the middle.

There was a beat of silence.

“Whoa,” Jake said, voice suddenly not as loud. “That’s from… that’s the heart thing, right?”

Sam nodded, not looking at them yet. “Yeah.”

Ryan, kneeling by his gym bag, froze mid-zip. “We didn’t know it was that serious.”

“I don’t talk about it much,” Sam said. His fingers hovered at the edge of the scar, not touching it, just thinking. “You guys knew I had a heart condition. The monitor. The check-ins. But I guess I figured… you’d think it was just mild.”

Dylan had wandered over by then, quieter than usual, sweat still beading on his forehead. “It’s not?”

Sam shook his head.

“It was. The murmur was always there; they think I was born with it. No one’s sure, though,” he said. “Dad had me checked when I was a kid, when I got sick from it for the first time. They kept an eye on it. But after Minnesota, after the kidnapping, it got worse. We thought I was stable, but…”

He looked down, voice thinning.

“There was a storm. Blizzard. We were snowed in. My dad, me, and my uncle. Power out. No way to get to a hospital. And I just… couldn’t breathe right. My lips were blue. I was so tired. I remember Dad trying not to panic. I think that scared me more than anything.”

Ryan sat slowly on the bench across from him. “He panicked?”

“No,” Sam said. “Not out loud. But I could see it. In his eyes. In the way he kept checking my pulse every thirty seconds, like it would change if he stared hard enough.”

Dylan leaned back against the lockers. “So what happened?”

“Uncle Bobby put chains on the truck, and they got me to the hospital. They rushed me into surgery after they confirmed it. One of the valves was failing. I remember lights and cold and Dad holding my hand until I was under.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

“When I woke up, I could barely talk. My chest felt like it had been cracked open because, well, it had. And Dad was right there. Same shirt. Same coffee. Same worry lines.”

The room was dead quiet.

Ryan finally said, “And after that?”

Sam gave a small shrug. “Recovery. Home. Monitors. Follow-ups. It took a while, but I got stronger. I wear this-” he tapped the monitor-“just to be safe during the season. I’m fine now. Mostly.”

“Jesus,” Jake muttered. “And you still outrun me on sprints?”

Sam managed a small smile. “Sometimes.”

Dylan stepped forward. “Why didn’t you tell us everything?”

“I didn’t want to be that guy,” Sam said. “The freshman with the sob story. The one everyone watches too closely.”

Connor scoffed. “Dude. You could’ve had three legs and a built-in defibrillator and you still wouldn’t be ‘that guy.’”

Jake added, “You’ve got a heart monitor and a chest scar, and you still smoke me on drills. If anything, you’re terrifying.”

Sam blinked. His throat burned a little.

Ryan cleared his throat. “You should’ve told us. Not because we’d judge you, but because you’re our friend.”

Sam caught the bar. “I know. I’m trying to get better at the talking part.”

Dylan clapped him gently on the good shoulder. “You’re doing alright.”

Jake nodded. “You’ve earned that scar.”

Connor chimed in, “And next time, you’re telling that story from the top. No skipping details.”

Ryan grinned. “Seriously. That was wild. If you ever write a book, I’m buying the first copy.”

Sam laughed. Not big, not loud, but real. And for the first time in a long time, the scar didn’t feel like a secret.

He wiped his hands on his shorts, heart still thudding steady beneath his ribs. The voices behind him were fading : Jake calling for someone to toss him a sock, Ryan mumbling about homework, Dylan saying something in that calm, dry voice he only used when he was tired but watching. Always watching.

Sam just grabbed his bag, adjusted the strap across his shoulder, and pushed the door open. It swung shut behind him with a dull clunk that echoed in his chest. Sam stepped out into the night air, his legs a little unsteady, cleats skidding slightly on the concrete. The stadium lights were still blazing behind him in harsh, buzzing halos that turned the parking lot into a hazy mix of glare and shadow.

Everything felt too big and too quiet now that the game was over.

He tugged his hoodie tighter around his shoulders, his heart monitor tugging faintly beneath the fabric, and scanned the lot until he saw them.

Uncle Bobby’s truck sat parked under one of the far lights, rust glinting faintly along the bumper. And leaning against the driver’s side door, arms folded, was Dad. His head was tipped back slightly, watching the stars like they might give him a reason to relax.

Uncle Bobby stood nearby, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture loose but alert in that way that always made Sam feel safer.

Sam’s breath caught for half a second, then let go.

He walked toward them slowly, the ache in his legs making each step feel heavy. Not bad pain. Just a kind of deep-in-the-bone exhaustion. The kind you earned.

Dad spotted him first and straightened. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth, crooked and proud.

“There he is,” he said. “The MVP himself.”

Uncle Bobby grunted. “You’re walking like a wind-up doll, kid.”

Sam shrugged, too tired to argue. “We won.”

Dad stepped forward, pulling Sam into a quick hug, one hand firm on the back of his neck. “Yeah, you did.”

The hug lingered for a second longer than usual. Sam didn’t mind.

“You okay?” Dad asked quietly as they pulled apart.

Sam hesitated. His chest still felt weirdly full from the locker room. Not tight, just stretched in all directions. He wasn’t sure where to put everything he was feeling.

“I told them,” he said finally. “The guys. About my heart. The surgery.”

Uncle Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. Dad didn’t speak, just watched him closely.

Sam shifted his weight, picking at the edge of his sleeve. “I didn’t plan to. But after the game, I took off my jersey and they saw the scar.” A breath. “So I told them.”

Dad’s face didn’t change, but something softened behind his eyes.

Sam looked down. “They stayed. They didn’t freak out. They just... listened. And they stayed.”

It still felt surreal, saying it out loud.

Uncle Bobby exhaled quietly. “That’s ‘cause they’re your boys now.”

Sam huffed out a tired laugh. “Jake called me terrifying.”

Dad grinned. “Smart kid.”

They stood there for a moment, just letting the night settle around them. Sam could feel the last of the adrenaline finally easing out of his system, leaving behind something steadier. Worn-in.

“You hungry?” Dad asked eventually. “We can hit the diner.”

Sam thought about it. He could almost taste the pancakes already, could hear the bell over the door, and the clinking of mugs behind the counter. But...

“I kinda just wanna go home,” he admitted.

Uncle Bobby was already opening the truck door. “Works for me.”

“But can we sit on the porch for a bit first?” Sam added. “Just us?”

Dad clapped a hand gently on his shoulder. “Yeah, kiddo. We can do that.”

The drive home in Uncle Bobby’s truck was slow and quiet. The windows were cracked, letting in a soft breeze, and the radio played some old blues station low enough that it felt like background noise to the quiet in Sam’s head.

And when they got home, they sat on the porch: Sam curled under a quilt on the porch swing, Dad nursing a lukewarm coffee, Uncle Bobby fiddling with a broken flashlight he hadn’t even meant to bring out there.

Nobody said much, but Sam didn’t need them to.

He’d played. He’d told the truth.

And now he was home.

____

The next practice, the locker room was half-empty, heavy with the smell of sweat, turf, and someone’s half-eaten protein bar rotting on the end of the bench like a warning sign. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Cleats clunked against the tile. A dryer rumbled in the laundry room behind the wall.

Sam had ducked out to call his dad, which left the rest of them sprawled across the room in various states of collapse.

Ryan sat on the floor, back against the lockers, legs stretched out in front of him, phone in hand. His thumb moved in slow, measured swipes, but his eyes barely tracked the screen. He wasn’t scrolling for distraction. He was scrolling for understanding.

Above him, Dylan sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, shoelaces untied and forgotten. He hadn’t said much since practice. He hadn’t really moved, either.

Jake leaned over Ryan’s shoulder and peered at the screen just in time to drop a crumb onto Ryan’s wrist.

“You’re still looking up valve surgeries?” he asked, wiping his mouth and finishing the last of his granola bar.

Ryan didn’t look up. “Yeah. Because our friend had one. And almost died in a blizzard. And didn’t tell us until last week.”

Connor dropped onto the bench beside Dylan with a dramatic sigh, already scrubbing sweat from the back of his neck. “Can we not say ‘nearly died’? My stomach just did this flip thing.”

“Yeah,” Jake muttered, sitting beside Ryan on the floor. “Can you find the, like, mild version of what happened to him?”

Ryan exhaled through his nose. He didn’t even blink as he angled the phone toward them. “There is no mild version.”

He tapped the screen once. Then again.

“The kind of valve repair he described?” Ryan continued, quiet but deliberate. “It’s stop-the-heart, open-the-chest, full-on cardiac surgery. They don’t do it unless they have to. He was seven. And yeah, the truck story? That’s real. No power. Blizzard. Emergency chains on the tires. His dad had to drive him through it just to keep him alive.”

Connor froze mid-motion. His hands dropped into his lap like they didn’t know what to do with themselves anymore. “That’s not recovery,” he said quietly. “That’s… trauma.”

Ryan didn’t argue. “And somehow,” he added, eyes still locked on the screen, “he got out of it and still grew up to outrun all of us.”

Connor lifted one hand. “Okay, but not just me, right? Like, he outruns everyone.”

Jake snorted faintly but didn’t smile. He was staring at the floor now, fingers drumming against his knee.

“He told me once,” Jake said, voice smaller than usual, “during lunch, real casual, that if he passed out, I could steal his tray and call it even.”

Connor’s eyebrows pulled together. “That wasn’t a joke.”

“No,” Jake said. “It wasn’t. But I laughed. Because I didn’t get it.”

Ryan finally locked his phone and set it on the bench behind him. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees.

“He didn’t want to be the kid with the tragic story,” he said. “So he told it in jokes. Kept it light. Made sure we never had to carry it.”

He looked up, and for the first time since they’d sat down, his gaze landed on Dylan.

Dylan hadn’t moved, still hunched over. Still staring at the laces hanging limp from his cleats. His hands were loosely clasped between his knees, but his knuckles were white. His breathing wasn’t heavy, but it was tight, like every inhale came with a cost.

And then he spoke.

“He was seven,” Dylan said.

It wasn’t a question. It was something scraped from the bottom of his throat.

Ryan nodded, carefully. “Yeah.”

Dylan shook his head once slowly. Like the math wouldn’t add up. Like he was fighting every mental image trying to play behind his eyes.

“Seven years old,” Dylan repeated, “and they stopped his heart on purpose?”

“Temporarily,” Jake said. “But… yeah.”

That silenced them all.

Dylan sat like someone had unplugged him. Still. Tense. Shoulders set in stone. His jaw flexed, but no sound came out. And for once, no one pushed.

Ryan felt the shift in the room like a drop in barometric pressure. The four of them had always been loud - sarcastic, chaotic, kinetic. But this moment? It wasn’t made for noise.

The silence stretched until Jake suddenly sat up straighter. “Okay. I’m getting a tattoo.”

Connor blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jake pounded over his heart once. “A chest scar. Like solidarity. Just a little lightning bolt or something. Over the sternum. Symbolic.”

Ryan squinted at him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He waited a beat.

“I’m in.”

Connor raised a finger. “Wait. Better idea.”

Jake groaned. “Why.”

“A tiny heart monitor. Right under the collarbone. Blinking green.”

Ryan let his head thunk softly against the locker behind him, the echo low and hollow. “With the words Still Running under it.”

Jake pointed at him. “That. That’s the one.”

Dylan blinked hard, like the conversation had caught up to him a few seconds late. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Jake said.

Dylan shook his head, but his voice lacked its usual snap. “You guys are idiots.”

Connor grinned. “Emotionally bonded idiots.”

The locker room door creaked open.

Sam stepped back inside, earbuds hanging from his collar, his shirt damp with sweat and wind. He slowed when he saw them all staring.

“What’d I miss?” he asked warily.

All four of them snapped toward him like they’d been caught planning a heist.

Ryan cleared his throat, trying for casual. “Art project.”

Connor lifted both hands like he was mid-arrest and said brightly, “Nothing illegal.”

Jake flashed a too-wide grin as he added, “Definitely not a tattoo,” with the fake innocence of someone who was absolutely planning a tattoo.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “What.”

Ryan sat up a little straighter. “Would you be mad if we, hypothetically, got matching tattoos sort of inspired by your monitor, but also motivational and subtle and extremely cool?”

Sam stared. “If any of you tattoo wires on your chest, I’m reporting you to Coach.”

Connor held up two fingers. “Just a little green blip. Hope. Symbolism.”

Jake grinned. “Emotional support ink.”

Ryan gave a one-shoulder shrug. “ Still Running.”

Sam looked at them. Then past them. His eyes landed on Dylan.

“Dylan?” he asked, a cautious note in his voice.

Dylan stood slowly, like the weight had only just found him. His voice, when it came, was raw around the edges. “You could’ve told us.”

Sam shifted, a little guarded. “I didn’t want it to be a thing.”

“It is a thing,” Dylan said, stepping closer. “You were a kid. That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Sam offered a small, tired smile. “It did, though.”

Dylan didn’t look away. “Does it still hurt?”

Sam tilted his head. “Only when you guys get weird about it and try to brand yourselves in my honor.”

Connor raised his hand like he was volunteering for a field trip. “We’re doing it for you,” he said, completely earnest.

Ryan gave a small shrug, his voice bone-dry. “In solidarity.”

Jake leaned back on his hands, grinning like this was the best idea he’d ever had. “And also because we’re very dramatic.”

Sam exhaled through his nose and grabbed his bag from the floor. “You’re all one bad group decision away from a TLC reality show.”

Connor beamed. “But we’re your bad group decision.”

This time, the laughter that filled the room didn’t break the moment; it made it whole.

Ryan let himself smile, small and real. And across the room, he saw Sam do the same.

____

The eggs started on a Monday.

Dylan was leaning against the lockers, halfway through his second Gatorade and trying not to yawn. Morning weights had been brutal. He hadn’t slept right and hadn’t eaten, and now he had exactly six minutes to change and pretend to care about calculus.

He was halfway through shoving a clean shirt over his head when something thumped gently onto the bench next to him.

A napkin.

Wrapped around a hard-boiled egg.

He blinked.

Sam was already walking away, earbuds in, sleeves tugged over his hands. He didn’t look back as he grabbed his bag and drifted toward the hallway like this was normal. Like handing someone a perfectly cooked egg at seven-fifty in the morning was a socially acceptable behavior.

Dylan stared after him for a second, then down at the napkin. It wasn’t a joke. The egg was real. Still warm. No note. No explanation.

He ate it anyway.

Tuesday, it happened again. Same napkin. Same quiet delivery. Sam didn’t even break stride.

On Wednesday, the egg was peeled.

Thursday, it had salt.

By Friday, Jake had noticed.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, catching sight of the napkin in Dylan’s hand.

“Egg,” Dylan said.

Jake narrowed his eyes. “Where’d it come from?”

“Sam.”

Jake looked toward the door where Sam had just disappeared, hoodie sleeves flapping and curls still damp from his shower. “He’s egging you?”

“Not like that.”

Jake pointed an accusing finger. “Is this favoritism? Are you his protein favorite?”

Dylan took another bite. “I don’t think that’s a real category.”

Jake turned to Ryan and Connor. “He’s his protein favorite.”

Connor raised a brow. “I want to be someone’s protein favorite.”

Ryan, not looking up from his locker, said, “This is emotional blackmail via egg.”

Jake muttered, “I’m drafting a custody agreement.”

The next Monday, Dylan found two eggs in his locker. One was wrapped in a napkin. The other had a Post-it on it.

You’re the oldest. Handle your children.

Dylan smiled the rest of the day.

____

They were up 2 - 1 at their next game, but barely.

Ten minutes left. The midfield was starting to fray, legs slower, touches sloppier, calls from the sideline rising sharp with urgency. The sun had dropped behind the trees, and the field lights buzzed overhead like electric breath; too bright, too hot, and too late in the game to afford a mistake.

Sam tracked the shape of the play more than the ball itself. He could feel it unspooling like string, unraveling just fast enough to slip out of their hands. One missed switch. One weak pass. One second too slow.

Then it happened.

Their right winger cut in behind Jake like it was nothing. Sam caught the flick of motion out of the corner of his eye. A diagonal pass curved into the open pocket of space near the edge of the box, sharp and fast.

It was a beautiful pass. The kind that ends in a goal.

Unless someone stops it.

He ran. His feet hit the turf hard, rhythm pounding in his chest. The winger was fast - older, longer legs, confident - but he hadn’t counted on Sam closing the distance. Hadn’t counted on the kid from nowhere reading the field like a second language.

Sam slid.

It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t desperate. It was right.

His body went low, grounded in instinct. One cleat planted, the other extended. No contact, no foul, just the perfect angle at the perfect moment. His foot struck the ball and nothing else, sending it spinning wide just before the shot could leave the winger’s boot.

The crowd gasped.

There was no whistle. The ref’s whistle was tucked under his chin, and his eyebrows were somewhere near his hairline.

Jake spun around from the box, jaw dropped. “SAM.”

Connor threw both hands in the air like they’d won the World Cup. “That was filthy! ”

Even the opposing coach clapped once, reflexively, like his body understood before his brain caught up.

Sam scrambled to his feet, grass streaked up one leg, lungs burning. His chest buzzed from exertion and nerves, heart monitor blinking under his shirt, but it was still green. He barely felt the sting in his hip. The adrenaline was too loud.

Dylan was the first to reach him, nearly chest-bumping him out of his cleats. “You legend. I mean, that was- how did you even-”

“I don’t know,” Sam muttered, breathing hard. “I just… guessed where he was going.”

“You guessed,” Jake said, coming up beside them. “You guessed? Dude, you downloaded his soul and rewrote his game plan.”

Coach Miller was yelling something from the sideline, but Sam barely registered it until the play reset.

“Freshmen don’t make tackles like that!” he barked, voice carrying over the field. “Seniors don’t!”

Sam ducked his head, face burning.

The final minutes dragged like molasses, but the whistle came. The score held.

They won.

The team gathered near the bench, trading breathless laughs and shoulder bumps, tossing water bottles and half-shouting over one another in that post-win daze that felt like flying.

Connor threw an arm around Sam’s shoulder, yanking him in like he’d just scored the game-winner. “I’m still mad about that corner two weeks ago, but that tackle might’ve earned you partial forgiveness.”

Sam shook his head, flushed and grinning, sneakers scuffing the edge of the track. “Partial?”

“Saving the game only gets you halfway,” Connor said. “I’m petty.”

Ryan nodded solemnly. “That’s true. He holds grudges like a grandmother.”

“Let the record show,” Dylan added, flopping down onto the bench dramatically, “that our smallest player is our most dangerous.”

Sam tossed his water bottle cap at him. It bounced off Dylan’s forehead and landed in Jake’s lap.

Jake didn’t even blink. “Assassin.”

____

The parking lot still buzzed with leftover game-night adrenaline. Cleats scraped across asphalt. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker rattled off half a song before dying mid-beat. Sam sat on the back bumper of the Impala, sock rolled down, sweat cooling sticky on his neck while Dad crouched in front of him with the open first-aid kit already half-raided.

The gauze came out. The antiseptic followed. Routine.

“You always wait ‘til you’re half broken before you say anything,” Dad muttered, dabbing at the deep bruise along Sam’s shin.

“I said I was fine,” Sam muttered, trying not to wince.

Dad raised an eyebrow. “And I’m saying this thing looks like a failed map of Utah.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You need a new state.”

Footsteps scuffed across the lot before he could finish the comeback. Dylan and Connor strolled over from the snack table, Ryan close behind. Jake trailed them, hoodie slung over one shoulder, water bottle in hand. They slowed when they saw what was happening, not out of hesitation, just out of familiarity. This wasn’t new. Sam getting patched up by his dad post-game was just part of the deal now.

Connor squinted at the bruise. “That looks more like Iowa.”

“Mississippi, if you turn your head,” Dylan added.

Jake nodded solemnly. “Y’all are blind. That’s clearly Florida after a bar fight.”

Dad gave a suffering sigh, not bothering to look up. “You people need better hobbies.”

Ryan leaned against the car. “This is our hobby now. Diagnosing Winchester damage.”

Dad finally glanced at them, hand still steady on Sam’s shin. “You’re lucky it didn’t break skin.”

“You always say that,” Sam muttered.

“Because you’re always pushing your luck,” Dad shot back, taping the gauze down with one last press of his thumb.

He stood with a soft grunt, brushing his palms off on his jeans. “Alright, you’re good. For now. No limping like a martyr. If it starts hurting worse, you sit.”

Sam nodded, then looked up just in time to see Jake eyeing the cooler in the backseat like it might start dispensing food if stared at long enough.

Dad followed his gaze and smirked. “You boys eat yet?”

They blinked at him.

“Uh… not really?” Ryan offered.

“We’re heading to the diner,” Dad said. “C’mon. Come with.”

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Dad replied. “You kept him upright all game. That earns you burgers.”

Even Sam turned, eyebrows lifted. “You sure?”

Dad just shrugged, already moving toward the driver’s side. “You look out for him, you get fed. That’s the trade.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then Connor snorted and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Dude. We’re getting food. From the Dean Winchester.”

Ryan elbowed Sam. “Is this normal?”

Sam half-grinned, dazed but warmed. “Not really. But I’m not complaining.”

They started piling toward their cars: Dylan still limping slightly, Connor texting like it was breaking news, Jake grinning like Christmas had come early.

The diner was one Sam had been going to since he was six years old.

They crammed into the corner booth with a lot of elbows, clinking glasses, and two too many orders of chili fries. Sam ended up squished between Dad and Dylan, trying not to grin every time someone made a face at the retro ketchup bottles or the squeaky vinyl seats.

It was Connor who asked, between bites of his double bacon burger, “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever fixed?”

Dad didn’t answer right away. He just chewed thoughtfully on a fry, cocked his head, and said, “Define weird.”

Connor spread his hands. “Freak accident. Small town. No one believes you when you tell ‘em later.”

Dad leaned back, sipping his coffee like he was deciding just how much to edit.

“Alright,” he said. “There was this place in Tennessee. Middle of nowhere. One gas station, two churches, and a post office that doubled as a laundromat.”

The boys all leaned in.

“So, weird stuff had been going on at this old farmhouse on the edge of town. Lights flickering, cold drafts, furniture moving. Locals said it was just the wind. Or old wiring. But the guy who owned the place swore it felt like something was watching him.”

Sam knew the real version. Knew the word poltergeist had come up more than once that week. But Dad wasn’t telling that version tonight.

“So, I go in, figure it’s a busted fuse box or some old plumbing kicking the walls,” Dad continued. “Turns out, the attic’s full of this antique junk. Mirrors, boxes, weird carvings. Creepy stuff. But nothing dangerous, or so I thought. I’m halfway up the crawl space ladder when the support beam snaps. The whole ceiling gives out under me.”

“Holy crap,” Jake muttered.

Dad nodded. “I fall straight through and land right between two busted floorboards. Trapped. Can’t move. Can’t reach my phone. Took me three hours to get myself loose.”

Dylan leaned forward, wide-eyed. “How’d you get out?”

Dad smirked. “I kicked out the floor with a hammer I had clipped to my belt. Lucky I didn’t go through to the basement next.”

Connor blinked. “That’s insane.”

“Yeah,” Ryan added. “And you were doing that alone?”

Dad shrugged casually. “Had the kid with me, but he was five. Not exactly OSHA-certified.”

Sam rolled his eyes and took a sip of water. “I held the flashlight.”

Dylan laughed. “Hey, that’s a critical role.”

There was a short pause as everyone tore into fries and rewound the story in their heads.

Then Jake said, “Wait. How old were you?”

Dad shrugged. “Nineteen.”

A silence fell over the table.

Connor’s eyes went wide. “Hold up. You were nineteen?”

“Doing home repair and field acrobatics,” Ryan muttered.

Jake looked between Dad and Sam like he was recalibrating something. “How old are you now?”

Dad arched a brow. “Turned thirty in January.”

Dylan leaned back with a low whistle. “I thought you were like, forty.”

“Same,” Connor agreed. “You’ve got, like, badass middle-aged energy.”

Dad huffed a laugh, half-proud and half-insulted. “Thanks, I guess.”

Sam couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his mouth.

He knew what they were thinking. How it probably looked. This guy, who had raised him, fixed cars, told stories, and scared off anyone who gave Sam a second look. They were realizing now just how young Dad had been when it all started. How young he still was. And how much he’d done anyway.

Ryan looked at Sam. “Your dad’s kind of a legend.”

Sam just smiled. “Yeah. I know.”

____

The late afternoon sun bled out slow and orange across the high school parking lot, casting long shadows under the hulking yellow bus idling by the curb. Its windows were already fogged with the noise of twenty restless boys crammed together with duffel bags, cleats, and enough Axe body spray to choke a moose.

Dean stood beside the Impala, arms crossed tight, watching Sam standing in front of the bus like he might vanish between blinks. Sam had his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, and was laughing at something Dylan said.

Dean didn’t smile.

Bobby showed up two minutes later with two coffees and a look like he’d been through this before, which he had.

He handed Dean the extra cup and leaned against the hood of the car. “You look like you’re about to tail a black ops convoy.”

Dean grunted, took the coffee, and didn’t drink it. “I don’t like this.”

“It’s one night. An away game. You survived worse.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, jaw tight. “That’s the problem.”

Sam slung his bag in the undercarriage of the bus and was now balancing a soccer ball on his knee like it was a trick. Jake nudged it off with a grin and a mock scolding. Sam snorted, eyes crinkling.

Dean felt it in his ribs. That fierce, stupid, protective ache.

Bobby followed his gaze. “Kid looks alright.”

“For now.”

“Dean,” Bobby said flatly. “It’s not a war zone. It’s a team motel four towns over.”

Dean took a sip of coffee. It was hot and bitter and didn’t help.

He glanced sideways at Bobby. “You ever sleep in a roach-trap motel with your kid under the bed because it was safer down there?”

Bobby didn’t answer. Just looked at him long enough for the silence to mean something.

Dean shook his head, the ghost of old nights flickering behind his eyes. “Places like that don’t let go easily. He doesn’t say it, but I know he remembers.”

Bobby’s voice dropped low. “Then he’ll remember who came for him, too.”

Dean didn’t reply. The bus door hissed open.

Sam caught Dean’s eye and jogged over.

“You got everything?” Dean asked as Sam approached. “Charger, meds, monitor backup, snacks, clean socks?”

Sam stopped two feet in front of him and gave the exact kind of long-suffering sigh that only a teenager deeply loved by an overprepared parent could produce.

“Dad,” he said, drawing the word out like it had multiple syllables. “I’m not hiking Everest.”

Dean didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”

“Yes. I have everything. I double-checked. Twice.”

Dean grunted. “Text when you get there.”

“I will.”

“Stay hydrated. And don’t-”

“Eat anything sketchy from the motel vending machine, I know.”

Dean looked at him, jaw tight. Sam looked back, exasperated but soft around the edges. Then, after a beat, Sam reached forward and knocked lightly on Dean’s knuckles with the back of his fingers.

“I got it. Really.”

Dean stared a second longer, then exhaled. His hand twitched like he wanted to ruffle Sam’s hair but thought better of it. Instead, he jerked his chin toward the bus.

“Go before Coach leaves you.”

Sam grinned and turned. “He wouldn’t dare.”

Dean watched him climb the steps, watched him take his seat near the back, sliding in beside Dylan with an easy shoulder bump. The window fogged a little between them.

Just before the doors hissed shut, Sam looked back down the aisle and caught his dad’s eye.

He didn’t wave.

He just nodded. Steady. Assured. The way Dean had taught him.

And Dean, finally, let himself smile.

____

A crooked neon sign buzzed outside the Pine Rest Inn, the “I” in “Pine” flickering like it was trying to tap out Morse code for “run.”

The team groaned as they spilled out of the bus. They were sweat-slick, sore, and sugar-rushed from post-game gas station snacks. The win was still buzzing in their veins. 3 - 1, on the road. Coach had even bought everyone Gatorade and gummy worms. That, in varsity terms, was basically a red carpet.

Sam slung his duffel over one shoulder and followed the others onto the cracked blacktop. The motel smell hit instantly: old mulch, nearby fryer grease, carpet cleaner that never quite worked. Too familiar.

Not this motel, exactly. But close.

He knew the template. Peeling stucco, outdoor stairwells, and loud ice machines. A dog barked two doors down. A sports anchor’s voice shouted through an open window. Somewhere, a woman was laughing too hard at a sitcom.

His chest pinched. His grip on the duffel tightened.

Dylan bumped his shoulder. “I’m calling dibs on a bed that doesn’t squeak like it saw something it can’t unsee.”

Jake leaned dramatically against the bus door and stage-whispered, “The real horror was the burrito Connor ate an hour ago. This room might be our tomb.”

Connor didn’t dignify that with a response. He had his nose buried in his phone, already Googling reviews of the Pine Rest Inn. “This place has a one-star rating. One. Someone said the vending machine tried to eat their shoe.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t eat the vending machine back,” Jake said.

Coach stepped out of the office holding plastic keys like a magician about to ruin everyone’s night. “Pairs are on the clipboard. Lights out at midnight. No hallway soccer, no balcony flips, and for the love of strategy, no prank calls.”

Ryan elbowed Jake. “He means you.”

Jake scoffed. “That was one time. And it was a civic survey.”

The team mobbed the clipboard. Sam hung back.

His legs were starting to ache - good ache, earned ache - but his chest felt tight in a way he didn’t like.

He knew these places.

He’d lived in these places.

For too long in cheap motels and long silences and unspoken rules. Back when he was little and didn’t know what he was waking up to each morning. He just knew that the carpet smelled bad and the door chain was broken, and if John was in a mood, he shouldn’t ask questions.

His heart stuttered once. He couldn’t breathe right.

His hand found the nearest wall. Cool, uneven stucco scraped under his palm. The voices around him started to swirl - too loud, too fast. The laughter of the team turned sharp. The motel door creaked behind him, and it sounded like that door. The one in Laramie. Or the one in Mason City. Or maybe the one in-

“Sam?”

He flinched.

Dylan had stepped in front of him, brows pinched, holding out one of the room keys. “Hey. You with me?”

Sam forced a nod. “Yeah. Just… just tired. Long day.”

Dylan didn’t move. “You sure? You kinda spaced for a sec.”

Sam swallowed against the twist in his throat. His hand was still braced against the wall.

He could feel the old panic circling like a shadow. But he wasn’t five. He wasn’t alone. He had a heart monitor now. He had backup.

He had Dad just one call away.

He met Dylan’s eyes, steadier this time. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

Dylan didn’t push, just held out the key again. “C’mon. I got us a room with a working AC and a TV that probably gets ESPN.”

The motel room door clicked shut behind them, the thud just a little too loud in Sam’s ears.

The air was stale, sour with disinfectant, and the carpet pattern hadn’t changed since the early 1980s. Maybe earlier. He could already feel the thin polyester comforter itching through his sweatpants and see the flickering light above the sink that someone would inevitably complain about.

Dylan flopped face-first onto one of the beds with a dramatic groan. Jake claimed the other with his bag, Ryan dropped to the floor to plug in his charger, and someone had already opened the mini fridge just to announce that it barely worked.

“Home sweet hell,” Connor muttered from the doorway before ducking back out to grab snacks from the vending machine.

Sam didn’t sit.

He stood just inside the room, backpack still on, hand tight around the strap. His chest felt too small. The lighting buzzed. Something in the back of his brain reeled like a projector spitting out a memory he hadn’t signed up for. Dingy curtains. Rust at the sink. Walls that were too thin to stop a voice like John Winchester’s.

His mouth was dry.

He took a breath. Then another.

It didn’t help.

The panic crept up his throat so fast it stole the words out of his mouth before he even realized he was panicking. He dropped the backpack fast, fumbling for his phone, but his fingers weren’t working right.

Dylan, half-laughing at something Jake had said, looked up and instantly stood. “Sam?”

Sam didn’t answer.

The motel door clicked shut behind him, but it didn’t make anything better.

The air outside was cooler, but it wasn’t easier to breathe. The night was quiet in that way that always felt too loud: buzzing lights overhead, footsteps below on the cracked sidewalk, a cough from another room. Somewhere down the row, a door slammed.

Sam flinched.

His hand gripped the railing. Hard. Metal pressed into his palm, but it wasn’t enough. The motel behind him might as well have swallowed him whole. The curtains. The carpet. The beds with identical brown spreads. The water-stained ceiling. It was the wrong kind of familiar, a memory he hadn’t meant to unlock.

His lungs were trying to fold in on themselves.

He closed his eyes. Tried to talk himself down like Dad taught him. Like he had with Missouri. But it wasn’t working; the past had a grip on him now.

He didn’t hear the door open, but he heard the voice.

“Sam…?” Dylan. He was closer now, gentler. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay. Just hang on.”

Sam couldn’t. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even nod.

His phone was still in his hand, though he didn’t remember pulling it out. He must have called. Or was trying to.

Jake’s voice, sudden but steady: “I’ve got it.”

Fingers brushed his, careful and slow, pulling the phone from his grip.

“What’s his password?” Jake asked.

“Eleven eleven,” Dylan said behind him. “It’s his jersey number. Kinda obvious.”

Sam wanted to laugh, or say hey, or do anything other than freeze in place. But his body wasn’t listening.

Jake already had the phone to his ear. “Hi, Dean. It’s Jake. Sam’s- he’s having a panic attack, I think. We’re at the motel. He’s not saying anything, but he needs you.”

There was a pause, then Jake held the phone out again.

Sam took it with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. Pressed it to his ear like it was a lifeline.

“Dad?” he whispered.

“I’m here, bug.”

That voice - rough, steady, warm like a porch light left on - cracked something wide open. The pressure in Sam’s chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted. It stopped trying to crush him and instead just sat, like a weight he could maybe hold.

“It’s- it feels like the ones from before,” Sam managed. “The motels. When I was little. I didn’t think it’d matter.”

“You’re not back there,” Dad said, quiet and fierce. “You’re not with him. You’re with your friends. And I’ve got you, Sammy. Always.”

Sam pressed his free hand tighter to the railing. The metal dug into his skin. Real. Here. Now.

“I hate that it still hits like this.”

“I know,” Dad said. “But it doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means your brain’s doing its best to protect you. And you’re still here. You called. That’s all that matters.”

Sam blinked hard. The motel lights were too bright and too far away all at once.

“I don’t want them to think I’m…” He trailed off. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish.

“They won’t,” Dad said. “They stayed, didn’t they?”

Sam looked sideways.

Dylan was sitting nearby now, cross-legged on the cement. Not too close, not pushing, but watching him with that same steady expression he always used when someone else was hurting. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this kind of spiral. Maybe not from Sam, but from someone.

Jake stood off to the side, hands in the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t know what else to do. Ryan leaned against the railing, not looking directly at Sam, but there - solid and quiet, like he was keeping watch.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.

“Then they’ve earned you,” Dean said. “Just like you’ve earned them.”

Sam breathed in. Not deep, but steadier. His hand didn’t shake as much now.

“Can you stay on the phone a little longer?” he asked.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” Dad said, voice steady on the other end of the line, like he was sitting right there, even if he was miles away.

They stayed like that until the fog lifted enough for Sam to pull his shoulders back. Until his breaths filled more than half his chest. Until his ribs didn’t feel like a trap.

Eventually, he said, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, baby boy,” He murmured, soft and sure.

Sam didn’t say goodbye. He just ended the call and tucked the phone into his jacket pocket. He stared out over the breezeway one more second. Then turned back.

Dylan stood. “You grounded?” he asked.

Sam hesitated.

Dylan stepped in and gently tapped two fingers against the inside of Sam’s wrist.

“Try this,” he said. “Count five things. Just here.”

Sam looked at him. “You learned that from…?”

Dylan gave a small shrug. “I knew a kid who used to get hit like that. Thought it was just panic, too. Took me a while to figure out the difference.”

The words sat heavy in the air, but Dylan didn’t take them back. Sam lowered his gaze to where Dylan’s fingers brushed his pulse.

“One,” he whispered.

Dylan didn’t move.

Sam counted to five and inhaled between. The world started to sharpen around the edges.

“I think I’m good enough to go back in,” he said finally, voice rough but steady.

Dylan gave him a soft nod. “Then let’s go.”

They went inside together. No one acted weird. No one looked at him like he was broken.

“Bad memories?” Jake asked, carefully.

Sam rubbed the edge of his sleeve between his fingers. “I used to live in places like this. Before our house now. Until I was six.”

That was all he needed to say. They nodded and said nothing more.

Jake flicked the TV back on. “You good if we put on that alien show? Ryan says it’s based on ‘true events,’ which obviously means garbage.”

Connor handed him the candy bar. “Chocolate helps with emotional regulation,” he said. “And it tastes better than Coach’s protein shakes.”

Sam took it. He sat on the bed and let the noise fill the space around him again.

And nobody left.

That was more than enough

____

It was a Friday afternoon, and the team had crashed at Sam’s place after a long week of practice and a scrimmage that nearly killed half of them. Dean had waved them in with a warning about “wet socks on the hardwood” and handed Jake a plate of questionable pizza rolls with the confidence of a man who didn’t believe in expiration dates.

Most of the guys were in the living room, shouting at each other over a video game. Jake had wandered off in search of a charger and maybe a minute of peace, figuring the back hallway would be empty.

He rounded the corner and froze.

There, kneeling in the narrow patch of sun near the back door, was Sam.

And Rumsfeld.

Sam was gently scratching behind the dog's ears, hoodie sleeves pushed up, and curls falling into his eyes. But it wasn’t the position that caught Jake off guard.

It was the voice.

Soft. Ridiculously soft.

“You’re such a good boy,” Sam murmured. “Yes, you are. You’re the bravest boy in the whole wide house, huh? Saved us from the evil squirrel. That was very heroic.”

Jake blinked.

“You’re the only one who gets it, huh? Monty’s a coward and the boys are idiots, but you, you’re a real one.”

Rumsfeld thumped his tail, clearly eating it up.

Jake clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. It didn’t work.

Sam’s head whipped around like he’d been caught plotting a murder as Jake leaned on the doorframe, half-bent with silent hysterics.

“No,” Sam said immediately, face going pink. “No. You didn’t hear that.”

Jake gasped, “Oh, I heard everything.”

“That was private.”

“You said ‘whole wide house,’” Jake wheezed. “That dog gets nursery rhymes.”

Sam stood up so fast he almost tripped over Rumsfeld. “I will make sure you never walk again.”

Jake grinned. “You have a dog voice. This is the best day of my life.”

Sam shoved past him, muttering, “You’re banned from this house.”

Jake called after him, “You’re the bravest boy, Sammy! Such a good protector!”

Sam didn’t respond, but Rumsfeld trotted after him like he’d just received a Medal of Honor.

Later that week, during a chaotic scrimmage where Sam got knocked flat and popped back up like it was nothing, Jake sprinted past him and yelled, “WHO’S THE BRAVEST BOY?”

Sam stopped moving for a full two seconds. Then he turned, red-faced, and tackled Jake so hard Coach blew the whistle just to ask what was happening.

Jake hit the ground laughing.

Connor jogged over, wheezing. “What- what did you do? ”

“Nothing!” Jake coughed, “I just encouraged him.”

Sam didn’t talk to him for the rest of practice, but Jake caught him smiling anyway.

____

The whistle for time of the final regular-season game cut through the noise like a lightning strike.

Sam didn’t hear it so much as feel it, like the air itself cracked open around him, like the weight pressing down on his lungs suddenly vanished. For a second, he just stood there, rooted to the turf, chest heaving, cleats sinking slightly into the dirt.

3 - 2. 

Final.

They’d done it.

Dylan exploded first,  yelling “YES!” like a man possessed, and the moment detonated.

Suddenly, everyone was moving: Connor slamming into Dylan’s side, Jake leaping into the air like gravity had taken the night off. Ryan ripped off his gloves and flung them skyward. Someone tripped, someone else shouted something about fate, and all of it blurred together into a joyful, chaotic mess.

Sam stood in the center of it, blinking.

His shirt was damp and clinging to him. His thighs trembled from sprint after sprint. His ribs still ached faintly from the cheap shot he’d taken just before the half. But none of it mattered. His whole body buzzed with a different kind of energy, something warm and full and too big for his chest.

We’re going to the playoffs.

He wanted to say it out loud. Wanted to shout it.

Instead, Dylan grabbed him by the collar and hollered into his face, “SAM FUCKING WINCHESTER!” before yanking him into a group tackle that reeked of sweat, turf, and something dangerously close to Axe body spray.

Sam laughed.

A real one, loud and unfiltered, almost ragged at the edges. He let himself fall into the huddle, arms thrown around whoever was nearest, shouting nonsense, letting himself have it for once. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a vision or a memory warped by time.

It was now. It was his.

And above it all, from the bleachers, “THAT’S MY KID!”

Dad’s voice rang out loud enough to startle birds from the scoreboard. Sam craned his head just in time to see his dad jumping up and down like a lunatic, pumping both fists in the air like he was conducting an invisible orchestra.

Uncle Bobby was trying to pull him back down into his seat and failing miserably, but he was grinning too.

Someone on the team followed Sam’s gaze and muttered, “Is he...?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

Connor let out a low whistle. “Man’s unhinged.”

“He’s just proud,” Sam said, quieter now. The words caught in his throat a little. “He’s really proud.”

And that? That hit harder than the win.

The hugs didn’t stop. The noise didn’t fade. Phones came out, a chant started, and someone tried to lift Dylan and nearly dislocated a shoulder. Ryan kept yelling, “WE’RE GOING!” like he didn’t believe it himself.

But Sam stayed a moment longer at the edge of it all.

He turned back toward the stands. Toward the light. Toward his dad, who was still standing tall and shouting his name. Uncle Bobby had given up wrangling and was now clapping, grinning widely, nodding like he’d seen this coming all along.

Sam raised a hand.

Just a wave. Just a moment.

Dad waved back, both arms in the air, joy pouring off him like the lights above were feeding it.

And Sam let the warmth of it settle inside him.

They were going to the playoffs.

____

Practice had gone two hours long.

The air hung heavy and wet over the field, thick enough to chew. Sam’s shirt clung to him like shrink wrap, his calves ached, and his vision had started to pulse a little at the edges, a sure sign he hadn’t drunk enough water. But no one said anything. Not now. Not this close to playoffs.

Coach barked out another command from midfield. It came out chopped and swallowed by the wind.

Jake groaned. “Did he just say seam ripper drill?”

Sam, bent double, hands gripping his knees, barely registered it. The blood in his ears made everything sound like underwater static.

“Pretty sure he said serpent run,” Connor offered, loud and confident.

Sam blinked. “What?”

Ryan, already grinning, said, “Like… slither?”

Jake perked up like someone had flipped a switch. “Oh my god , I can slither.”

Before Sam could even begin to process what was happening, Connor was already zigzagging across the grass in a squat, arms out like a crab in combat stance. Jake dropped into an unhinged army crawl, loudly hissing like a deflating tire.

Ryan stayed still for a beat, deadpan as ever. “You guys are embarrassing.”

Then, just as Jake shrieked something about being a majestic cobra, Ryan sighed, rolled his eyes, and slowly tipped sideways into a full-body flop. He didn’t slither so much as fold, dramatically and unnecessarily.

“Look at me,” he muttered. “I’m a threatened garden hose.”

Sam stared. He slowly turned toward Dylan, who stood a few feet behind him, water bottle in hand, sweat-slick hair pushed off his forehead, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“They’re broken,” Sam said.

Dylan just shook his head, soft and fond. “Let ’em work it out. Playoffs are frying their brains.”

Something about that - the ease of it, the total lack of surprise - tugged a laugh out of Sam before he could stop it.

Coach shouted again, this time much louder: “SEAMLESS RECOVERY DRILL!”

They all froze.

Jake, now flat on the ground with his arms splayed like he’d been taken out by a sniper, let out a quiet, stunned, “Oh.”

Ryan glanced up at them, entirely unbothered, and said, “Oops,” without an ounce of remorse.

Connor, still crouched halfway into whatever chaotic move had caused the fall, winced and muttered, “My bad.”

And just like that, it hit Sam. The laugh exploded out of him, loud and sharp and stupid. He doubled over with a wheeze and nearly lost his balance, but Dylan caught him without flinching.

He dropped to a knee beside Sam, slid an arm behind his shoulders, firm and grounding. “Easy,” he murmured, just low enough for Sam to hear.

But Sam couldn’t stop. He laughed until he couldn’t breathe. Until his legs turned to static and his eyes filled up with tears and every noise around him made it worse.

Jake yelled something about being one with the snake and Connor shouted, “We are the grass gods!” and Sam wheezed.

His ribs ached. His stomach hurt. His face was hot and damp with sweat and actual tears.

“Jake,” Sam gasped, “you were hissing. ”

Dylan chuckled beside him, low and under his breath. “Yeah, we all saw.”

Sam half-collapsed into Dylan’s shoulder, curled sideways in the grass. Dylan didn’t let go. He just kept a steady hand between Sam’s shoulder blades, warm through the fabric of his hoodie.

Jake flopped onto the ground in front of them and groaned, “He’s crying. Oh my god, he’s crying.”

Connor, standing nearby, looked absolutely delighted. “We finally broke the robot!”

“I’m not a robot,” Sam said weakly, still laughing.

“Sure you’re not, Terminator,” Ryan said, lying down next to them like this was all normal. “Sure you’re not.”

Sam tried to reply, but he couldn't. He just laughed, bent sideways in the grass. The kind of laugh that cracked your chest open and scraped everything raw and clean.

And Dylan stayed there, quiet, amused, hand never moving from the middle of Sam’s back.

Eventually, the laughter ebbed. Not because it wasn’t still funny, but because there was nothing left to spill.

The boys lay tangled across the turf like they’d survived something. Sam stayed seated, face still pink, monitor blinking steady-green. His chest hurt, but not in a bad way. Not in the old way.

He sat back slowly. Dylan moved with him, easing the pressure, still present. Still watching him like he was something worth noticing.

“You alright now?” Dylan asked finally, voice easy.

Sam nodded. Rubbed his sleeve across his face. “Yeah.”

Dylan didn’t say anything else. He just offered him a hand when it was time to get up, and Sam took it.

____

The Saturday scrimmage wasn't supposed to be intense. That’s what Coach Miller had said. “Just a tune-up before playoffs. Casual. Half-field. Don’t break anything.”

Naturally, within twenty minutes, Connor had nearly broken Jake’s ankle, Ryan had executed a slide tackle like he was auditioning for a war film, and Dylan himself had somehow ended up headbutting the ball and the goalpost in one very unfortunate moment of ambition.

Now the field was quiet again. Water bottles were half-drained, cones abandoned, jerseys drying in clumps on the grass. The sun had finally crested past the row of storage sheds at the field’s edge, casting everything in that sleepy midafternoon gold that made the world feel slower, gentler. Somewhere, someone’s car stereo buzzed low with a classic rock station that had lost the signal.

Dylan wandered back from Coach’s car, where he’d just dropped off an equipment bag, and scanned the field for Sam.

It didn’t take long to find him.

Off to the right, tucked under one of the big maples near the gravel lot, Sam sat barefoot in the grass with his knees folded up.. A thick paperback rested in his lap, pages fluttering in the breeze like it was breathing too.

Dylan stopped mid-step.

Sam was completely still: shoulders relaxed, curls messy from sweat and sun. The light caught in his hair like gold dust, and the way he was curled into the tree trunk made him look more like a creature meant to be there than a boy passing through.

He looked safe. Or maybe just unbothered.

It shouldn’t have made Dylan’s chest ache, but it did.

Maybe it was the way Sam’s mouth moved while he read, whispering something too quiet to hear. Maybe it was how his sockless toes curled into the dirt, like he didn’t know anyone could see. Maybe it was the peace of it, how rare it was to catch Sam like this, fully off.

That stillness… Dylan remembered chasing that kind of stillness once. Back when everything was sharp around the edges. Back when he’d shut doors too hard and stayed gone too long and no one thought to ask where he was.

He used to find silence in motion. In the wrong places, with the wrong people, under the wrong kinds of lights. But it never looked like this.

“Yo,” Jake muttered beside him, soft and reverent. “Look.”

“I am looking,” Dylan said quietly.

They watched as Sam reached up and tucked a pencil behind his ear. His hoodie slipped sideways on one shoulder, and he adjusted it absently without ever looking up from the page.

Connor and Ryan wandered up behind them, drawn by some kind of gravity.

“What’s he doing?” Connor asked.

“Reading,” Jake whispered. “Obviously.”

“I mean why does it look like a painting?”

Sam tilted his head slightly, expression twisting into a tiny frown. “That spell wouldn’t work,” he mumbled, just loud enough for the wind to carry. “They didn’t anchor the binding.”

The group collectively seized.

“What did he just say?” Ryan hissed.

Dylan felt his breath catch, like someone had gently kicked his ribs from the inside. “He’s correcting the book. Out loud.”

Jake made a noise that was half gasp, half prayer. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die right here.”

“Let him talk,” Connor said, already sinking into the grass like it physically hurt to be upright in the presence of such gentle genius.

Dylan didn’t sit. He just watched.

Sam hadn’t noticed them. Or if he had, he hadn’t changed. He turned another page, slow and deliberate, then scowled - scowled - at something in the text and underlined a line with his finger.

Dylan suddenly needed to know everything. What the book was. Why Sam was correcting it. What “anchoring a binding” meant. How long he’d been reading under trees like this. What else he fixed with quiet hands and soft frowns and a whole heart that didn’t seem to know how to quit.

He wondered, had anyone ever seen Sam like this before? Or had he always just slipped under the radar, too strange and too still, drawing spells in his head while the world overlooked him?

The others drifted back toward the bench eventually, mumbling about sunstroke and hunger and raiding Connor’s fridge before his dad got home.

But Dylan lingered.

Sam was still reading. Still barefoot. Still murmuring to the book like it owed him better logic.

After a long moment, Dylan lowered himself into the grass beside him, quiet as he could.

Sam blinked up, startled, like he’d surfaced from deep water.

“Hey,” Dylan said.

“Hey.” Sam straightened a little, quick to fix the pencil behind his ear, like he wasn’t supposed to be caught with it.

Dylan nudged his sneaker into the grass. “What’s the book?”

Sam blinked again. “Oh. Uh- fantasy. Old-school. World-within-a-world, secret-magic-society kind of thing.”

Dylan nodded. “Yeah?”

Sam turned the cover so he could see it .The title was old-school and a little ominous, the font serifed and formal. The cover showed a looming tower half-swallowed by shadow, clouds curling around it like smoke. Definitely not flashy. Definitely not something Dylan would’ve picked up on his own. But the pages were dog-eared, the spine softened by rereads, and there were tiny pencil notes in the margins, like someone had loved it on purpose.

“You were correcting it,” Dylan said softly.

Sam flushed. “Sorry.”

“No, dude. Don’t apologize. It was cool.” Dylan hesitated. “What was wrong with the spell?”

Sam looked unsure, but then flipped to a page. “It’s a binding spell. Meant to trap a shadow creature. But it’s missing an anchor. That’s like… a stabilizer. Without it, the magic won’t hold. It’ll snap back.”

“Snap back like blow up?”

“Maybe. Or just fizzle. Depends on the energy. But the way it’s written, it’s too loose. Like tying a knot with no end. You need something real. A link. Otherwise, it drifts.”

He stopped, like he realized how much he’d said.

Dylan didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He just nodded. “No, that makes sense.”

Sam glanced sideways, cautious.

Dylan offered a faint grin. “Also, you sound like you’ve done this before.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe I just read too many monster books growing up.”

But Dylan saw the flicker behind it. Something tucked away. Something real.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he plucked a blade of grass and twirled it. “I think it’s cool. That your brain works like that.”

Sam’s fingers curled around the book’s edge.

“Like,” Dylan said, voice lower now, “you look at stuff and see how it should work. That’s rare.”

He thought, fleetingly, of the people who used to look at him like a project. Like a fire to contain or a storm to outrun.

Sam didn’t do that. Sam built things.

Dylan looked at him, steady. “Most people don’t fix what breaks. They just leave it.”

Sam didn’t answer right away, but when he did, it was small and sincere. “Thanks.”

Dylan leaned back against the tree trunk beside him. The bark was rough against his shoulder, but the moment felt soft.

They didn’t talk much after that.

They just sat in the sun, the book still open, time stretching around them like something sacred.

And Dylan, for once, didn’t feel the need to move.

Chapter Text

During one of their last practices before the first playoff game, Coach kept them in formations until the last light peeled off the field and the turf was more shadow than grass. Sam’s legs were sore and wobbly, and he wanted nothing more than his bed and a heating pad. 

He peeled off toward the back parking lot once they were finally dissmissed, hoodie zipped halfway, cleats tucked under one arm. His bag weighed heavily on one shoulder.

His dad was stuck at the shop with a late customer, but Sam didn’t mind. Dylan had offered him a ride before Sam could even think of refusing, and saying no to Dylan was… well, harder than it should’ve been.

The car was easy to spot in the mostly empty lot, and Dylan had the car already running. He jogged the last stretch across the pavement, footsteps light.

Then his foot caught, maybe on the edge of the curb, maybe on nothing at all. The world lurched, and his hand hit the asphalt hard, just before his knee. He hissed, breath catching sharp as the skin of his palm tore.

Awesome.

The side of the car door met his shoulder with a dull thud. Not enough to bruise, but enough to remind him he wasn’t built like Dylan, who could probably trip over a manhole cover and somehow win a sprint.

Sam straightened quickly, pressing his scraped palm to his hoodie like maybe no one saw it. Like he could erase the moment by acting faster than pain.

Too late.

The door popped open, and Dylan leaned out, brow raised. “Dude,” he said, “did you just get tackled by a Honda Civic?”

Sam glared at him. Or tried to, but it came out more tired than threatening. “Shut up.”

“You okay?” Dylan didn’t sound worried exactly, but his eyes flicked to the hand Sam was still half-hiding against his side.

Sam exhaled. He didn’t want to show it, but Dylan wasn’t pushing. He was waiting, calm, like that made it safe.

So he showed him. The scrape wasn’t deep, just raw, pink, and smudged with flecks of asphalt grit. He turned his wrist once, watching the way it caught the last of the light.

Dylan reached into the glovebox like he’d done this a hundred times and pulled out a crumpled napkin, the kind that still smelled faintly of fries and fast food salt. He handed it over. No lecture. No drama.

Sam took it.

“You’re a world-class midfielder,” Dylan said as Sam pressed it gently to the wound, “and a parking lot hazard.”

Sam snorted under his breath. “You keeping track now?”

“Obviously.” Dylan slid behind the wheel, already tapping the dashboard like it was a drum. “One assist, two recoveries, and a fall-to-concrete ratio of one-for-one.”

Sam rolled his eyes and climbed in carefully, avoiding brushing the scrape against anything. His hand throbbed, but only a little. Mostly, it was just embarrassing.

“I’m pretty sure that’s slander,” he muttered.

“Nah,” Dylan said. “That’s brotherly documentation.”

Sam didn’t respond to that right away. He watched the windshield wipers twitch once against a streak of dust. Felt the air between them shift, but not in a big way. Just enough.

The scrape still stung. But the warmth of the napkin and the way Dylan hadn’t made it weird or loud settled somewhere deep in Sam’s chest.

They pulled out of the lot in companionable silence, headlights casting long beams onto the cracked road.

At the light by the gas station, Dylan reached into the center console and fished out a second napkin, cleaner this time, and held it out without looking. Sam took it. He didn’t say thanks, but he did glance sideways once, just briefly, as Dylan started humming off-key to the radio.

And for the first time in a long time, Sam didn’t mind being seen.

_____

The knock came just after six on Saturday.

Sam had barely gotten out of the shower after the newly installed weekend practices for the playoffs. He was in his sweatpants, an old tournament hoodie, damp curls still drying unevenly from his shower, when he heard it. It didn't come from the front door, but the side one. The one by the garage that only people who knew the house ever used.

“Dad?” he called out, poking his head down the hall.

His voice floated back, already half-annoyed. “If it’s the mob again, tell ‘em we’re outta money!”

Sam rolled his eyes and crossed to the door.

Connor, Dylan, Ryan, and Jake stood on the porch, snacks in hand and grins already forming like they’d practiced the moment.

“You coming out?” Dylan asked.

“Or,” Jake added, holding up a bag of sour gummy worms, “are we coming in?”

Sam blinked. “You guys, uh, didn’t say you were coming over.”

“Yeah, it’s spontaneous,” Ryan said. “Like a pop quiz. Or a controlled explosion.”

Connor shrugged. “We figured playoff week deserved a movie night.”

Sam hesitated. “I should ask-”

Before he could finish, his dad’s voice called from the kitchen, clear and skeptical: “How many of you are there?”

“Four,” Jake called back, completely unbothered.

There was a pause.

Then a louder sigh. “Fine. Shoes off. No backflips. And if you touch my good speakers, I will end you.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Dylan shouted cheerfully.

“I should’ve installed a ‘no teenagers’ sign on the door,” came the muttered reply, followed by a fridge opening with a hiss of cold air.

They stomped inside like they belonged there. And, weirdly, they kind of did.

Sam’s room was half-lived-in, half-staged for chaos within ten minutes. Connor took the desk chair and started spinning in lazy half-turns. Ryan claimed the beanbag. Jake dropped a blanket on the floor and lay back like it was mission control. Dylan sprawled on the rug, his socked feet under Sam’s desk, flipping through Sam’s stack of DVDs like he was curating an art exhibit.

“Dude,” Dylan said, holding one up. “You own The Iron Giant?”

Sam, grabbing his water bottle from the bedside table, just nodded. “Don’t knock it.”

“I’m not knocking. I’m respecting.” He handed it to Ryan, reverent. “We’re starting with this.”

Connor made a noise. “No, wait. Galaxy Quest is right there.”

“Absolutely not,” Ryan said. “It’s Iron Giant or nothing.”

“Democracy, people,” Jake offered. “Hands for Giant?”

Four went up, Sam’s included.

Connor sighed. “Fine. But next time I pick.”

“You said that last time,” Sam muttered.

“Yeah, and I will keep saying it.”

They kept arguing good-naturedly while Sam queued up the DVD and dimmed the lights. Gummy worms were opened. A second bag of chips materialized from someone’s backpack. One of his sweatshirts was borrowed as a blanket. The laughter started soft, then louder.

And somewhere around the halfway point - after Hogarth called the robot his friend and the room had gone quiet in that way people get when they’re paying attention - Sam glanced around.

Ryan was half-asleep, chin tucked into his hoodie.

Connor was absently tossing popcorn in the air and catching it with his mouth.

Dylan had gone quiet, which meant he was emotionally devastated but wouldn’t say it.

Jake had pulled Monty off Sam’s bookshelf and was using the stuffed moose as a pillow. No one had commented.

Sam looked around the room again and felt something settle low in his chest.

Warm. Real.

This wasn’t like the motel rooms, or the hospital cot, or the weird half-year where every quiet night felt like it was borrowed time. This was his.

His room. His people.

His life.

He leaned back against the wall, legs stretched across the bed, one hand loosely curled around a mostly full water bottle. The movie glowed faint blue across the blanket pile. The robot whispered, “You are who you choose to be.”

Sam closed his eyes.

____

The house had gone still in that way Dean liked best.

The kind of stillness that meant everyone was safe, fed, and sleeping off too much sugar and adrenaline.

He stepped quietly down the hallway barefoot, a coffee mug cooling in his hand. He hadn’t bothered to refill it in the last hour - hadn’t needed to. The TV in Sam’s room had gone quiet thirty minutes ago, and the only sound now was the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional shift of floorboards as the house settled into itself.

He passed the living room, eyes catching a pair of cleats by the front door that didn’t belong to Sam and two hoodies slung over the back of the couch.

Dean smiled.

Sam’s door was half-closed, but the soft light leaking out from under told him the night hadn’t ended when the credits rolled.

He knocked once before pushing the door open. Inside, it looked like a tornado made of teenagers had touched down and decided to retire.

Blankets were everywhere. An empty popcorn bowl had tipped over. Someone’s shoe was on Sam’s desk. Five boys were asleep in the wreckage, limbs flung out at odd angles. Jake was drooling on Monty. Ryan was curled on the beanbag like a dog in a nest. Connor had the desk chair tipped back and looked one swivel away from a mild concussion. Dylan was sprawled out on the rug, a sweatshirt covering his legs.

And Sam was on the bed, half-buried in a hoodie he didn’t own, a water bottle clutched to his chest and his mouth open just enough to mean he’d fallen asleep talking.

Dean stood there a moment.

The lamp was still on, so he stepped inside and turned the knob until it dimmed to low. Then he reached over and gently pulled the bottle from Sam’s grip, setting it on the nightstand with practiced care.

Sam stirred slightly. Eyes opened, hazy.

“Dad?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah, bug. Just checking.”

Sam yawned. “M’tired.”

“I figured.” Dean reached down and pulled the covers up over Sam’s legs, tucking them in like it was second nature. It was. “Didn’t know I was signing up for a sleepover when I agreed to feed them.”

Sam blinked at him, a slow smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “They didn’t wanna go.”

Dean looked at the room again. The soft, lived-in chaos. The steady breathing of kids who trusted they could fall asleep here. That they were allowed to.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”

Sam’s voice was quieter now, already fading. “Thanks for dinner.”

Dean brushed a hand over his hair. “Thanks for being worth sticking around for.”

Sam didn’t reply; he was already asleep again.

Dean stood there for a long time, coffee forgotten, heart full.

And when he finally stepped back into the hallway and closed the door behind him, he paused to glance at the plaque Sam had taped to the door when he was eight.

SAM WINCHESTER’S ROOM. TRESPASSERS WILL BE FED PANCAKES.

Dean huffed a laugh. “Damn right they will.”

____

The playoff bracket was stapled to the cafeteria bulletin board like it had been posted by divine decree: glossy white printer paper crinkled at the corners, Coach Miller’s all-caps Sharpie headers still faintly smudged. A crowd was already gathered, elbowing each other, backpacks bumping, necks craning..

Jake half-hopped his way with a dramatic, “Make way, gentlemen. History is being made.”

Dylan was already there, chin tipped toward the sheet, mouth quirked. “We’re the fourth seed.”

“No way,” Ryan muttered, peering over his shoulder. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Connor confirmed, grinning. “Means we host round one.”

The team exploded. Well, as much as high school soccer players could in a fluorescent-lit cafeteria. Someone slapped the vending machine. Jake let out a whoop. A half-dozen other players were yelling into their phones or taking pictures of the bracket like it might vanish if they blinked.

Sam made it to the front just as Dylan elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

“Fourth, baby,” Dylan grinned. 

Sam smiled, real, if small. The buzz of energy was infectious, and it soaked into his skin like sunlight through damp cloth. “Who do we play first?”

“Lexington South,” Jake said. “You know, number six in the league, always talk a big game, never back it up.”

“Beatrice or East Plains after that,” Connor added, tapping the sheet with his pen. “Beatrice plays dirty. East Plains plays like they think they’re being scouted by the Premier League.”

“And then the semis,” Dylan said with a little reverence, like it was Mount Everest. “We win that, win three, and we're at the finals.”

“Dude,” Ryan said, nudging Sam. “We could go all the way.”

They all looked at each other, then, grins crooked and eyes bright. The disbelief still fresh enough to taste.

It was happening. Not just maybe. Not in theory. Not in that weird half-space where they knew they were in, but there were no seeds or brackets yet. 

But Sam’s eyes drifted further down the page. He found the name without trying. It stood out even though it was typed in the same font, the same size.

Haverford. Third seed. Opposite side of the bracket.

His smile faltered.

Ryan caught it. “Huh. Didn’t know they qualified.”

Jake scoffed. “Guess they stacked their last three games.”

Connor narrowed his eyes, staring at the paper. “Still. They’re in.”

Dylan frowned, noticing Sam’s stillness. “They’re on the other side, though. We wouldn’t face them unless-”

“Finals,” Ryan said flatly. “Only if both teams go all the way.”

Connor let out a low whistle. “That would be intense.”

No one said more, but Sam’s heart skipped unevenly in his chest.

He could still feel the bruise from the last time they played. Could still hear the snap of that final whistle. Could still remember the words that came from Haverford players' mouths, the ones that didn’t feel like a game.

Dylan leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Hey. It’s fine. We’re good.”

Sam nodded slowly, but the weight was back, settling in his ribcage like a stone.

The bracket was exciting. They had a shot, a real one. But Sam couldn’t help it; his eyes kept sliding back to that one name.

Later that night, the bracket sat pinned to the fridge by a gas bill and a novelty magnet shaped like a pie slice. Sam had printed an extra copy at school and stuck it there without fanfare.

Dad noticed it right away.

“First game’s Lexington South?” he asked, leaning against the counter, half a cup of coffee in hand.

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Dad looked at him. Really looked. “You ready?”

“I think so.”

He stepped closer, nudging Sam’s shoulder lightly with his own. “You are.”

Sam didn’t smile, but his shoulders eased just a little as he looked back at the bracket, its sharp lines softened by the kitchen light.

____

Sam didn’t realize he’d forgotten it until they were halfway through warmups.

At first, it was just a vague sense of wrongness, like a shoe untied or a weight missing from his chest. He ran the first sprint like usual, jogged back to the line, and shook out his legs. But when he reached to adjust the hem of his compression shirt, his fingers found nothing.

No strap. No monitor. No green light.

His stomach dropped. He froze mid-step.

Connor jogged past, then Dylan, but no one noticed.

Sam stood there for a second too long, blinking against the late afternoon sun and the sudden, dizzy sense of vulnerability curling hot in his gut. His heart was fine; no flutter, no pressure. But his chest felt hollow and exposed. Like every breath might vanish out from under him.

It wasn’t about the monitor. It was about not having it.

He turned away from the field, one hand clutching the bottom of his shirt now like that would summon it back. He hadn’t gone far, just to the water cooler behind the benches, when Dylan appeared beside him.

“Sam?” Dylan asked, not loudly.

Sam didn’t answer at first. He was too busy trying to remember what it felt like to breathe normally.

“I forgot it,” he said finally, voice quieter than it should’ve been.

Dylan frowned. “Forgot what?”

Sam looked down. “The monitor. I left it at home.”

Dylan went still, but not panicked. “Are you feeling anything?”

“No,” Sam said fast. “I mean- I don’t think so. I’m okay. I just… I don’t like not having it. I never forget it.”

Dylan looked at him for a long second. Then glanced over his shoulder, made sure no one was watching, and dropped his voice.

“Do you want to sit this out?”

Sam hesitated. Everything inside him screamed no . He didn’t want to be fragile, didn’t want to be benched over something that hadn’t even happened. But he also hated the way the air tasted right now, thin and sharp.

Dylan must’ve seen it in his face, because he nodded and said, “Alright. Sit with me for a minute.”

They slid onto the bench, side by side, both facing the practice field but not watching it.

“You’re okay,” Dylan said simply. “You’re not the monitor. You’re not the readings. You’re you, and I’ve seen you take a hit and keep moving.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“You’re just missing your armor,” Dylan said after a beat. “Not your strength.”

That almost got a smile. Almost.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands locked together so tight his knuckles went pale.

Ten more seconds passed before the familiar growl of the Impala rumbled up the drive.

His dad’s voice rang out before Sam even spotted him: “Hey! Who forgot his sidekick?”

Sam’s head snapped up.

Dad strode across the lot like he was on a mission from God, monitor case in hand, scowl already softening as he saw Sam sitting upright.

“I’m fine,” Sam said before Dad could open his mouth.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” He replied, crouching down. “But I could tell something was off. You left it on the bathroom counter. Ran three reds to get here.”

Sam grimaced. “Seriously?”

“You think I wasn’t coming the second I saw it?” Dad’s tone wasn’t angry, just baffled. “C’mon, kiddo.”

He passed the monitor over and let Sam hook it up himself. The familiar green light blinked to life, soft and steady.

Sam exhaled like someone had finally taken the weight off his lungs.

Dad glanced at Dylan, then back at Sam. “Are you okay to finish practice?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I just needed…”

“...a breath,” Dylan finished for him.

Dad clapped a hand gently to the back of Sam’s neck, a brief squeeze that meant everything. “You can always get one, kid.”

Sam looked up at him, the weight in his chest gone now. He nodded again, clearer this time. 

____

The locker room was buzzing, the air was thick with that particular kind of tension only a playoff bracket could conjure: excitement wound tight with pressure, every motion sharper and more purposeful than usual.

Sam sat on the end of the bench, elbows resting on his knees, water bottle dangling loosely from one hand. His jersey was already on, sleeves clinging to his arms in that way they always did when his nerves got the best of him. He wasn’t shaking. Not really. But the buzz in his chest wouldn’t go away.

This was it. First playoff game. Every practice, every drill, every bruised shin and winded sprint had all led here.

“Ten minutes,” Coach Miller called out, voice calm but clipped.

Sam nodded to no one and stood slowly, rolling out his shoulders. He closed his eyes for a second and pressed a palm to his sternum, just to feel the steady thump beneath it. One, two, three - solid and familiar.

“Green light,” he murmured under his breath.

The door creaked open behind him, and he turned just as Dad stepped in.

He didn’t say anything at first, just gave a little two-fingered wave, boots scuffing the floor as he made his way over. He wasn't technically allowed in the locker room, but Sam figured no one was going to argue today.

“Hey,” Dad said, quieter now. “You good?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. This one's just different. This one matters.”

“They all matter,” Dad said, crouching slightly so they were eye level. “But yeah. This one’s a big one.”

Dad reached into his jacket and pulled out something small: a folded square of paper, worn at the edges.

Sam took it carefully, eyebrows raising as he unfolded it.

It was a photocopy from when he was eight, his first season back after his heart surgery. YMCA league. Huge jersey. Missing teeth. Standing way too straight.

“Bobby found it in a drawer,” Dad said. “Said you looked like a bobblehead.”

Sam huffed out a short laugh, the sound catching in his throat.

“You’ve come a long way, kid,” Dad added, hand landing briefly on Sam’s shoulder. “You already won something just by being here.”

Sam looked down at the photo. His chest still buzzed, but now it felt steadier. Realer.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Always.”

“Now get out,” Sam added, a crooked smile breaking through. “Before Coach sees you and makes me do laps.”

Dad smirked. “Fine. But hey…”

Sam looked up.

“Kick their ass.”

Sam saluted with his water bottle. “Plan A.”

As the door clicked shut behind Dad, Sam exhaled slowly.

Then he turned, grabbed his bag, and headed for the tunnel where the field waited. Where everything they’d worked for was about to begin.

____

The locker room buzzed like a power line.

Cleats smacked the tile. Someone’s jersey hit the ceiling. Music rattled through the old Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to a folding chair, “Seven Nation Army” blaring loud enough to feel in his teeth. Jake was pounding a water bottle against a locker like it was a drum and he’d just won a Grammy.

They’d done it.

4 - 2. Home game. First round of playoffs.

The noise around him was almost dizzying. Voices echoed off wet tile, the smell of sweat and turf and something vaguely metallic filling the air.

Sam sat on the edge of the bench, staring at the laces in his lap.

His cleats were off. He hadn’t moved in... a while. Maybe since the final whistle.

He ran a hand through his hair, felt the way his fingers trembled a little, and curled them into a fist to hide it. He didn’t feel bad, but he didn’t feel right, either.

The ache in his legs wasn’t soreness anymore. They were hollow, like someone had scooped something out of him mid-match and forgotten to put it back.

He’d played too hard.

He knew it even before Dylan shouted “GOAL!” in his ear and half-tackled him after the final whistle. Before Coach barked a rare “good hustle” as he walked out, holding back a smile like it might cost him something.

Sam had seen Connor go down. A shoulder hit mid-second-half, bad enough that a trainer made him come off.

And Sam, without thinking, started running harder.

Cover the left side. Drop back. Fill the gap. Talk louder. Make sure Jake marks the midfield. Watch the wing. Track the striker. Protect, protect, protect.

He hadn’t stopped, not when he should have, and now his chest felt like it was wrapped in something tight. Not pain, just pressure. Too much had been packed in too fast.

A bottle cap cracked somewhere behind him. A locker slammed. Someone yelled something about Gatorade and glory.

Sam blinked slowly. His hands were still shaking.

“Hey.”

Dylan dropped beside him, sweaty and glowing and loud with victory. He looked like the kind of person who made winning feel like oxygen.

Sam didn’t look up.

“You breathing?” Dylan asked.

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Liar,” Dylan said, voice light but eyes sharp. “You’re sitting like your skeleton filed a complaint.”

Sam huffed something like a laugh. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not even pretending that well,” Dylan said.

Ryan passed behind them, then doubled back and crouched. “Did you eat today?”

Sam shrugged.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Was that a yes shrug or a ‘please don’t ask me about food’ shrug?”

Sam stared at the floor. “I just need water.”

Dylan pulled a bottle from his bag and handed it over. Sam unscrewed the cap and drank too fast, the water burning cold on the way down.

“Look at me for a sec,” Dylan said, quiet now.

Sam glanced over.

Dylan didn’t say anything at first. He studied him, eyes scanning his face like a puzzle he almost knew the answer to.

“Next game,” Dylan said finally, “you don’t go full commando just because Connor gets benched. Deal?”

Sam frowned. “I didn’t-”

“You did,” Ryan said. “We saw it. You were everywhere. And I get it, but you don’t have to bleed yourself dry for us, man.”

Sam shifted. “I’m not bleeding.”

“Maybe not,” Dylan said. “But you’re not standing up either.”

Sam looked down at his hands. Turf rash bloomed across the backs, red and patchy, and he hadn’t even noticed.

He didn’t know what to say.

Ryan’s voice came quieter. “You didn’t let us down.”

Sam’s throat tightened. “I didn’t want to.”

“We know,” Dylan said. “But pushing past the line isn’t how you help. It’s how you break.”

Sam looked up, surprised at the gentleness in his voice. At how steady he sounded, like nothing Sam could say would rattle him.

He hesitated. Then: “I’m okay. Just tired.”

“You’re allowed to be tired,” Dylan said.

Ryan nodded. “You don’t get points for hiding it.”

Sam opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. He felt the weight of his body differently now, not like he was collapsing, just surrendering to gravity. Letting it hold him a little.

“You guys are annoying,” Sam mumbled.

“Yup,” Ryan said, standing. “And you’re eating something. Lots of carbs, non-negotiable.”

Dylan stood, then reached down and offered his hand. “Come on.”

Sam hesitated only a second before taking it.

Dylan didn’t just pull him up; he kept his grip firm, his other hand steadying Sam’s elbow as Sam found his feet. Sam swayed a little under the weight of it all: the noise, the effort, the win, the aftermath.

Dylan didn’t let go. He stood there with him, hand still at Sam’s arm, holding just tight enough to keep him grounded. Not rushing. Not saying anything about it.

After a moment, Dylan gave his arm one last squeeze and let go.

“Showers,” he said, turning toward the lockers.

And Sam followed, steady now.

____

Dean didn’t plan for them to come over after the game, but when he pulled into the driveway, they were already there.

Ryan’s car was parked halfway on the lawn, and he and Jake were spilling out of it. Connor groaned dramatically as he climbed out of Dylan’s car like he’d been in a bar fight, not a soccer game.

Dean stared through the windshield and sighed, but he unlocked the door and let them in.

They poured in like they owned the place: sweaty, limping, loud, and very clearly starving.

Jake immediately collapsed on the living room floor with the kind of dramatic grunt Dean associated with soap opera death scenes. Ryan made a beeline for the couch and flopped down like he’d been shot, Connor landing on top of his legs. Dylan kicked off his cleats at the door, lined them up neatly, then headed for the kitchen like it was muscle memory.

Sam came in last, slower.

His hoodie was pulled up, sleeves bunched around his wrists. His shoulders were slouched in that way Dean recognized. Not sad or hurt, but empty, like something in him had burned out and hadn’t had time to refill.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t say anything, just turned toward the stove and flipped the burner on.

Spaghetti. Garlic bread. Easy and simple.

It was either that or listen to Jake whine about how “granola bars are a social construct” for the next hour.

He didn’t ask if they were staying, didn’t ask if they were hungry. He just cooked.

Behind him, the boys filled the kitchen with their usual nonsense. Jake was shouting over the sound of someone’s voice memo. Connor kept reenacting his collision on the field, adding more flair each time.

“I spun,” Connor declared. “Like a leaf in the wind. It was beautiful.”

“You tripped over your shoe,” Ryan said without looking up from his phone.

“Under pressure,” Connor shot back.

Dean stirred the sauce and bit back a smile.

Sam had taken the chair at the end of the table, the one closest to the kitchen but furthest from the light. He hadn’t said much, lowering himself into the seat like his legs didn’t quite trust the floor anymore.

Dean slid the garlic bread into the oven. Poured water into mismatched glasses. Listened to the rhythm of plates hitting the table, of Dylan pulling forks from the drawer without being asked. Of Sam’s silence, steady and too still.

He plated Sam’s first, because that was his kid. The others could wait thirty seconds. A generous heap of spaghetti and too many meatballs for someone that size piled onto the plate.

“Eat,” he said, setting it down in front of him.

Sam blinked up. “Thanks.”

It came out quietly, but clearly.

Sam ate. Not fast, not ravenous, but steadily. Half the plate disappeared before Dean even sat down, which was enough to ease something tight in his chest.

Dean didn’t touch his own food right away, watching them.

Jake slung one leg over the empty seat next to him and started a rehash of the game that involved mimicking a goal celebration he didn’t even do. Ryan laughed through his drink and choked. Connor pounded the table like a judge.

Dylan didn’t say much, but every few minutes, his eyes would flick to Sam like clockwork. Quiet, watchful.

Dean didn’t miss it. He also didn’t miss the way Sam’s posture shifted. The slow lean forward, elbows on the table, shoulders relaxing. Head dipping a little, just enough to start looking like gravity was winning.

Dean got up to check the bread. By the time he turned back around, Sam’s fork was resting on the edge of his plate. His arms were folded in front of him, cheek pressed to one of them, and his eyes were closed.

Asleep, just like that. Still sitting at the table, half a plate of spaghetti gone, before the garlic bread even came out of the oven.

The conversation didn’t stop, but it dipped, just enough.

Dylan reached over, quiet as anything, and moved Sam’s plate to the side. Ryan nudged Jake under the table when he started to laugh too loudly. Connor pulled the napkin from his lap and set it gently near Sam’s elbow, for no real reason Dean could discern.

He stood in the kitchen doorway and took it all in.

This little patchwork disaster of a team. These boys who kept showing up. His kid, asleep at the table like it was the only safe place left on earth.

Dean didn’t say a word as he turned off the burner, grabbed a clean towel, and draped it over Sam’s shoulders like a blanket.

Jake caught the movement and raised an eyebrow.

Dean grunted. “He’s out cold.”

Ryan nodded. “He earned it.”

“Didn’t say he didn’t,” Dean muttered, but his voice had already softened.

And maybe the corners of his mouth tugged up, just a little.

Maybe.

____

Sam loved libraries. Always had.

The quiet. The space to breathe. The muffled sounds of pages turning and chairs scraping, and old vents humming. He liked the way everything had a place: books, rules, people, even sound. It didn’t echo in a library; it landed softly.

Right now, though, his place was at the big table near the windows. Hoodie sleeves down over his hands, laptop open in front of him. A geometry quiz blinked back at him: question one, untouched. Timer running. Twenty minutes left.

He’d missed the original quiz last Friday because of the playoff game. The teacher was fine about it. Told him to make it up this week, no pressure, no penalty.

But still, Sam had waited until the last possible makeup day. Not because he didn’t know the material, but he just hadn’t felt clear. Not since the game. Everything in his brain had been a little foggy, like his thoughts were moving through static. He was sleeping weird, and his legs still ached, and every time he tried to study, it was like trying to read underwater.

He rubbed his eyes and focused on the screen again.

Across the table, Jake groaned dramatically and dropped his forehead onto a chemistry book.

“If mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell,” Jake said, voice muffled, “then explain why I have no power.”

Connor didn’t look up. “Because you're working on chemistry, not biology.”

“Because the mitochondria aren’t your emotional support molecule,” Ryan added from the next chair over, where he had a history packet folded into a paper airplane. “They can’t save you.”

Jake sat up and pointed a pencil at him. “You don’t know what the mitochondria and I have been through together.”

Sam sighed quietly and rested his elbow on the table, chin in hand.

He wasn’t mad at the noise. If anything, the familiar hum of their bickering was the only thing keeping his brain from shorting out. But it wasn’t helping him get past the blinking, unanswered geometry question still frozen on his screen.

Shapes. Angles. Coordinates. He knew this. Last week, he could’ve done the whole quiz with his eyes half-closed. But today, the numbers wouldn’t hold still long enough to land.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then pulled back again.

A chair scraped next to him.

“Hey,” Dylan said. “You’re staring at a triangle like it personally insulted you.”

Sam huffed a tiny laugh. “It’s a quiz.”

Dylan leaned in a little. “You’ve been frozen on question one for fifteen minutes.”

“I know.”

Sam closed his eyes for a second. His legs still felt hollow from yesterday’s drills. His chest had that stretched, tugging feeling it always got when he was overtired. The kind that wasn’t painful, but still didn’t feel right. He hadn’t told his dad. He hadn’t told anyone. He’d just kept going. Like always.

“I should be able to do this,” Sam muttered.

Dylan didn’t say anything for a beat.

Then he reached for the spiral notebook next to Sam’s elbow, the one Sam had been sketching angles and proofs in all week, and flipped it open. Found the right page. Tapped near the bottom.

“You already did. Just copy what you did here.”

Sam frowned. “You don’t have to help me.”

Dylan looked over at him steadily. “Yeah. But I like helping you.”

Sam didn’t know what to do with that. Not really.

He blinked at the page. The words on the screen weren’t softer, exactly, but the air around them was. Like the static in his head had thinned just enough for something else to come through.

He stared at the notebook. Then back at the screen.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he started typing.

He worked through the problem, matching it to his earlier notes, step by step. It didn’t feel perfect, but it felt possible. His brain still buzzed at the edges, but Dylan was next to him. Still. Unmoving.

Question one turned green. Correct.

And something in Sam, something tight and coiled and frayed from too many days of working on double speed, loosened.

Across the table, Jake was falling apart.

“The mitochondria,” Jake said, “betrayed me and my ancestors.”

“I hope it betrays you harder,” Ryan muttered from the floor.

Connor chucked a highlighter at Jake’s head without looking.

Dylan just slid the notebook a little closer.

“You’ve got this,” he said quietly.

Sam nodded.

He did question two. Then three. Then four.

Each one came easier than the last. His shoulders dropped an inch. His breathing settled. He wasn’t fast, but he was moving . And the whole time, Dylan stayed right beside him. His elbow was near Sam’s. His presence was like an anchor.

Jake’s pencil snapped. Ryan applauded. Connor was somehow trying to invent a game with three flashcards and a bottle cap.

Sam hit question eight, the hardest proof. He hesitated until Dylan gently tapped his page of notes.

Sam followed the thread and pieced it together.

The answer locked in.

Question nine. Then ten.

And then: Submit.

Score: 100%.

Sam stared at the screen like it might disappear.

Dylan leaned closer, eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

Sam nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah.”

“See?” Dylan said, his voice easy. “Geometry loves you back.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but it didn’t carry heat.

Jake sat up, offended. “Wait. You’re done?"

Sam nodded again.

Ryan blinked at him like he’d just done a backflip. “You didn’t even look panicked.”

“I was,” Sam said.

Jake flailed. “Sam is the quiet one and the smart one? Unfair. I want to file a complaint.”

“I’m not smart,” Sam muttered.

“You are,” Jake said, tossing a pack of gum across the table like it was currency. “Now tutor me. I’ll pay you in juice boxes and excessive praise.”

Sam didn’t respond, but he didn’t look away, either.

Dylan stood. “Come on. You finished. That calls for milkshakes.”

Connor grabbed his bag. “I could be revived by ice cream. I could be saved.”

Ryan groaned as he stood. “Let’s go before the librarian declares a one-day ban.”

As they shuffled toward the doors, Dylan quietly grabbed Sam’s notebook, slipped it into his bag without asking, and closed Sam's laptop.

And when they left the library, the noise of the others rising again, Sam stayed right behind Dylan the whole way out.

____

The East Plains field wasn’t fancy - patchy grass, rusted bleachers, a scoreboard that flickered when the wind hit right - but the stands were full anyway. Packed, even. Parents with lawn chairs crammed into the aisles. Classmates hooting from the top row. A marching band on the far side started into their opening rhythm a beat and a half too slow, then caught up.

Sam jogged out onto the pitch with the rest of the team, cleats biting into the half-dry turf. The sky above stretched low and flat and gray, heavy with a promise of rain it wouldn’t keep. The kind of weather that made his skin itch with waiting.

He exhaled. Not from nerves (okay, maybe a little from nerves), but mostly from the cool air. Or so he told himself.

Connor clapped him on the shoulder as they lined up for kickoff, pulling Sam back to the present. “Still breathing?”

Sam huffed. “Barely.”

“Good. You’re not allowed to flatline until after we win.”

That got a crooked half-smile out of him. He was glad his voice didn’t shake.

Dylan jogged up behind them, gum snapping, one sleeve pushed up like he was trying to look tough for the team photo. “He’s not going to flatline,” he said, deadpan, flicking a quick look at Sam. “Because he drank the damn Gatorade and ate the granola bar like a good little midfield engine.”

“You did, right?” Connor asked, squinting.

“Yes," Sam sighed. "The whole thing.”

“Even the raisins?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Even the raisins.”

Jake’s voice floated in from behind. “Also, Coach swore on his actual eyebrows that if any of us let Sam die on the field, he’d make us run suicides until next spring.”

“That’s not a joke,” Dylan muttered. “He brought out the cones.”

Laughter broke across the lineup, short and bright, the kind that buzzed in Sam’s chest and smoothed out the worst of the nerves. His fingers twitched at his sides, loose now instead of clenched. The knot in his stomach didn’t vanish, but it shifted. It felt less like dread and more like momentum.

The whistle blew, and the game began.

East Plains was fast. Not brutal, not dirty, but just fast. Their midfield moved like clockwork, tight and unrelenting, always a step ahead and closing gaps before they could open. Every pass had to be quick, every decision made before the ball even reached his feet. The pressure didn’t let up. It was smart soccer, and it was exhausting.

Sam adjusted. That’s what he did. Watched. Tracked. Calculated. He shifted a little lower into his stance, let his eyes scan the field like he was studying a moving puzzle. The seams of it - the spaces between players, the slight hesitations - he started picking them apart.

He didn’t try to force plays anymore. He just found the rhythm and let it find him back.

But it was harder today. His legs were solid, footwork crisp, but his chest pulled tight under the steady bounce of his monitor. Not painful, not dangerous, just tired. Bone-deep and creeping. Like his body hadn’t fully shaken the flu, even though he knew that wasn’t it.

He didn’t say anything. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t, not unless it got bad.

But Dylan noticed.

During a throw-in, Dylan jogged up next to him, breath short but voice sharp. “Shift back,” he muttered under his breath. “Let Jake press more. You’re burning fuel too fast.”

Sam blinked at him, caught mid-reset, and gave a single nod. No argument. No pride. Just strategy.

He drifted back into position, tightening the angle between the lines. Let the chaos swirl a few feet ahead instead of inside his chest. He adjusted.

From the sideline, his dad’s voice rang out now and then - low and steady, his version of a barked order. Sam didn’t need to look to know Dad was tracking every movement, jaw clenched, one hand fisted in his coat pocket like he could pull Sam off the field telepathically if something looked wrong.

By the time the whistle blew for halftime, the score was tied 1 - 1.

Sam walked off the field with his hands on his hips, trying not to hunch, trying not to draw attention to the way his breaths came too deep, too fast. He didn’t feel bad, just drained.

As the team circled near the bench, Coach tossed Sam a water bottle without even glancing. “Midfield’s stabilizing,” he said. “Good reads out there.”

Sam nodded, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. The water tasted like metal and plastic, but it steadied him.

Dylan bumped shoulders with him lightly. “Hangin’ in?”

“Yeah.” He gave a ghost of a grin. “You?”

“Oh, I’m dying. But, like, in a sexy way.”

Sam snorted, coughing, before rolling his eyes.

Behind them, Jake flopped onto the grass and groaned, “Somebody tell me that was the hard half.”

No one did.

The sky still hadn’t rained, but the clouds looked lower and thicker now. The wind picked up just enough to sneak under Sam’s collar.

He sat down, elbows on his knees, water bottle dangling between his fingers.

Connor crouched beside him. “You good?”

Sam nodded again, slower this time. “Just pacing myself.”

Connor looked at him for a long beat, like he wanted to press, but didn’t.

“Alright,” he said. “Then let’s win this thing so we don’t have to talk about feelings.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Deal.”

In the back half, Sam found his second wind early. Sooner than he expected, honestly. It hit during a scramble near center pitch, when he ducked under a slide tackle that came in a second too late and cut the ball forward with the outside of his foot. He caught Dylan out of the corner of his eye, fed him a low, slicing cross, and watched as the shot curved just shy of the left post.

The crowd roared anyway.

Not just parents. Not just classmates. It felt like the field itself exhaled with him.

Something bloomed under his ribs. Confidence. Momentum. That feeling that maybe, just maybe, his body could keep up with his head again.

They were in it now.

Each pass sharpened. Each pivot felt cleaner. His thoughts narrowed into instinct and motion - step, shift, cut, again. He stopped noticing the monitor under his shirt. Stopped counting his breaths.

He just played.

Until East Plains brought in a sub midway through the half, a tall midfielder with too much swagger and not enough chill. The guy got handsy fast, body-checking Sam on every possession, elbows brushing just a little too high. It wasn’t dangerous, not yet, but it was enough to break rhythm.

Until Jake flew in like a wrecking ball - cleats precise, timing surgical - and took the ball with a slide so clean it could’ve been a tutorial. The ref didn’t even blink.

Jake popped up, yelling over his shoulder as he ran: “No one messes with our heart kid!”

Sam groaned. “Do not call me that,” he growled, but he was grinning.

In the final minutes, the score was still 1 - 1. The tension hung in the air like ozone before a summer storm.

Every player on the field could feel it: tight shoulders, quick glances, footsteps heavier than they should be. Sam’s lungs burned at the edges, but the adrenaline drowned it out.

Dylan called a shift from midfield, sharp and certain. Ryan adjusted with barely a glance. Sam moved before he even thought about it. He closed the angle, darted in, and cleanly intercepted a lazy East Plains pass just past the circle.

A side-step, a burst forward. Then a snap-wide pass to Connor, who was already curving around the edge.

Time felt slow and fast all at once.

Connor wound up, low and clean.

The net rippled.

2 - 1.

The stands erupted like someone had struck flint to gasoline. Screams, drums, whistles, Sam barely registered them through the static in his ears. The team exploded in a chaotic mob toward the sideline.

Sam didn’t run. His legs gave, just a little; knees dipping, one hand hitting the turf to brace.

It wasn't a fall, but just gravity catching up. He was up again before the trainers could notice, before his dad could vault the fence.

Across the pitch, Dylan caught his eye. A flick of a brow.

You good?

Sam nodded once. Then again, firmer. He planted his feet and straightened his spine. I’m good.

Final score: 2 - 1. Sioux Falls was moving on.

The boys dogpiled Connor near the sideline - half-celebration, half-chaos. Someone was screaming something about Cheez-Its and glory.

Sam stayed back, bent at the waist, hands braced on his knees, jersey damp and clinging.

Jake was the one who peeled away first, jogging over with a crooked grin and sweat-slicked hair. He slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders with the subtlety of a linebacker.

“Still standing?” Jake asked.

“Barely.”

Jake squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

Sam straightened as they walked toward the gate. His gait was off by half a step, nothing obvious, but he felt it.

His dad was already there, leaning on the fence just past the bench. Arms crossed, eyes scanning the field like he was still waiting for a call.

Sam jogged over, slower than usual, but upright.

Dad’s eyes flicked to the monitor beneath the jersey, then back to Sam’s face. “You okay?”

Sam blew out a breath. “Tired. But okay.”

Dad held his gaze a moment longer. He gave him the Look, capital-L, the one that saw through fever lies and fake smiles and “I’m fine”s.

Then Dad nodded once, his shoulders easing. “Proud of you, kiddo.”

The words hit harder than the exhaustion. Sam’s smile this time wasn’t just relief. It was real.

Behind them, someone hollered, “Next stop: semis!”

Dylan chucked Sam his hoodie from the bench. “C’mon, rookie. Don’t make us carry you.”

“You’d drop me.”

“Absolutely,” Jake said, grinning. “But with affection.”

Connor peeled away from the celebration pack and added, “And probably into a pile of Cheez-Its. A soft landing.”

Sam pulled on his hoodie, heart still thudding, but steady.

He laughed, light and full and unguarded.

____

Connor hadn’t meant to find out. He was just trying to be helpful, which was always where his worst plans started.

Coach Miller had handed him a battered file folder to reorganize - team contact forms, med waivers, allergy sheets, the usual paper mountain - and Connor, being Connor, took it home and color-coded it. Which is how he stumbled across it.

Winchester, Sam. DOB: [REDACTED FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT]

He blinked. Checked the date again. Then slowly turned to his phone.

CONNOR: GUYS

HOLY CRAP

GUYS GUYS

IT’S SAM’S BIRTHDAY THIS WEEK

RYAN: why are you yelling in text

JAKE: wait really?

DYLAN: Connor what did you do

CONNOR: IT’S IN THE FILES.

THREE DAYS FROM NOW.

WE FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

JAKE: maybe he didn’t tell us?

CONNOR: THAT’S WORSE

The next day at school, Connor dragged them all behind the bleachers before homeroom like they were about to plot a heist. Sam, like the good little dork he was, was preoccupied studying in the library.

“Okay,” he said, opening his backpack like it was a mission dossier. “So, we know Sam didn’t say anything. Which means either he didn’t want a fuss… or he assumed no one cared.”

Ryan frowned. “I don’t like either of those options.”

Jake was already halfway through a granola bar. “Are we doing a party? I need to mentally prepare.”

“No party,” Dylan said firmly. “We’ve got playoffs. But I am invested in the moral panic this is causing Connor.”

“Then something small,” Connor insisted. “A surprise. Low-key. But meaningful.”

Dylan crossed his arms. “We’re not doing anything without his dad’s okay.”

Which is how four high school boys ended up knocking on Bobby Singer’s porch at dusk, standing in a semi-coordinated line with pizza gift cards and Connor’s hand-drawn flowchart titled “Birthday Intervention: A Strategic Offensive.”

Dean answered the door in his flannel and boots, one eyebrow already raised. “Should I be worried?”

Jake grinned. “Always, Dean.”

Ryan cleared his throat. “We wanted to ask about Sam’s birthday. We just found out it’s in a few days.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah, it is. He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Connor said, deeply offended by the concept. “Which is why we’re staging a coordinated emotional ambush.”

Dean leaned against the frame. “Kid said he didn’t want to make a big deal this year. Focus on the playoffs. Thought maybe we’d wait until it was all over.”

Dylan shrugged. “Too late. We’re making a thing.”

“Something chill,” Ryan added. “Just a surprise drop-in. Snacks. Maybe a cake. We promise no fireworks.”

Dean sighed. “Do not bring that confetti cannon again.”

“That was a prototype,” Jake said solemnly. “This will be way more mature. Like, seventy percent more.”

Dean looked at them all - Connor vibrating with nervous energy, Ryan trying to project calm, Jake already planning chaos, Dylan pretending he wasn’t touched - and something in his expression softened.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright. Fine. I’ll get Bobby on food patrol. You knuckleheads handle decorations.”

Connor brightened instantly. “We have themes!”

“Absolutely not,” Dean said. “You come into my house with a theme, I’m locking the doors.”

____

Sam had barely gotten his cleats off before the team started acting weird. Not bad weird, just... twitchy.

Dylan kept checking his phone like someone was feeding him encrypted instructions, then tucking it away like he hadn’t. Every time Sam looked up, Dylan would glance elsewhere - at the door, the clock, Jake - like he was tracking some invisible countdown.

Connor jogged off without his usual post-practice rant about shin guards and fascism. Jake practically bolted after changing, muttering something about “urgent errands” and “not suspicious, don’t worry about it,” which, obviously, made Sam instantly suspicious.

Even Ryan, who was usually the last to leave, lingered just long enough to ask Sam what shoes he was wearing home, then disappeared before Sam could answer.

Dylan hung back in the locker room longer than usual, doing absolutely nothing, which was somehow even more suspicious. He kept fiddling with the locker door, clearly waiting for Sam to leave first.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, lacing up his high tops.

Dylan blinked like he’d been caught doing something illegal. “Yep. Fine. Totally normal. I’m gonna head out. You're good getting home?”

“Yeah?” Sam said slowly. “My dad’s picking me up.”

Dylan nodded. “Cool. See you later.”

But he lingered another half-beat before heading out.

It wasn’t like Sam hadn’t noticed. He was observant. Too observant sometimes. The kind of observant that made him feel like maybe the world was tilting by a degree or two, and he was the only one who didn’t get the memo.

He rubbed the back of his neck, tossed his practice jersey into his duffel, and sighed. Weird.

It only got weirder when he walked outside and noticed it wasn’t the Impala waiting for him in the parking lot. 

“Uncle Bobby?” Sam asked as he approached the truck. “Where’s Dad?”

“Busy at home,” Uncle Bobby said, as casual as if he were announcing the weather. “Told me to grab you. You hungry?”

“Uh… sure.”

Uncle Bobby didn’t elaborate, and Sam didn’t press, but his brain was already quietly turning over every possibility. 

Was Dad hurt? Was something wrong with the car? Was there a hunt?

He stared out the passenger window as they drove. Uncle Bobby was humming low under his breath to a song that wasn’t on, fingers tapping the steering wheel.

When they pulled onto the gravel drive, Sam blinked. The porch light was off. So were the living room lights. The curtains were drawn.

Sam’s chest tightened.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said, sliding out of the truck. Uncle Bobby just nodded and muttered, “I’ll be around,” before disappearing around the back. Another odd detail.

Sam approached the door slowly. It was unlocked and the door creaked open on quiet hinges. The house was dark. Quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

“Dad?” Sam called.

No answer.

His heart gave one fast, uneven kick before logic took back over. There was no static, no supernatural buzz. Just confusion.

He crossed the threshold into the kitchen-

The light snapped on.

“SURPRISE!”

Sam jumped a full inch off the floor and dropped his bag.

Dylan stood front and center, grinning widely and holding a lit birthday cake. Jake was wearing a soccer-ball-shaped party hat with confetti stuck to his shirt. Ryan had three noisemakers in his mouth like a party-plumed walrus. Connor was halfway through a speech about “the sociological value of unexpected communal rituals,” only to freeze mid-sentence when Sam arrived.

“What?” Sam started. “You guys- what?”

Uncle Bobby was visible through the back door now, flipping burgers like it was a national holiday. His dad stood leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“You didn’t tell us it was your birthday,” Dylan said, stepping forward with the cake, voice quieter now but still warm. “So we went to the source.”

Sam turned to his dad, wide-eyed. “You told them?”

Dad shrugged, absolutely unrepentant. “They showed up with a spreadsheet. What was I supposed to do?”

“Say no?” Sam offered, dazed.

But Jake already had an arm slung around his shoulders. “No going back now, Birthday Boy. Welcome to the fun.”

Connor beamed and held up a box wrapped in blue paper. “We even coordinated colors. Except Jake. Jake ignored the memo.”

Jake posed dramatically. “I am the memo.”

Dylan handed over the cake, and Sam took it on instinct, still too stunned to speak. Candles flickered. The frosting was uneven. His name was misspelled - Sammie - because Jake insisted it “had more charm.”

Sam blinked fast. His chest felt warm and too full, like something uncoiling slowly inside him.

“You okay?” Dad asked, stepping closer and bumping his arm lightly.

Sam looked around, still not quite believing. “I… I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Ryan looked genuinely offended. “You didn’t think we’d notice your birthday?”

Connor huffed. “I literally color-coded our Google Calendar.”

“You guys have a calendar?” Sam asked, half-horrified.

Jake nodded. “Connor runs it. Dylan makes fun of it. I ignore it. Ryan only updates it when we have snacks. But it exists.”

The laugh burst out of Sam before he could stop it; startled, full, real. His eyes stung.

Dylan leaned forward and gently blew out a rogue candle that was listing dangerously. Then he took the cake from Sam’s hands and set it on the counter with a quiet kind of care.

“Okay,” he said. “No more stunned silence. Time to eat.”

“But he hasn’t cried yet,” Jake said, faking disappointment. “It’s not a real party until someone cries.”

“I will shove a candle in your hair,” Sam muttered.

“Birthday threats!” Jake grinned. “He’s warming up!”

Connor started handing out plates while Ryan cracked open the root beer six-pack with the flair of a sommelier. Uncle Bobby banged through the back door with a tray full of burgers and growled, “Somebody grab napkins before this place turns into a grease slip-n-slide.”

Dad passed behind Sam and ruffled his hair. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” he said, voice low and rough. “You earned this.”

Sam swallowed hard. He had too many feelings with no words for any of them.

They ate on mismatched paper plates around the coffee table, sitting on the couch, the rug, the stairs, anywhere with elbow room.

Connor insisted everyone go around and share a “Sam Memory,” like it was summer camp and this was the trust circle.

Jake led strongly: “Remember when you did that ridiculous spin-pass at practice and Coach screamed like he saw a ghost?”

Ryan countered: “Nah. The time you climbed that fence and tore your hoodie like a cartoon character.”

Connor leaned back against the wall and grinned. “Okay, mine’s easy. That away game, when Sam roasted half the Haverford roster without blinking? We’re all wheezing in the back of the bus, and this dude, this quiet freshman with a heart monitor, is out here casually destroying people with one-liners like he’s been waiting his whole life for the mic.”

He paused, chuckling. “That was the moment I was like, oh. This kid’s gonna be trouble. Like, big-soul, way-too-smart, scary-accurate trouble.”

Dylan went last. His voice was quiet but steady.

“You didn’t say much the first few weeks,” he said. “You watched everything. But when you did speak up, we listened.”

Sam stared at them all, heart full to the brim.

Later, as the root beer ran dry and the confetti thinned out, the boys trickled toward the door.

Ryan gave him a careful shoulder bump. “Thanks for letting us take over your house.”

“Thanks for ambushing me in it,” Sam replied, still smiling.

Connor clapped him on the back. “You’re lucky I didn’t go full Pinterest. I had a theme planned.”

Jake pointed to his party hat. “I was the theme.”

Dylan lingered last. He stood in the open doorway, wind at his back, expression unreadable but soft around the edges.

“Next week? Semis. After that?” He shrugged. “Who knows. But tonight was for you.”

Then he stepped out, trailing confetti and good intentions like a comet tail behind him. The house went quiet again.

Dad and Bobby started cleaning, but Sam stayed behind in the living room, still staring at the now-half-eaten cake and the party hats strewn about.

Dad came up behind him eventually, hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You good?”

Sam looked down at the birthday card still in his grip. It was covered in doodles, inside jokes, Ryan’s perfect cursive, and Jake’s deranged Sharpie scrawl. His name was written three different ways, and Connor’s signature was complete with glitter.

“I didn’t want a big thing,” Sam admitted. “Didn’t want to be a problem.”

“You weren’t,” Dad said. “You never are.”

Sam looked up at him, eyes a little red-rimmed but steady. “I’m glad it found me anyway.”

Dad smiled, tugged him into a sideways hug, and kissed the top of his head. “Me too, Sammy. Me too.”

____

The parking lot was almost empty after practice when Sam noticed Ryan still sitting in his Jeep, hands on the steering wheel, face unreadable through the windshield.

He’d walked past already - backpack over one shoulder, earbuds halfway in - but something made him double back. The slight jolt of the engine trying and failing to start. Then again. Then silence.

Ryan rested his forehead against the wheel, jaw tight. Sam walked up and knocked lightly on the window.

Ryan rolled it down halfway. “Hey.”

“You good?”

“Totally. Just negotiating with my Jeep’s deeply flawed sense of timing.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How’s that going?”

“I'm losing. Loudly.”

He tried the ignition again. A click. A low, strained cough. Then nothing.

Sam leaned on the doorframe. “Want me to call Jake and let him throw out some half-baked theories about spiritual sabotage and carburetor karma?”

Ryan huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned the key one more time, slower. The engine didn’t even try.

“I think it’s the starter,” he muttered. “But I’ve got no time to deal with it. Playoffs. My grandma’s got a doctor’s thing on Thursday. Grandpa needs his truck for work, and-”

He stopped himself. Too much, too fast.

Sam caught it. “You live with your grandparents?”

Ryan nodded. “Since I was twelve.” He didn’t offer more, leaning back in his seat with a sigh. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

“Are you walking home?” Sam asked.

Ryan gave a small shrug. “Guess so.”

“Cool,” Sam said. “Me too. I’ll walk with you.”

They didn’t say much on the way, just kicked gravel and made jokes about Jake’s taste in playlists. But Sam was already thinking about the garage out back. The tools. The fact that his dad, for all his complaining, never ignored someone limping through a bad day.

The next day, after drills, the locker room was quieter than usual. Most of the noise had drained out with the heat.

Ryan moved slower than normal. His shoulders were stiff, eyes a little distant. Sam waited until it was just the two of them pulling on hoodies by the bench.

“Hey,” Sam said, voice casual. “You should bring the Jeep to our place.”

Ryan frowned. “Your place?”

“Yeah. Garage’s out back. My dad said he’d take a look.”

Ryan hesitated. “Sam…”

“He won’t charge you,” Sam added quickly. “He said, and I quote, ‘What’s one more act of goodwill when I’ve already adopted a small army of soccer orphans.’”

Ryan laughed, but it was tight at the edges. “I can’t really afford a fix right now.”

“You’re not paying. He just wants to make sure it doesn’t leave you stranded again.”

Ryan’s jaw worked quietly for a second. Then: “You told him about it?”

“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “I knew you wouldn’t. But I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Ryan looked at him, not annoyed, just thoughtful. Then he nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll bring it along.”

Sam bumped his shoulder on the way out and said, “Good. We’ll even throw in a root beer.”

____

Ryan pulled up to the house on Saturday morning, the Jeep grumbling like it was insulted to be summoned.

Dean was already outside the garage, wiping his hands on a rag and nursing the last third of a coffee.

“Morning,” he called. “Your chariot limped in louder than usual.”

Ryan climbed out, sheepish. “At least it made it.”

Dean nodded toward the open bay. “Keys?”

Ryan handed them over. “Starter’s the guess. Could be worse.”

Dean gave a low grunt. “Could also be cursed. You boys have a habit of attracting supernatural levels of mechanical failure.”

Ryan watched as Dean popped the hood, already digging into the engine. “Are you sure you don’t want anything for this?”

“Kid, I’ve spent the last few months feeding you. The car’s the least of my worries.” Dean didn’t look up. “And you showing up means you trust me, which means I don’t have to lecture you about trying to fix it with duct tape and silence.”

Ryan gave a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”

Dean reached into the open fridge tucked inside the garage, grabbed a root beer, and tossed it without looking. Ryan caught it midair, startled.

“Drink that. Sit on the porch. Let me do my thing.”

Ryan lingered. “You’re sure?”

Dean finally looked up. “Look. Sam said you’ve been hauling a lot lately, and I already like you more than I expected to. So let me help. Just don’t make me say it again.”

Ryan didn’t respond, but he nodded and walked toward the porch. He sat on the step with the root beer in his hand, condensation slipping down his fingers.

Sam arrived a few minutes later on his bike, sweat still clinging to his forehead from the hill up the street. He skidded to a stop by the mailbox and took in the scene: Jeep hood up, Dean muttering to himself with a wrench, and Ryan sitting on the porch, quietly smiling in a way Sam rarely got to see.

“Everything good?” Sam asked, leaning the bike against the rail.

Ryan held up the bottle like a salute. “I’ve been drafted into the unofficial Winchester repair plan.”

Sam smirked. “That includes root beer, obscure classic rock, and unsolicited life advice.”

“Already got two of the three.”

From under the hood, Dean shouted, “Don’t tempt me with a third.”

Ryan laughed, tipping his head back. Sam just watched him for a second - shoulders looser, not trying so hard to look fine.

It was a good look.

He joined him on the porch step, sitting close enough to feel the warmth without needing to name it.

____

The bracket on the locker room wall was barely holding together, curling at the corners, taped and re-taped like the team’s collective hope. Each time they won, someone, usually Dylan, circled their name in a new color. Blue. Then red. Then glitter gel pen from a forgotten pencil pouch Sam hadn't asked too many questions about.

Now there was a green pen waiting. Finals-green, as Dylan called it.

But not yet.

There was still this game.

Time blurred in a familiar rhythm: warm-ups, tension, Coach’s speech that started soft and ended with bellowed instructions, Dad’s voice shouting encouragement from somewhere near the fence. The field was half-mud by now. Playoff grass never stood a chance.

Sam ran on instinct. His legs ached, lungs burned, and his ribs complained once from a bad twist during the first half. But he kept moving.

Connor scored first. Then the other team answered.

Dylan buried one top shelf with a yell so loud it startled the sideline.

Final ten minutes. Tied again.

Sam didn’t remember how it started, just that the ball had been bouncing too long near the box and Jake got a toe on it. Not enough for a shot, but enough to send it sideways.

Sam was there.

One touch.

Back of the net.

And just like that, it was over.

The team erupted: arms around shoulders, cleats skidding, someone screaming in the background. Sam ended up on the grass with Dylan half-tackling him and Jake shouting something about pancakes and destiny.

Coach’s voice was hoarse from yelling. His dad’s whistle cut through it all, sharp and triumphant. Sam looked up to see him bear-hugging Uncle Bobby, who looked like he wanted to pretend he wasn’t smiling.

They’d done it. They were going to state.

Connor grabbed Sam by the collar and shook him once. “You’re a machine!”

“I’m sore,” Sam wheezed. “Machines don’t get sore.”

“You’ll live,” Connor said, grinning like that was the best compliment he could give.

From the bench, someone’s phone buzzed. Ryan pulled it out of his bag mid-celebration, glanced at the screen, and froze. “Uh, guys?”

No one heard him at first. Too much noise. Too much joy.

Ryan tried again, louder. “Guys!”

The group went still, half-breathless and grinning.

Ryan held up his phone. “Davidson lost.”

“What?” Dylan blinked. “They lost?"

Ryan looked around the circle. “To Haverford.”

Silence fell like a dropped ball.

Sam felt it in his chest: an old, sour twist of adrenaline. His heartbeat, steady just seconds ago, sped up.

Dylan let out a slow exhale. “Of course.”

Connor muttered, “Rematch.”

No one said it out loud, but they all knew. The bruises from that first game hadn’t fully faded. The memory definitely hadn’t.

Sam looked toward the stands, where his dad was already heading down the bleachers, eyes still bright with victory.

One more game.

And it had to be them.

____

Dean was halfway through a victory lap of high-fives when the energy around him shifted.

One second, the team was all joy. Rowdy, breathless, still crackling with adrenaline. Dylan was crowing about the assist. Jake had dumped half a bottle of water over Ryan’s head. The air was thick with the sound of victory.

And then, it wasn’t.

Not all at once, but enough to make Dean’s instincts rise. The volume dimmed. Movements slowed. A few of the guys clustered closer to the bench, their earlier grins dimming into something uncertain.

Dean’s eyes swept the field, searching automatically for one person.

Sam.

He spotted him just off the bench, cleats planted in the trampled grass, his shoulders hunched inward in that quiet way Dean had come to know all too well. His jersey clung damp to his back. His hands were fisted around a water bottle, but he wasn’t drinking. He was staring down at the screen Ryan was holding in front of him.

Dean was already moving before he realized he had.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into the ring of boys. His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed with weight. “What’s going on?”

Ryan handed him the phone.

Davidson lost in semis. Haverford’s going to the final.

Dean read it once. The words didn’t quite land. He read it again.

And then they did.

He handed the phone back without a word and looked at Sam.

His kid wasn’t hurt, not physically. But the set of his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet Dean’s, the flatness in his mouth, they told Dean everything he needed to know.

Because he remembered.

He remembered the hit that sent Sam flying. The look on Sam’s face when he sat up and tried to pretend he hadn’t been shaken to his core. The taunt. The pain. The fact that Haverford hadn’t just played dirty; they’d made it personal.

Dean drew in a slow breath through his nose, grounding himself. It didn’t help.

Sam’s gaze met his, clear but pale, like he was already trying to carry it alone.

“I’m okay,” Sam said, low, like he knew what Dean was thinking. “It’s just a game.”

Dean crouched slightly, close enough to read more than words in his face.

“It’s not just a game,” he said quietly. “But it is ours this time.”

Sam blinked. That hit something.

“You’re not gonna… say no?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Dean’s smile was slow and tired, but honest. “You want to play them?”

Sam nodded.

Dean looked at him a second longer, then reached out and curled his hand around the back of Sam’s neck - his heartbeat steady, his skin warm.

“Then you play them,” Dean said, voice steel under velvet. “And this time? They should be scared.”

A silence stretched between them, taut but no longer brittle.

Bobby strolled up, truck keys swinging from one hand, ball cap pulled low. He looked between them, then at the rest of the team, who were now watching from a cautious distance.

“You two done brooding, or do I need to start handing out emotional support juice boxes?” he asked, deadpan.

Sam snorted, startled. “Seriously?”

Bobby shrugged. “You kids keep standing around like the world ended. You just made the damn finals.”

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “You’re the worst therapist.”

“And you’re not allowed to bet the Impala again,” Bobby added without missing a beat.

“I didn’t-”

“Yet,” Bobby said, pointing a finger at him. “But I saw the look. No car titles. I’m serious.”

Sam laughed, tired but real, the tension breaking just enough for him to stand straighter.

Dean gave him a pat on the back, firm. “Let ’em come,” he said under his breath. “You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone but yourselves.”

And for the first time since seeing the message, Sam believed him.

____

The wind was a bit sharper the first practice after the semis, slicing in low and cold across the practice field, tugging at the edge of every jersey and stinging across exposed ears and fingertips. A low, gray sky hung like a lid above them, thick and unmoving, the kind of weather that made the ground feel heavier beneath Sam’s cleats.

No one said it outright, but the weight in the air was undeniable. Practice hadn’t even started yet, and already the sideline buzz - the usual trash talk, stupid jokes, someone shouting over a playlist - had gone silent.

They were playing Haverford again.

Coach Miller stepped onto the grass like a stormfront in human form. One sharp blast of his whistle cut through the tension. “Lines. Now.”

They moved. No grumbling. No dragging feet. Just motion, fast and focused.

Sam fell between Connor and Dylan without needing to think. His muscles were already primed, buzzing low from nerves and something harder beneath. His cleats sank into damp turf, cold soaking through the soles. The ache in his ribs from his last hit throbbed faintly with every twist of his torso. Not sharp, but just there. A reminder.

It wasn't enough to stop him, just enough to aim him.

They sprinted drills. Tight triangles. Fast passes. Body checks and recoveries. No one laughed. Not even Jake, who normally couldn’t go ten minutes without offering a “motivational insult.” Instead, he moved like someone had rewound him, precise and with no wasted steps.

By the second round of pressure drills, Sam’s practice jersey was sweat-soaked at the collar. The lines blurred. His legs burned. Still, he didn’t slow.

Across from him, Dylan caught his eye mid-drill and gave a small nod. Nothing flashy, just solid. Steady. With you.

Sam nodded back, quick and sure.

“Defense, midfield, front press. Reset,” Coach barked. “Again!”

They ran it again.

And again.

And again.

Jake started wheezing halfway through the fifth rotation, but he didn’t stop. Connor’s shoe came untied, and he didn’t pause to fix it. When someone collided with Sam during a pressure turn, he hit the ground hard, but popped back up faster.

He wasn’t here to fall.

When Coach finally called them in for a scrimmage, no one jogged. They walked. Silent, spent, adrenaline humming just under their skin like too-hot water.

They split into two squads. Dylan darted wide off the opening pass, cutting sharply toward the left. Sam read the play a beat before it happened and charged the center. The ball ricocheted off Connor’s foot - too hard, too high - but Sam adjusted mid-stride, chested it down, then sent it slicing through Jake and Connor with a perfect right-foot flick.

The shot missed the net by inches.

But it was clean. Flawless in its setup, and everyone knew it.

Coach, arms folded, didn’t shout. He just nodded once. “Again.”

They reset.

As they regrouped near midfield, Connor jogged over, slapped Sam’s back with enough force to make him stumble half a step. “You’re on fire today.”

Sam caught his breath, chest tight but steady. “Can’t let them win again,” he said, voice flat with resolve.

Dylan slowed beside him, hand on his hip, eyes still scanning the field like they hadn’t finished the play. “No one’s getting to you this time,” he said, voice low. “Not unless they go through all of us first.”

Sam blinked at him. Something inside him, the part that used to brace for the next blow, stilled. He looked at Dylan. At Ryan in the goal. At Jake and Connor, already lining back up like they were born for this. Like it wasn’t just a game. Like it was something they were all in together.

He nodded.

Because it wasn’t just him anymore. It never really had been, not since he stepped on the field that first day, heart monitor and all. Not since they’d decided he was one of them.

____

The school bell rang with its usual clipped finality, and the hallway filled in waves. Doors banged open, sneakers squeaked, and backpacks were slung haphazardly over shoulders. The swell of noise rolled forward like a tide: too loud, too fast, the way it always felt before lunch.

Sam kept his head down, binder hugged to his chest, steps steady even though his ribs still ached faintly from the last practice. The air in the hall smelled like floor cleaner and cafeteria pizza. The usual. Predictable.

Until it wasn’t.

He turned the corner by the south stairwell and stopped short.

A guy stood right in front of him. Older. Taller. Not from this school.

The hoodie was the first giveaway. It was Haverford maroon, the logo half-worn but unmistakable. The second was the look on his face, sharp and satisfied, too aimed. Too personal.

“Winchester, right?” the guy said, voice casual but coiled.

Sam didn’t answer. His heart had already started to thud a little harder. He shifted slightly to the left, but the kid mirrored him, cutting off his path just enough to make it obvious.

The guy leaned in, not quite whispering. “You’re the one with the medical monitor, right? That little chirp toy?”

Sam stiffened, his jaw tightening.

“Bet it’s good for sympathy calls. Nothing like a miracle story with a little trauma dressing.” His eyes flicked down to Sam’s chest, like he could see the monitor through the fabric.

Sam said nothing.

The grin widened. “Your real dad beat the hell outta you, didn’t he? That’s what the news said.”

That one landed.

Sam didn’t flinch, but his whole body went cold, like someone had opened a door to a past he kept locked on purpose.

He thought about a rope tied too tightly.

He thought about the flicker of black eyes in the dark.

He thought about a dark forest, rocks digging into his bare feet.

He thought about a courthouse, crawling on his knees through blood.

He thought about his dad pulling him out, wrapping him in a blanket, whispering You’re safe now. I’ve got you.

A thud hit the lockers beside them.

Ryan.

He moved fast, clean and quiet, like he’d been watching the whole time. Sam hadn’t even heard him approach. Ryan didn’t say a word, planting himself between Sam and the Haverford kid, gaze flat and unmoved.

The kid backed up a step, hands raised, mock-casual. “Just talking. Damn.”

Ryan didn’t blink. “Walk away.”

The guy held his gaze half a second too long before muttering something under his breath and slinking down the hall, shoulders hunched.

The noise returned slowly. Lockers slamming, distant chatter, fluorescent buzz overhead. Sam still hadn’t moved.

Ryan turned. His voice was low. “You alright?”

Sam nodded, but it was slow. Deliberate. “Yeah. I just…”

His throat closed.

Ryan waited.

Sam swallowed. “Didn’t expect that.”

“Want me to tell Coach?”

“No.” Sam’s voice was immediate. “No, it’ll just make it worse. I’m good.”

Ryan didn’t argue. He just started walking, angling toward the cafeteria. “C’mon.”

Sam followed.

The hallway shifted around them, rows of tired students peeling toward vending machines or yelling across the stairwell. Sam felt untethered in it. Like his feet moved, but the rest of him hadn’t quite caught up.

They slipped into the cafeteria from the side entrance. Noise pressed in immediately: trays clattering, voices bouncing off the high ceiling. The smell of microwaved cheese and crushed chips underfoot.

Jake, Connor, and Dylan were already there, halfway through bags of chips and lunch trays that they’d stopped pretending were appetizing.

Connor spotted them first. “Took you guys long enough. What, did you fall in a stairwell?”

Then he saw Sam’s face. The way Ryan stuck close. The tension that was still in their shoulders.

Jake straightened. Dylan stopped mid-sentence.

“Sam?” Dylan asked, quieter now.

Sam didn’t sit right away. He hovered next to the bench, binder still clutched in both hands.

Ryan answered for him. “One of them was here. A Haverford player. Said some crap.”

Sam lowered his eyes. “He knew about the monitor. And my father. My biological one.”

No one said anything for a beat.

Then Jake cursed under his breath. Connor muttered something sharp and angry and started to push his tray away like he was about to get up.

Dylan didn’t move. “You want us to handle it?”

“No,” Sam said again, firmer now. “It'll just make everything worse. I just... didn’t know where else to go.”

Dylan scooted over, patted the bench next to him. “Then you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Sam sat.

Connor passed him a bottle of Gatorade without a word. Jake tore open a second bag of pretzels and slid it his way.

He unzipped his binder, not because he needed anything inside it, but because it gave his hands something to do. Dylan leaned in close enough for their shoulders to touch, not enough to crowd, just enough to say I’ve got you.

Ryan didn’t sit right away. He stood behind the table for a few more seconds, watching the door. Just in case.

And Sam, for the first time since that voice stopped him in the hallway, felt like his feet were on solid ground again.

____

The locker room reeked of effort and desperation: sweat, turf, menthol rub, and the unmistakable sting of unwashed socks. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like they, too, had been through one sprint too many. Cleats clattered to the tile, shin guards clanged against the metal benches, and groans echoed off the walls like a choir of the dead.

Practice had been brutal. Coach Miller had run them like they were training for war, not high school soccer, and Sam felt it in every inch of his body.

He sat hunched near the end of the row, one foot propped on his duffel, slowly undoing the tape around his ankle. Every pull of the tape sent a dull sting through the joint, just enough to make his teeth grit. His ribs still ached faintly when he bent the wrong way. The heart monitor peeked out from beneath his compression shirt like it was judging him for trying to keep up. And beneath all of it, a low thrum of fatigue hung behind his eyes. It was familiar now, like a weight he’d almost gotten used to carrying.

Jake wandered over first, a towel draped over his head like a hood, walking with the kind of gait from someone too proud to admit he was limping.

“Damn, rookie,” he said, collapsing onto the bench beside Sam like the world owed him rest. “Did your ankle insult Coach’s ancestors, or is this just a very personal vendetta?”

Sam snorted quietly. “Pretty sure this is his version of team bonding. Through mutual pain.”

Jake wiped the back of his neck with the towel and smirked. “Classic. Want me to stage a medical emergency next time? I’ll fake a collapse. Maybe a convincing faint. Do you think Coach responds better to drama or blood?”

“Please don’t,” Sam muttered, tugging his sock down carefully. “I think you’re running out of body parts you haven’t already broken.”

“Bold of you to assume I need all of them,” Jake said cheerfully.

A shadow fell across them, and then Connor dropped into view, holding two Gatorade bottles like they were sacred relics. One was neon green, the other a questionable shade of blue that no fruit on Earth had ever naturally produced.

“I didn’t know which one you liked more,” Connor said, offering both. “The green kind tastes like melted popsicles, but Coach says it helps with lactic acid. Sounds gross.”

Sam blinked at him. “Uh… thanks.”

Connor handed them over, then sat on Sam’s other side, criss-crossed his legs like a kindergartener, and leaned in with a hushed whisper that was absolutely not necessary in the echo chamber of a half-empty locker room.

“Is your ankle okay?” he asked. “Or are you doing that thing where you downplay everything until it’s too late and you wind up passing out on the field and we have to stage an intervention?”

Sam gave him a look. “That’s very specific.”

“I’ve met you,” Connor replied, deadpan.

Sam looked between the two of them: Jake, now rolling a grimy tennis ball under his arch like it was the most casual thing in the world, and Connor, visibly vibrating with bottled-up worry and too many hydration tips.

“I’m fine,” Sam said. “Just sore. I swear.”

Connor squinted at him like he didn’t believe a single word, but was too polite to argue.

Jake, of course, didn’t bother hiding his opinion. He shrugged. “Sore’s fine. Sore means you’re playing hard. Crippling pain means Coach gets sued.”

Connor frowned. “That’s not how lawsuits work.”

Jake winked. "It's how my lawsuits work.”

Sam took the green Gatorade and leaned back against the cool metal locker behind him. The first sip hit like lightning, sour and sticky, but he didn’t care. His ankle throbbed, his ribs ached, and his whole body hummed with leftover adrenaline, but in that moment, it didn’t feel like a burden.

The rest of the locker room blurred around them - voices echoing, laughter rising, lockers slamming shut. But the three of them sat in a triangle of noise and quiet and something sturdier.

Jake, bold and loud, covering concerns with jokes. Connor, thoughtful and slightly anxious, trying to fix things before they cracked. 

And Sam? He didn’t say it out loud, but he liked having both.

____

They’d just finished their last practice before state.

Sam peeled off his jersey slowly, careful around the monitor cord beneath his compression layer. His side still ached faintly from last week’s tackle, and his ankle wasn’t thrilled either, but none of it mattered right now. He could breathe. He could play. They were going to state.

And yet-

Something felt different tonight.

He couldn’t name it right away. It wasn’t nerves exactly. Not dread either. It was something else, like the echo of a note struck somewhere low in his chest.

Across the locker room, Dylan was unlacing his cleats. Slower than usual. Quiet for once.

Coach Miller’s whistle cracked through the hum of conversation. “Alright. Go home, rest, hydrate, and don’t do anything dumb. Game plan meeting tomorrow.”

There were some groans, a couple of sarcastic salutes, before the chatter resumed. It was louder now, unspooling like a spring that had been wound too tight.

Ryan flopped down next to Sam on the bench with all the grace of a tranquilized bear. “That’s it,” he said, breathless. “Final practice. Holy crap.”

Sam nodded but didn’t look at him right away. He was still watching Dylan, who had one sneaker on and one foot bare, just kind of… sitting there.

Ryan followed his gaze. “Yeah. And it’s his last.”

That landed like a stone in Sam’s gut.

He hadn’t let himself think about it until now, not really. They’d all known Dylan was graduating, that he was going to play for Drake University. They’d joked about it. Teased him. Drew a mustache on his ID picture in the hallway.

But now that the cleats were off and the field lights were dimmed, the finality of it hit differently. This wasn’t just the last practice before state.

It was Dylan’s last practice. Ever.

Sam swallowed hard. His throat was dry.

Connor leaned over from the other bench. “Wait… crap. That really was his last one?”

Jake blinked from where he was pulling on clean socks. “Like his last-last?”

Dylan looked up finally, raising both brows. “You guys know I’m not dying, right?”

Ryan stood, clapped once like he was starting a meeting, and turned to face them all. “Okay. Someone say something nice to Dylan before he leaves us for college soccer glory and forgets we ever existed.”

“Too late,” Connor muttered. “I already blocked him.”

Ryan snorted and whipped a rolled-up sock at him.

Dylan held up both hands. “Can I not be the center of attention today?”

“No,” Jake said immediately. “It’s your last day. You’re getting your emotional tribute whether you want it or not.”

There was a pause, an awkward shuffling of feet and glances and scratched necks. No one wanted to go first. 

But then Ryan cleared his throat. “You sat next to me after that game I blew my freshman year. Nobody else even made eye contact, but you did.”

Connor added, a little gruffly, “You didn’t make fun of me when I threw up mid-practice that one time.”

“He should’ve,” Jake muttered.

Connor shot him a look. “Shut up, this is about Dylan.”

Jake shrugged, but smiled. “Okay, yeah. You told me to stop acting like a jerk at practice. That sucked. But you were right.”

Sam’s heart was hammering a little now. He didn’t know if anyone else could hear it, but it felt loud in his ears. He hadn’t planned on saying anything. He never did. But now everyone was looking around, and eventually all eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t spoken yet, but Dylan was watching him.

Waiting.

Sam cleared his throat. “You were the first person who told me I wasn’t too quiet to be good,” he said, slowly. “That I didn’t have to be loud to be part of this.”

His voice caught a little on that last part.

The room went quiet. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just gradually, like a wave of breath settling.

“You told me I didn’t have to prove I belonged here. I just… did.”

Dylan’s eyes didn’t leave his.

“Because you do,” he said simply.

Sam felt something loosen in his chest. He hadn’t even known it was tight.

Then Jake groaned theatrically, tossing his head back. “This is gross. I hate this. Someone ruin it before I develop a conscience.”

Connor, ever helpful, picked up a second sock and chucked it at Dylan’s head. “There. Fixed.”

Dylan caught it midair, smirking.

“You guys are the worst,” he said.

“You love us,” Ryan said.

Dylan sighed, like the admission physically pained him. “Yeah, I do.” Then he looked at Sam again. “You’ve got them now. I mean it.”

Sam blinked. “Me?”

“You,” Dylan said. “You’ve got the heart. You’ve got the eyes on the field. And somehow, despite all odds, they listen to you . ”

“I do not,” Jake said immediately.

Sam was still trying to catch up. “I’m not… glue.”

“You’re the quiet kind,” Dylan said. “That’s the kind that holds.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that. So he just nodded, something quiet and full in his chest that he didn’t have words for.

“Pick something good for warmups,” Dylan added, shouldering his duffel. “Don’t embarrass me.”

“I’m going full Taylor Swift,” Jake announced.

Sam rolled his eyes. “He said good, Jake.”

“Debatable,” Dylan muttered.

They laughed, and it was real.

Sam sat for a long moment after everyone else started packing up, listening to the low hum of conversation and the squeak of sneakers on tile and the speaker still playing a song too soft to hear clearly.

His bag was heavy on his shoulders, but in a way that felt good. Steady.

He looked down at the cleats in his hand. Mud-spattered. Faded. Still strong.

And he thought, Yeah. Maybe I can hold.

____

The stadium felt too big for high-school soccer. The seats were tiered like a sun-bleached coliseum, the turf was sharp green under long golden light. The air was heavy with pollen and the faint buzz of locusts, the sun just beginning to slip behind the bleachers.

The field belonged to a college. A neutral site, technically, but it was neutral in name only. The bleachers were stuffed shoulder-to-shoulder with students, families, and scouts from three different states. A regional sponsor banner flapped weakly in the breeze behind the scoreboard, and the announcer booth rattled every time the bass kicked in from the pregame playlist.

From the tunnel, the field looked calm. Deceptively calm. Chalk lines crisp, sky cloudless overhead. The hum of the scoreboard monitors cut through the breeze, and from the far end of the field, the roar of the crowd was already climbing; sharp with nerves, expectation, memory.

Sam stood in the middle of the Sioux Falls lineup, shoulders square, thumb brushing the faint bump of his heart monitor beneath his jersey. Still green. Still steady.

Behind him, Dylan bounced lightly on his toes, half-stretching, half-fidgeting. Connor cracked his knuckles without looking down. No one was talking.

From the opposite tunnel, Haverford emerged in clean formation. Their warm-ups gleamed like they’d come off a magazine shoot. No taunts this time. No smirks. Just eyes: hard, narrow, waiting.

One of them, the same #7 from earlier that season, glanced straight at Sam and held the look. 

Sam didn’t blink.

Coach Miller stood at the front of their group, wind tugging at the corners of his clipboard. “No speeches,” he said, voice low and sure. “You know the stakes. You know the plan. And you”-his eyes lingered on Sam, then swept over the rest-“don’t need to prove anything. Just finish it.”

Dylan’s hand brushed the center of Sam’s back, quick and anchoring. A habit, not a gesture. Sam didn’t need to turn around to know he meant it: we’ve got you.

Up ahead, a ref lifted an arm, calling them forward. The cleats of both teams echoed against concrete as they moved toward the tunnel mouth. The last of the sun lit the entrance like a spotlight. Sam stepped into it first.

The sound hit them instantly: a wave of cheers, horns, the syncopated clap of a thousand fans packed into metal bleachers. But it wasn’t chaotic. It was sharp, focused, like the entire state had turned up to see if the story ended the way it was supposed to.

Sam’s eyes lifted to their section, far right, second row, center. His dad stood at the rail, arms folded, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Uncle Bobby was beside him, chewing sunflower seeds and pretending he didn’t care as much as he did. When Dad caught Sam’s eye, he lifted two fingers, brief and steady.

I see you. I got you.

Sam nodded once, and kept moving.

Warm-ups began in silence. Their drills were tighter than they’d been all year: one-touch passes, sharp pivots, midfield triangles that sang against the grass. Sam’s first trap kissed the turf and spun clean back to Dylan, who returned it with a flick of his heel. Connor split the seam without needing to be told.

Across the field, Haverford matched them with precision, but less flow. Less rhythm. They moved like a machine built to win, but not built to feel.

The sun dipped lower. The air smelled like cut grass and sunscreen and damp Gatorade towels. Sam rolled his neck, exhaled slowly. The monitor stayed quiet. The knot in his chest did not.

Captains were called forward. Dylan moved to the center line, cleats brushing chalk, the final golden light angling across his arms. The ref flipped the coin and Haverford won the toss. Coach didn’t flinch.

Sam backed into formation, the countdown beginning on the scoreboard. Eighty minutes. One game.

The ref raised the whistle.

Sam shifted forward, heel planted and toes light. His vision narrowed to the ball and the pitch and the open space beyond it.

The first whistle cracked like a spark in dry brush, and Haverford took the opening touch, sharp and fast, just like they wanted to be seen.

Sam didn’t flinch. He stepped forward slowly from midfield, eyes scanning the field with calm precision. 

Let them move first. Let them show their hand.

Haverford tried to come in high, testing the left edge early. But Ryan cut the angle clean and forced them back to midfield. Connor pressed from the other side, just close enough to rattle the touch, not enough to foul. They were giving Haverford space to mess up, not win.

Sam tracked every pass like he was watching a chessboard tighten. The moment a Haverford midfielder hesitated, Jake pounced and stole it.

And then Sioux Falls took over.

They didn’t counter with speed. They countered with control.

Dylan dropped into space, Dylan-to-Jake-to-Connor, each pass smoother than the last. Sam followed the rhythm until it opened - two defenders shifting too late, the midfield thinning - and slid forward to receive.

His first touch came in the seventh minute.

He didn’t waste it.

He let the ball skim across his instep, absorbed the weight, and flicked it to Dylan, who immediately rotated it wide. Connor darted up the sideline, pulling two defenders like bait on a hook.

The entire flow of the game shifted. Haverford looked ready to lunge, but now they were chasing.

Sam dropped back to reset, then pushed forward again, threading between #6 and #10 like he’d been born in the space between steps. He didn’t even hear the crowd anymore. Just breath. Turf. Ball.

Every move had meaning.

Dylan rotated again across midfield, dragging his mark with him. Jake curled wide. Ryan hovered high in support. The team was locked in with tight triangles, one-touches, constant motion.

Then came an opportunity. Dylan sent a grounded pass through traffic, and Connor scooped it up in stride. A quick step. A cross.

The ball rolled clean into Sam’s path at the top of the 18.

He could’ve taken the shot. He knew it. The moment opened just long enough.

But he didn’t.

He let it ride.

Dylan was coming in on the blind side, faster, with the keeper off balance. Sam tapped it across the arc, perfect weight.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. He struck it with the outside of his foot - clean, fast, rising. It hit the underside of the crossbar with a thunderous clang and bounced out.

The crowd gasped. Before Sam could turn, Dylan clapped him on the back.

“Smart pass,” he said, catching his breath.

Sam just nodded. “You were open.”

As they jogged back into shape, Jake’s voice cut through the rhythm, low and puzzled. “Okay, but, did they really just let that happen?”

Connor narrowed his eyes across the pitch. “Yeah. Where’s the body-checking? The trash talk? That should’ve earned at least one shoulder to the ribs.”

“Maybe they’re playing clean this time,” Ryan said, deadpan. “Maybe they found therapy.”

Jake snorted. “No way. Haverford doesn’t get therapy. They get scholarships to shove people.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just adjusted the monitor under his jersey. Still green. Still steady.

Across the field, Haverford’s line was talking fast now. Jittery. One of them was already pointing at Sam like he needed a leash.

Good. Let them scramble.

He adjusted the monitor under his jersey. Still green. Still steady.

Sioux Falls didn’t need the first touch to control the game. They just needed to keep playing like this.

____

Halftime passed in a blur of water bottles, quiet adjustments, and the hum of adrenaline that never quite settled.

Sam sat on the bench with his ankles crossed and one hand pressed lightly over the heart monitor beneath his jersey. Still green. Still steady. But he could feel the shift coming.

They all could.

Coach didn’t say much. “They’re going to start leaning harder,” he warned. “They waited long enough. Keep your heads. Stay smart. Make them chase us.”

Sam nodded once, eyes already back on the field. His legs bounced, more controlled than nervous, and his fingers stayed loose, flexing every so often at his sides.

They’re not going to play clean forever. They never do.

But that was okay. He didn’t need them to. He just needed to be ready.

Beside him, Dylan stood up slowly and turned to face the circle of sweaty, breathless teammates slumped on overturned water coolers and travel crates. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“Look at me for a second.”

They did.

Dylan’s blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, his jersey damp, his shoulders squared like he was holding the weight of something he didn’t want them to feel.

“We’re not walking out there for a fight,” he said. “We’re walking out there to finish something.”

Connor wiped his nose on his sleeve. Ryan shifted slightly on his cleats. No one interrupted.

“They’re gonna come for us. We know that. They’re gonna foul, and clip, and cheap-shot their way through the next forty. We don’t match it. We don’t feed it. We don’t even flinch.”

He looked at Sam, just for a breath, and Sam held his gaze.

“We already showed who we are. And it’s not whatever they think they’re dragging out of us.”

He let that sit. Then added, quieter: “Play clean. Play mean. But play smart. We don’t have to go through them to beat them. We just have to outlast them.”

Someone, Jake, probably, murmured a soft “Damn right.”

Dylan nodded once. “Forty minutes,” he said. “Then we get to call ourselves champions.”

And with that, he dropped back down to his crate, cracking his knuckles once, jaw set.

Sam;s chest had steadied. His fingers were still. The fire inside him didn’t spike, it sharpened.

You don’t need to prove anything, Coach had said. Just finish it.

And Sam would.

____

The whistle blew sharp, and the second half began.

Haverford took the restart with quiet precision. Too quiet. No calls, no chatter between midfielders. Just a cold, mechanical rhythm that felt more like a trap being set than a game being played.

Sam drifted into position, boots light, breath steady. The sun had dropped low enough now that the stadium lights had flickered on during halftime. He blinked once against the glare, then focused in.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Haverford captain pause near midfield, gesturing with sharp fingers. He pointed once toward Dylan, then toward Jake. Then Sam.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But deliberate. Calculated.

There it is, he thought. The shift. The energy. It wasn’t loud or obvious. It never was, not with teams like Haverford. It started in the angle of a run, the timing of a pass that came just a fraction too late, the way #7 suddenly had no reason to go near the ball but kept drifting closer anyway.

They were waiting. Winding the string tighter.

Ryan cut off the first cross cleanly and sent it out wide. Connor chased it down, chipped it toward Dylan, who reset it through the middle. The tempo stayed theirs for a while; short passes, slow build, triangle press.

But the space was getting smaller.

Sam felt it in the way his shoulders braced on instinct, the way he started checking over both shoulders every few seconds, even when he wasn’t under pressure yet.

Then came the first shove.

Connor took a pass near the sideline and got body-checked into the turf for his trouble. The ref raised a hand but didn’t reach for his pocket. Just a whistle. Just a warning.

Sam jogged to the spot, offered Connor a hand, and didn’t say anything. 

The free kick went long. A minute later, Sam released a clean pass wide and turned to cut inside, and that was when the cleat caught his ankle.

Late. Low. Sharp enough to sting.

He stumbled a step but didn’t fall. He kept going. Let the contact roll off him like sweat.

You’re not hurt. You’re not shaken. You’ve already played through worse.

But Jake had seen it.

By the time Sam peeled away from the edge of the box, Jake was already sliding closer. Not close enough to draw attention, but enough to reroute anyone looking for an easy hit.

“Number seven’s looking to clip you,” Jake muttered without looking at him.

“I saw it,” Sam murmured back. His voice didn’t shake.

“You’ve got me too,” Jake said.

Then louder, to the Haverford midfielder getting too close: “Try it, and I swear I’ll staple your cleats to the turf.”

That earned a dirty look, maybe a muttered word Sam didn’t catch, but no retaliation yet. Dylan caught Sam’s eye from across the field and gave a single, sharp nod. 

Sam reset his stance and adjusted the strap of his monitor.

The next five minutes frayed around the edges.

Haverford didn’t dive in all at once, they weren’t reckless. They were calculated. Every foul had just enough deniability to keep the ref’s cards pocketed. Every collision came after a pass was made. Every hip-check was just a little too hard, just a little too late.

Ryan took a hit in the back when he rose for a block and landed harder than he should have. He got the block off and popped up fast, but his jaw was tight, his fingers twitching around the ball before the throw-in.

Connor got dragged wide, his jersey tugged hard enough to stretch, then let go before the ref could look. He gave the defender a long stare, but said nothing. Just wiped sweat from his lip and kept running.

Sam kept moving.

He tracked the tempo like a metronome, kept the rhythm sharp, passed early when pressure built, used two touches instead of three. It wasn’t about hiding, it was about controlling the pace. Staying one step ahead.

But they kept coming.

He barely avoided a late slide in the center third - cleats high, teeth-grittingly close - and then, the next time, he didn’t dodge it in time.

It was subtle. Sharp. The kind of hit that wouldn’t show up on film unless you slowed it down frame by frame.

A forearm across his ribs as he pivoted. A second body sweeping through his trailing leg mid-turn. Not hard enough to drop him, but enough to buckle the rhythm.

Sam staggered and  caught himself on the bounce, teeth clenching. He turned with the motion, let it look like he meant to shift direction, and kept the ball moving.

But the impact had left something behind.

His ribs ached. His thigh burned. Not serious, not yet. But his monitor buzzed once, brief and faint, before going still. He touched it through his jersey, just to check. 

Still green. Still steady.

You're okay. You're okay. Keep the ball moving.

But his breath wouldn’t settle all the way. His body was still listening for the next hit.

Jake had seen it. Of course he had.

By the time Sam circled back toward midfield, Jake had already shifted again, drifting closer, playing less like a center back and more like a shadow. Not obvious, but present.

“Tell me you felt that,” Jake muttered, teeth clenched.

Sam didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah.”

“You good?”

He nodded once, clipped. “Still green.”

Jake’s jaw flexed. “Cool. Then I’m clearing the map.”

And louder, sharp enough to cut through the crowd, straight at the Haverford midfielder still circling like a shark: “Try that again and I will end your athletic career. I’ll get creative. You’ll be limping in your senior photos.”

Dylan appeared beside them so fast it felt coordinated. He didn’t look at Jake. 

“Not worth the red,” Dylan said, calm and cold. “Wait for the corner. Make it look clean.”

Then, to the Haverford kid, flat and furious, “You get one warning. That was it.”

The other player smirked, but didn’t reply. The game kept tightening.

The field felt smaller. The shadows from the floodlights stretched longer. The passes came faster, tighter, closer to the edge of chaos. Something was going to give.

Sam forced his hands to stay loose at his sides. He didn’t touch his ribs again. He didn’t let himself limp.

But his internal clock had started ticking faster. His steps were just a little sharper. His read of the field became quicker, more defensive.

Jake knew it too, because the next time Sam took possession, Jake didn’t drift. He stayed. And when Dylan rotated behind them, watching it all unfold, he didn’t have to say a word. He was already moving too.

The field had gotten louder, but not in the way that showed up on the scoreboard. It was the wrong kind of loud now.

Not the stomp of cleats or the roar of fans. Not even the whistle, though the ref had swallowed it more than once already. It was a quiet kind of noise. The kind that slid under his skin and stuck there.

Sam felt it first as static.

A wrongness riding the air every time Haverford closed in, not on the ball, but on him.

They weren’t fouling him again - yet - but they were talking.

He caught the first one just as he jogged into position to take a corner. A voice low and hot behind him: “Hey, miracle boy, still got a heart left to hit?”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just settled the ball on the line, took a breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs, and backed up three steps like nothing touched him.

But Dylan saw the way his jaw locked.

He was tracking from the far post, pushing into position, when he caught the next whisper from #7, half-grinned and casually tossed out as he bumped shoulders with Sam on the reset. “Should’ve left you in the hospital. You play soft anyway.”

Sam’s shoulders twitched once, and then stilled. His head tilted like maybe he hadn’t heard. Like maybe it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Dylan knew him well enough now to read the stillness for what it was: restraint. A fuse being pinched between two fingers.

Jake heard it too. He stopped cold, narrowed his eyes, and turned toward the guy like he might actually throw a punch.

Connor caught him by the jersey before he could take a step.

“Not now,” Connor muttered. “Not yet.”

Dylan didn’t yell or snap. He just moved, subtly closing the gap between Sam and the forward line, taking up space beside him like a second shadow.

Sam flicked his eyes toward him once. Just a second. Enough.

“Don’t,” Sam muttered under his breath.

“I’m not,” Dylan said.

A beat passed.

Then quieter: “You don’t have to take all of it.”

Sam didn’t respond. 

Another whistle blew.

Play resumed.

But the field was boiling now, just under the surface. And everyone, on both sides, could feel it.

It wasn’t if the game would break open.

It was when.

____

The clock ticked into the seventy-eighth minute.

Still 0 - 0.

Still boiling.

Sam could feel it behind his eyes. The way the whole match had compressed into a single thread, stretched thin over the field. It wasn’t just a matter of time anymore, it was pressure. Gravity. A fuse burned down to the last inch of wick.

Haverford was pushing higher now. Throwing more bodies into the final third, gambling on a break, a mistake. Something messy. Something desperate.

And that was the thing, they weren’t playing to win anymore. They were playing to unmake. To rattle Sioux Falls loose until something broke.

Sam pivoted to intercept a pass near midfield - clean read, sharp first touch - but before he could settle the ball, #11 was already barreling down his lane. Fast. Heavy. A little too late to be legal, but early enough to pretend.

Sam didn’t even have time to flinch. Just a half-step of breath caught in his throat-

And then Jake was there.

He slammed into the space between Sam and the oncoming hit like a wall built out of fury and instinct. Shoulder to shoulder with the attacker, no hesitation, no angle spared. The sound was ugly ; cleats scraping turf, bodies colliding, a crack of contact that echoed across the sideline.

Jake got the ball clear, but he didn’t get up.

Sam froze, chest half-open, ball forgotten. The world narrowed down to green turf and a still body just to his left.

Jake was on his side, hands clenched in the grass, one leg curled awkwardly underneath him.

“Jake?” Sam breathed, already moving, crouching fast.

Jake swore under his breath, short and sharp, almost bitten through his teeth. “Don’t touch it. Don’t touch me. It’s the knee.”

Sam’s hands hovered uselessly. “Okay. Okay, I’m not- just, stay down.”

Coach was already yelling. The ref blew the whistle, finally.

From the sideline, Dylan was sprinting. Connor was shouting for the trainer. His dad’s voice cut through the crowd, low and sharp. But Sam only heard the pounding in his chest and Jake’s breathing, clipped and shallow.

“You okay?” Sam asked again, stupidly.

Jake laughed. Just once. “Define okay.”

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, but his voice cracked halfway through. “That was- you didn’t have to-”

Jake cracked one eye open. “Yeah I did.”

He tried to sit up, winced hard, and laid back down.

Dylan knelt beside them a second later, face unreadable. “Jake. Talk to me.”

“Knee twisted on the plant,” Jake said, hoarse. “It’s not… broken, I don’t think. But it’s not good.”

Dylan pressed a hand to his shoulder. “You’re done.”

Jake grunted. “Yeah.”

Sam didn’t move. He just stayed there, crouched beside him, like if he left the space, it would mean it really happened.

Jake caught his eye, mouth tightening. “Not your fault.”

“I know,” Sam whispered.

But he didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t, not fully. Jake had taken that hit for him.

As the trainers arrived, Dylan gently pulled Sam back, guiding him to his feet. Sam didn’t remember standing. His legs felt hollow. His ribs ached from holding everything in.

Jake was helped off the field to applause, his jaw clenched, one arm slung around a trainer’s shoulders.

Sioux Falls reset with a substitute, but something in the shape of the field had changed.

The clock read 79:18.

Still 0 - 0.

But something had cracked, and Sam felt it, humming in his bones.

The next hit would come for him.

____

The final whistle of regulation didn’t sound like a finish.

It sounded like a warning.

A jagged, gasping inhale from both sidelines. No cheers, no collapse, just the short, stunned silence of twenty-two players standing in the middle of something unfinished.

0 - 0.

Eighty minutes of muscle and grit and grit disguised as discipline, and they still hadn’t broken through.

The ref held up a hand, whistled again, and pointed toward the sideline.

Overtime.

Sam knew the rules: two 15-minute halves. They had to play both, no golden goal.

Sam stood at midfield, hands on his hips, trying not to collapse into himself. His lungs worked like they were still mid-sprint. His heart thudded loud and steady beneath the monitor - green, still green - but heavy now, like it was pushing uphill.

Dylan jogged over first, pressing the heel of his hand into Sam’s back as they walked toward the bench. “You still good?”

Sam nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “Doesn’t matter. I’m finishing it.”

Dylan didn’t argue. He muttered, “I know,” and kept close.

The team huddled near the bench, pulling water bottles from the crate, sucking wind, trading wordless looks. The adrenaline was sharp in the air; too much for silence, too jagged for calm.

Connor collapsed onto a crate and blinked up at the sky like it might suddenly offer answers. “Overtime?”

Ryan let out a low whistle, more breath than sound. “We’re really playing another thirty?”

“Of course,” Dylan muttered, dropping onto the cooler lid beside Sam, dragging a towel over his face. “Of fucking course.”

His voice wasn’t bitter, just tired. Not defeated, not even close. But the kind of tired that came from giving everything, then being told now do more.

Sam didn’t say anything. He passed Dylan a water bottle and kept watching the field.

Connor swiped a towel over his face, then glanced up and asked the only question that mattered. “Did someone check on Jake?”

“Already texted him,” Ryan said, holding up his phone. “He says they’re icing it. He’s pissed.”

“Yeah,” Dylan muttered, “that tracks.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just sat on the bench’s edge, elbows on his knees, watching the refs and coaches meet at the halfway line. The officials looked grim. Coach had one hand on his clipboard and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. Haverford’s coach stood with his arms crossed and his captain at his side.

That same captain, #6, caught Sam’s eye and smirked.

Then mouthed, You’re next.

Sam’s jaw tensed and he didn't move. But Connor did.

“Say that again,” he snapped, stepping toward the sideline before Dylan caught his jersey and yanked him back.

“Don’t,” Dylan said sharply. “They want you pissed. They need it.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, eyes locked on the grass. He could still feel the clip to his ribs, the ghost of Jake’s fall, the heat burning low behind his sternum.

He didn’t want revenge. He wanted the win.

Coach returned to the huddle a minute later, voice brisk. “Overtime’s two 15-minute halves. No golden goal. We play both, no matter what happens. We stay clean, stay smart, and make them chase it. You’ve got more in the tank than they do. Trust it.”

He looked directly at Sam then. “Winchester. Are you good?”

Sam straightened. “Yeah.”

Coach nodded, but lingered just long enough to let the weight of the moment settle. “Then finish it.”

Dylan clapped his hands once, herding the group. “You heard him. Smart and fast. Head on straight.”

They rose together, breathless and braced.

Thirty minutes. Two halves.

Everything left.

Sam stepped back onto the field - not calm, not even angry.

Just ready.

____

The second overtime half barely started before it began to spiral.

Haverford didn’t waste time this round. They came in hard: shoulders up, cleats loud, timing just late enough to bruise but not quite card. A two-footed slide missed Ryan’s ankle by inches. One forward clipped Connor on a jump, just enough to send him staggering.

The ref blew his whistle, finally, just for a warning. No card. Just two fingers jabbed toward his own eyes like I’m watching you.

Dylan spun, incredulous. “How many warnings before it’s a card?”

The ref turned, sharp. “That’s your last comment.”

Ryan caught Dylan’s sleeve before it got worse. “Not worth it,” he muttered. “He’s not listening.”

But Dylan’s eyes stayed narrowed. His shoulders didn’t drop. “He better be when they break one of us.”

They played on.

Sam kept the midfield. Controlled the angle. Didn’t rise to it.

Not yet.

But Haverford was circling him now, closer each pass. They weren’t pressing the ball; they were pressing him.

And then it came.

A dead ball, a throw-in near midfield. Everyone was still resetting. Sam slowed to scan the field, and a body slammed into his back.

Quick. Sharp. Legal enough.

The breath punched out of him as he stumbled forward, just barely catching his footing. His ribs lit up like a match had been struck inside them. He didn’t fall, didn’t cry out, but his vision flickered at the edge.

The ref was looking away. Of course he was.

Dylan wasn’t.

“HEY- HEY! Are you blind?!” Dylan was already halfway toward them, fury in his voice.

Connor caught him fast, yanking him back by the chest of his jersey. “Not now. Don’t get tossed. Don’t.”

Dylan didn’t stop glaring, didn’t stop vibrating with anger. “They’re aiming for him.”

Sam stood still, blinking fast. One hand hovered near his ribs, not touching, but just breathing. Counting. A green blink from the monitor, but it felt more distant this time.

He waved Dylan off without looking. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Dylan snapped. “That was deliberate.”

“I know.” Sam’s voice was low, sharper now. “But I said I’m fine.”

But his body was ringing. His breath was shallow. His vision narrowed to the patch of turf under his feet and the shape of #7 drifting back toward formation like nothing had happened.

How much longer can I keep playing this clean?

The answer curved like a blade in the back of his mind.

Not much.

And if the ref wasn’t going to protect them, then maybe it was time for Sam to change the game himself.

____

Haverford was pressing high again - three up, tighter than they’d been all game. Sam saw the trap a heartbeat before it closed.

He darted forward, stepped clean into the lane, and stole it. It was a perfect read.

The kind of midfield cut that turned the whole shape of the field - one touch, then a pivot, and suddenly Dylan was breaking up the right side, Ryan was trailing the far post, and Haverford was scrambling.

The crowd roared.

Sam didn’t even look up to find his dad in the stands. Didn’t breathe long enough to celebrate the shift. The ball left his foot on the outlet pass and then-

Wham.

The elbow hit just beneath the shoulder, high and deliberate. He hit the turf hard, ribs flaring as the wind slammed out of him.

No call.

Of course.

Just a whistle. Just a free kick.

No yellow. No red. No protection.

Sam stared at the sky as everything inside him reeled.

They don’t care if I get hurt. They never did.

The green blink of the monitor flickered beneath his shirt, a cruel little reminder that his body had limits. Visible ones. Fragile ones. Ones that didn’t matter to the refs or to #7 or to anyone not wearing the same jersey.

He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up. He didn’t wince, not out loud at least.

You can’t show them it landed. You can’t let them think it matters.

He jogged back into formation with the air still burning in his lungs, the pain sharp and tucked just behind his ribs. His brain had already begun the count: six minutes left in the game. Less, maybe.

They just needed one goal to break the tie.

But they’re not playing to win anymore, he thought. They’re playing to break us. And if they can’t get the goal, they’ll settle for a bruise.

Footsteps caught up beside him.

“You don’t have to be a hero,” Dylan said, breath clipped, voice low like he was trying not to yell in front of everyone.

“I’m not,” Sam replied, eyes still locked on the field, jaw tight.

“Then what are you doing?” Dylan asked, more urgent now, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear Sam say it.

Sam didn’t answer, because the truth was, he didn’t know what to call it. Not heroism. Not stupidity. Not self-destruction, though maybe it hovered close.

It’s just math. he thought. Tired legs. A rattled ref. One player who’s already half a step from cracking.

I’m not the strongest. I’m not the fastest. But I see the pattern. I always see the pattern. And if I stand still long enough, if I just lean in the right way, he’ll hand us the game himself.

But Dylan didn’t know that. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the point of his next sentence: “You can’t break yourself to prove you’re unbreakable.”

Sam heard it and let it land. But he didn’t respond. He just set his jaw and watched Haverford’s shape. Tracked #7’s swagger. The cocky lean of his shoulder. The way he barked something low and ugly at Ryan after the whistle.

He was close. Sam could feel it.

He reset his stance. The next play would be his.

____

The moment came on a broken pass.

Connor meant to switch fields, but the angle was off just a fraction. Haverford’s #7 was on it in a blink, snapping the ball out of the air and taking off with a burst of speed, cutting across the center circle like he owned it.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He moved. Not fast, not in a sprint, but deliberately. 

His lungs burned. His ribs throbbed from the last hit. His legs ached like they didn’t belong to him anymore, but his mind was clear.

He didn’t go for the ball. He didn’t want it.

I need him to think he has me.

He slid up beside #7. Not blocking, but baiting. Just enough of a step to crowd his lane, to make the other boy shift wide, to frustrate him.

Sam said nothing, didn’t even look at him, but his presence was loud.

He could feel the snap building in the other boy’s posture: the twitch of his elbow, the sneer on his breath, the way the whole team was watching.

Then, just under his breath, Sam whispered, “Come on. Do it.”

The first elbow hit his ribs.

Sam took it.

The second was higher - blunt, sharp - cracking across his cheekbone, just beneath the eye.

And the third-

That one drove straight through his sternum and caught his trailing ankle as he tried to plant.

Something twisted. Something popped.

Sam’s breath left in a rush and molten pain ripped up his leg. He dropped, one knee buckling, the other skidding across turf. His ankle screamed; his ribs flared; the world went white.

For a moment, he didn’t hear the whistle. Didn’t hear the crowd.

He could only hear the pulse of his heart trying to keep up. The static behind his eyes. The distant whine of the monitor buried beneath his jersey, which wasn’t green anymore.

He curled slightly on instinct, both hands pressed to bruised ribs, then flinched as his ankle throbbed, hot and huge and wrong.

Worth it, he thought dizzily. Had to be worth it.

Voices slammed back into focus.

Connor was in #7’s face, arms spread like wings, fury trembling in every muscle. “Three times, and you waited for the whistle to look confused? You think we’re stupid? You’re a cheap-shot coward hiding behind stripes.”

Ryan was right behind him, voice low and lethal. “Touch him again and you don’t walk off this field. I don’t care if I get carded. I’ll make sure they’re stitching you up during the postgame handshake.”

Dylan crashed to his knees beside Sam, one hand braced on the turf, the other shaking as it hovered over Sam’s shoulder. Coach Miller was storming down the touch-line, clipboard dangling from one hand like a weapon.

“You call the elbow, you call the studs, and you call the point of contact,” Coach roared at the ref. “That’s a PENALTY and a CARD or I’m walking this whole damn team!”

The ref didn’t hesitate now. He couldn’t. He pulled a card, a straight red held high. Penalty given. Haverford’s coach exploded on the sideline, but the decision stood: spot kick, man down.

Sam breathed through the pain - short, uneven drags of air. The fire from his ankle swallowed half his vision. His ribs buzzed. His monitor bleated a protest until the trainer slipped it into silent mode. Yellow, still yellow.

“Sam- hey- SAM-” Dylan’s voice cracked. “You with me?”

Sam forced his eyes to open.

“Did it work?” he rasped.

“Yeah.” Dylan’s throat bobbed. “It worked. Red card. Penalty. You lunatic.”

Sam tried to sit up; the ankle screamed. He bit back a sound and sank again. “Okay,” he whispered, pulse skidding. “Okay. Good.”

Connor dropped to his haunches, sweat sliding down his temple. “Your ankle’s swelling like a balloon, man.”

Trainer #1 slid two fingers under Sam’s sock line; Trainer #2 was already peeling back the jersey, eyes on the monitor. “You’re done,” the first said, part report and part apology.

Sam nodded once, nothing left for pride. “Dylan,” he croaked.

“Yeah?”

“Take the kick.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “Sam-”

“Take it.” A breath. A thin smile. “Finish it.”

Ryan squeezed Sam’s forearm. “We’ve got this.”

Coach bellowed downfield, corralling fury into formation. “Dylan, spot. Connor, rebound line. Ryan, stay high in case it pops loose. Lock it in!”

Dylan stood, jaw tight, wiping turf from his palms. He glanced back once, just once. Sam gave a tiny nod that felt like a mile.

“Okay,” Dylan said. “Okay. Let’s end this.”

They helped Sam upright - Connor on the left, Ryan on the right, each a scaffold of steadiness as pain knifed through his ankle with every heartbeat. He hissed but didn’t cry out. Worth it, he reminded himself. Has to be.

Sam’s cleats dragged.

Each step was a jolt; white-hot pain lighting up his ankle, ribs pulsing under every breath like they were wrapped too tight. He wasn’t crying, not really, but his eyes were wet and he couldn’t see the tunnel of light straight.

Connor and Ryan didn’t say much. Just held him steady, like if they let go even for a second, he’d sink straight through the turf.

He didn’t look back at the field. The ref’s whistle still rang in his ears, sharp and final.

The trainers had moved to be waiting by the bench with towels and water and that too-calm tone they used when something might be bad.

Sam collapsed into the bench like it had been waiting for him all game. His breath came short and shallow. The ache in his ribs wasn’t stabbing anymore, it was just heavy, like someone had wedged a brick beneath his sternum and dared him to breathe around it.

“Don’t take the boot off,” he muttered, glancing at his ankle. “Not yet. I’ll puke.”

Trainer #1 didn’t argue. She crouched and held the joint gently, thumb brushing over the swelling sock line. “We’ll ice it here. No rush.”

Trainer #2 knelt beside his ribs, unhooking the edge of his jersey and tapping the monitor display. The screen flashed a steady yellow.

Still too fast. Still too shallow.

“Breathe for me, Sam,” he said. “You’re alright. You’re down. Nothing’s chasing you.”

But something was.

Footsteps. Fast.

The hollow slam of boots on the turf.

“Sammy!”

His dad’s voice was ragged, too raw to be loud.

Sam turned just as his dad dropped to his knees beside him, sliding to a stop like he’d sprinted through a warzone. Uncle Bobby was close behind, eyes narrowed, not speaking yet.

Dad cupped Sam’s face, careful of the bruise already blooming beneath his eye. “Hey. Hey. You with me?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, throat tight. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” Dad snapped. “You’re- Jesus, Sam. Your ankle, your ribs- what the hell was that?”

“I baited him,” Sam whispered, lips barely moving. “Had to.”

Dad stared at him, the weight of it all sinking behind his eyes. “That was your plan?”

Sam blinked slowly. “He was gonna hurt someone else.”

Dad exhaled like he might break. Uncle Bobby finally stepped in, a hand on his dad’s shoulder, grounding him.

“I don’t think the kid had much of a choice,” Uncle Bobby said quietly. “Not the way that game was turning.”

Dad didn’t look away from Sam. “You always have a choice.”

Sam didn’t answer. Because he had chosen.

Sound rolled in from the field like a wave-

Thud.

Then silence.

Then the explosion.

The crowd roared, the kind that bent air, that cracked the sky. His teammates screamed. Someone took off sprinting down the sideline with their arms in the air.

Dad whipped his head around.

“Goal?” he asked, breath catching.

Sam nodded.

“Dylan took it,” he murmured. “Told him to.”

Dad ran a hand down his face. “Of course you did.”

From the bench, Sam watched the celebration unfold like it was happening underwater. Dylan flat on his back, arms spread like wings. Connor was on top of him. Ryan shouting toward the stands. Coach with both fists in the air, mouth open in a wordless howl.

Uncle Bobby muttered, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Dad didn’t speak. He just bent forward and pressed his forehead to Sam’s, careful and solid, a hand cradling the back of his neck like he might fall apart if he let go.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice barely there. “You’re safe.”

Sam’s eyes slid shut. For the first time since the pass left Connor’s foot, he let himself feel it.

Not the pain. Not the fear.

Just the win.

And the hands that held him, steady as earth.

____

The final whistle blew not even two minutes later, but Sam barely registered it. He felt it more than heard it. The sheer weight of relief settling over his battered body.

Trainers were still braced around him: one cinching ice tight around his grotesquely swollen ankle, the other pressing a stethoscope to his back to count the shiver in every breath. Terms like concussion protocol and possible fracture floated above him like distant clouds, real but far away.

He hunched on the bench, jersey plastered with blood, turf, and somebody else’s cleat print. Pain pulsed in strange places, yet he felt removed, adrift between adrenaline and after-shock.

Then-

“Rookie!"

Connor vaulted the barricade, nearly bowling over a cooler before dropping to his knees in front of Sam and gripping both arms. “Are you okay? Are you stupid? We won, dumbass!”

Before Sam could answer, Ryan barreled in from the side, more of an emotional tackle than hug. “You drew that card like a god-tier chessmaster. I could kiss you. Don’t make me.”

“Please don’t,” Sam croaked, and somehow that shaky joke snapped the spell. A roar of laughter spilled out of them.

Jake hobbled over last, braced knee locked straight, a trainer stalking behind him. “You are, without a doubt, the most dramatic son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah?” Sam murmured, slumping between them. “Takes one to know one.”

Dylan appeared, sweat-slick and euphoric. He didn’t lunge into the dog-pile. He crouched beside the bench, eyes moving over Sam like he was counting bones and seconds.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked softly.

Sam didn’t nod. He raised bleary eyes. “Stayed down too long, didn’t I?”

“No,” Dylan said. “You got up exactly when we needed you.”

Across the turf Coach Miller was half-screaming, half-crying “STATE CHAMPS!” The assistant coach openly sobbed. His dad hovered just outside the huddle, fists on hips, chest still pumping leftover panic. Uncle Bobby leaned on the barricade, trying (and failing) not to grin.

Sam’s head dipped. He could feel it now: the crash was coming, hard.

Dylan noticed. “Water, now!” Connor sprinted for a bottle.

Jake bent in lower, as much as he could, his voice suddenly gentle. “That ankle’s nasty. You’re gonna milk this for weeks, aren’t you?”

Sam’s breath hitched in a laugh.

“I’m signing first,” Ryan declared. “Crown, ‘King of the Midfield,’ right on the cast.”

A trainer snapped fresh Velcro around his ankle, then leaned back. “Monitor went green. He’s stabilizing.”

His dad exhaled a breath he’d held for fifteen minutes, Uncle Bobby patting his shoulder.

The other trainer checked Sam’s leg. “Nothing broken, but it’s a bad strain. Possible ligament tear. Urgent care for X-ray, probably a soft cast overnight.”

“I get crutches?” Sam rasped.

“You get one.” The trainer dead-panned. “Connor’s your other crutch.”

Connor flexed. “Emotional support leg, reporting for duty.”

Jake snorted. “Fake-cry and I'll get you a milkshake. Minimum two.”

“Monitor?” His dad cut in.

“Heart’s back in safe range,” the trainer said, then eyed Sam. “He rests tonight or I will hunt him down.”

“I’ll make sure,” Dad promised, father-steel in his voice.

“You’re not fine,” Dylan murmured, eyes still scanning the field like he was daring anyone to come closer. His voice was tight, held just barely in check. “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky we won,” Sam said quietly, gazing down, trying to make it a joke and failing.

“Lucky you’re still breathing,” Dylan snapped, sharper than he probably meant to, the edge of fear still bleeding through the anger.

Silence bloomed, just for a heartbeat.

Then Jake clapped, too loud on purpose. “Time to carry the hero to the Impala. Everyone fall in!”

Ryan grinned. “Bobby can drum.”

“I’m not drumming anything,” He muttered, but didn’t budge, eyes soft with pride disguised as gruff.

Dad handed Uncle Bobby the keys. “Pull the car around.”

Sam blinked. “You’re letting someone else drive the Impala?”

“You baited a red card with your chest, kid,” Dad growled, but his smile was crooked with relief. “I can manage five minutes.”

The trainers eased Sam upright. Connor slipped under one arm, Jake seized the gear bag, Ryan fan-cooled him with a stat sheet, and Dylan shadowed the rear - quiet, watchful, ready.

They limped away togetherL bloody, bruised, and not remotely whole.

State champions, anyway.

And still, unmistakably, his team.

____

Later that night, after the x-rays and the crutches and the urgent-care decree- “soft overnight cast tonight, brace swap tomorrow, absolutely no weight-bearing until then” -Sam let his dad lower him onto the living-room couch like fragile cargo.

Even before he managed to un-tense his shoulders, the front door exploded inward.

Jake hobbled in first.

His knee was wrapped in a hulking immobilizer that squeaked every time it bent a millimeter. He somehow dangled two party-size chip bags from his hands despite the crutches. His grin was reckless and real.

He shouldn’t even be walking, Sam thought, a flare of guilt sparking under the bruised ribs. I was supposed to be the one taking the punishment, not him.

But Jake looked incandescent.

“We brought chips!” he crowed, half limping, half surfing pure adrenaline as he cleared a path to the coffee table.

Ryan followed, six milkshakes balanced precariously in a cardboard carrier. “And dessert. None for Dylan, he’s already on a sugar rampage.”

“I won us the game,” Dylan complained, but even his mock outrage couldn’t dim the light in his eyes. He hovered behind the others, still watching Sam the way a captain watches the goal line in stoppage time.

Connor trailed them all, swaggering despite the cotton ball stuffed in his nostril from a post-match nosebleed. “Playlist is my job. Don’t touch the speaker.”

Chaos bloomed.

Music blasted. Mail went flying. Ryan wedged himself on the arm of the couch, milkshake straw poised like a mic. Jake claimed the floor right beside Sam’s good foot, propping his injured leg on a pillow he’d stolen from the recliner.

The bench followed me home, Sam thought, a burst of warmth filling the space between the pain pulses. State champs, and they still look like the locker room exploded in the living room.

He shifted and winced. The overnight cast tugged, his ribs barked, and his ankle throbbed behind its cotton shell. His monitor flickered green, steady again, but every breath reminded him how closely the night had flirted with disaster.

“You’re sitting on my knee,” he muttered to Ryan.

“Your other one’s broken,” Ryan answered. “This one’s rent-free.”

Across the carpet, Jake tapped his immobilizer with two fingers. “Club of the walking wounded,” he proclaimed. “Except I’m sitting.”

Sam’s stomach twisted - gratitude, guilt, pride, all chewing each other. He shouldn’t have to hurt because of me etched itself behind his eyes, sharp and unshakable.

Dylan dragged up a chair but didn’t sit. He folded his arms across the back and studied Sam until Sam lifted the monitor display. 

“See?” Sam said, softer than the music. “Alive.”

Dylan’s shoulders nudged lower by a centimeter. “Barely.”

Dad checked in, got his soft “I’m sure,” and finally retreated, though Sam could feel his father’s worry orbiting the room like a satellite signal.

The trainers’ orders echoed: ankle elevated, ribs iced, no stairs, cast off tomorrow. Sam’s body felt like a map of rules now, every bruise a border, every wrap a warning. Even blinking hurt his cheekbone.

Still, when Jake started a lopsided victory toast- “Here’s to miracles, mayhem, and our medically certified MVP” -Sam laughed. Real, chest-deep, until it tugged his tape and tears welled.

Music softened. Milkshakes dwindled. One by one, the boys drifted: Connor snoring into a couch cushion, Ryan scrolling until his eyelids lost, Dylan finally dropping into the chair and watching Sam like a last line of defense he refused to abandon. Jake dozed on the floor, knee brace jutting, fingers still hooked in a chip bag.

Sam’s internal din quieted. The monitor glowed soft under the blanket Dylan draped over him. His ankle ached, but tomorrow it would be braced, and in a week maybe he wouldn’t limp. Jake would heal. They all would.

State champions, his brain whispered as sleep blurred the edges. Bruised, bandaged, but together.

He let his eyes close, the music fading into the steady, collective breathing of his friends spread out like guard posts around the room.

And for the first time all night, Sam slept.

Chapter Text

Sam had barely made it past the threshold of the school on Monday morning when the first clap rang out. It was tentative, polite, like someone testing the waters at a pep rally.

Sam didn’t look up. His hood was up, the collar of his sweatshirt tugged higher to hide the edge of a healing scab near his collarbone. His backpack was slung low over one shoulder to avoid pulling at his bruised ribs, and every careful step landed unevenly thanks to the rigid ankle brace hugging his left leg. The heart monitor blinked steadily from his waistband, half-tucked under his hoodie like a secret.

Then came another clap. Then five. Then a wave.

By the time he limped past the second row of lockers, half the hallway was applauding. And not just clapping now. Cheering.

Sam froze, one hand lightly bracing himself on a locker for balance. His ankle ached already from the walk in, and the compression band pinched at the back where it had bunched. He looked up, blinking like maybe he’d walked into the wrong school, someone else’s moment.

But no. This was his.

Everywhere he turned, there were grins, high-fives, and phone cameras recording with zero shame.

“Is this a flash mob?” he muttered under his breath.

Connor sidled up next to him, absolutely glowing. “They’re chanting your name.”

Sam listened. Faint at first, but gaining strength by the stairwell: “SAM! SAM! SAM! SAM!”

He groaned. “God. Make them stop.”

“Never,” Dylan said, appearing at his other side, positively radiant. “This is the best day of my life.”

“You weren’t even the one who got fouled,” Sam pointed out, voice low and hoarse with lingering ache.

“Nope,” Dylan said, slinging an arm gently around Sam’s shoulders, mindful of where the ribs were still tender. “But I got to score because you turned into a human landmine. That makes you a hero.”

“Please stop saying things like that.”

“Too late,” Connor said. “You’re officially a legend.”

A freshman sprinted up, handed him a pack of M&Ms like it was tribute, and vanished without a word.

Sam blinked after them. “What was that?”

“An offering,” Dylan said gravely. “To the Bait King.”

Sam let his head thunk back against the locker behind him. The impact made his ribs complain immediately. “I hate all of you.”

“You say that,” Dylan said, “but you’re letting me carry your juice box later.”

The principal’s voice boomed down the hallway: “Everyone to class! You can celebrate at lunch! Stop chanting in the stairwells!”

Connor grinned widely. “You broke the school, dude.”

Sam sighed and started hobbling forward again. Each step sent a dull pulse through his ankle, and the brace felt tighter than it had that morning. The crowd parted around him like he was royalty and just as annoyed by it.

And even though every step made his body twinge, even though the eyes on him made his skin crawl, he smiled.

By the time he reached Room 114, the noise had faded to scattered whispers and lingering awe. His whole body was humming with the dull fatigue of recovery. The brace was rubbing now where the sock had slipped.

Connor peeled off toward his class with a salute. “Try not to collapse before lunch.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” Sam muttered.

Dylan gave him a thumbs-up from down the hall, mouthing legend as he vanished into English Lit.

Sam pushed open the door and braced himself for round two. There wasn't one. No explosion, no chants, just thirty heads turning, one after the other.

Mr. Ellison glanced up from the roll book. His eyes scanned Sam: the brace, the limp, the stiff way he held his arm against his ribs.

There was a brief pause.

“You looked fearless out there,” he said.

Sam blinked. “Sir?”

Mr. Ellison turned the page like nothing had happened. “Sit down before you fall.”

A few kids chuckled, quiet and kind.

Sam took the seat in the back, lowering himself slowly to avoid jolting his ribs. His ankle protested again, but he made it. Outside, the wind rattled the windows. The radiator hissed softly.

And Sam sat back, braced, bruised, and worn down.

But he was here.

_____

Lunch came like salvation.

Sam was starving, bone-tired. And deeply suspicious.

People still looked at him too long. Teachers gave him nicknames under their breath. Even the math sub called him “our tactical MVP” while handing back a worksheet.

And the boys had been mysteriously missing all morning.

Ryan had made a cryptic comment during fourth period: "Hope you’re hungry. And emotionally stable."

He made his way to the cafeteria tray line with slow precision. Soup. Crackers. A juice box. The tray was awkward, and the brace was slowing his rhythm, but he made it. At least, until he rounded the corner and stopped dead.

Their table was decorated.

Terribly.

A crooked banner sagged from ceiling tiles: THANKS FOR BAITING A JERK - WE WON STATE!

Gold streamers. Confetti. A paper crown on a soccer ball. And duct-taped to a JV track trophy: SAM’S DECOY AWARD.

“Oh no,” Sam said, deadpan.

“Oh YES,” Dylan yelled, leaping up like he’d just won the Showcase Showdown. “Get in here, MVP!”

Connor gestured grandly at a lopsided cake. “Home Ec special. Three percent flour, ninety-seven percent sugar.”

Ryan held up a shirt. “Told you it was real.”

BAIT & WINCHESTER: SACRIFICE SMARTER, NOT HARDER, complete with cartoon Sam mid-fall and stick figure Dylan scoring in the background.

Jake hobbled over, his knee brace visible beneath his joggers. “Coach already called dibs on one.”

Sam blinked at them all.

Dylan gently took the tray from his hands and set it on the table. “Come on. You’re not just a hero now. You’re a legend.”

“I hate you all,” Sam said.

Connor handed him the crown. “Then wear this ironically.”

Sam stared. Then, resigned, he set it on his head.

The table exploded.

“To the bait king!” someone yelled.

“To the bait king!” they echoed.

Sam sipped from the juice box Ryan handed him, crown slightly crooked, and tried not to grin.

He failed.

His ankle hurt. His ribs were killing him. But surrounded by his team - idiots, every one of them - he felt better. Maybe even good.

And when the varsity baseball team clapped from across the cafeteria, and someone from the AV club gave him a thumbs-up, Sam didn’t look away.

He leaned back, crown gleaming, juice box in hand, and let it happen.

____

Seventh period had just let out when Sam heard the voice.

“Winchester.”

He turned, adjusting his backpack carefully over his shoulder. Coach Miller stood halfway down the hall, arms crossed. He wasn’t barking orders, but he wasn’t smiling, either.

“Yeah?” Sam asked, shifting his weight carefully off his left ankle. His heart monitor blinked once under his hoodie.

Coach gave a small nod toward his office. “Come take a walk,” he said.

They didn’t walk far. Just a slow, quiet lap around the back corridor, where the windows looked out over the practice fields. The silence stretched, the only sound being Sam’s uneven footsteps and the occasional scuff of his good sneaker on the tile.

Sam didn’t mind the quiet. The brace pinched every few steps, and his ribs ached with each full breath, but walking hurt less than sitting still.

Eventually, Coach spoke. “You know I’ve coached fifteen years here, right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Seen some great players. Fast. Aggressive. Flashy.” He paused. “But you… You see how the plays are gonna fold out. Before they happen.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. His fingers brushed the edge of the monitor clipped to his waistband, still pulsing green.

Coach continued. “That play in the final? Drawing the foul? That wasn’t luck. That was earned. I’ve never had a player your age read a field like that.”

Sam gave a quiet shrug. “Didn’t feel like that.”

“No,” Coach said. “It was instinct, and that’s not something you teach.”

They stopped in front of his office.

Coach’s voice dropped. “Listen. There’s someone inside who’s not technically here. NCAA rules, all that. He’s been watching our region, but you stood out. He asked to talk.”

Sam blinked. “Talk… like a recruiter?”

Coach didn’t confirm, but he didn’t deny it either.

“He’s not here with a scholarship, but don’t blow it off. Just be yourself. And maybe-” He opened the office door. “-start thinking about where this could go.”

Sam’s heart picked up. Not dangerously, but enough that he felt it through the bruising.

Coach stepped aside. “Go on in.”

Sam limped into the office, one careful step at a time. The brace made any attempt at subtlety impossible, but he straightened anyway - shoulders back, chin level.

The room was quiet.

A man stood near Coach’s desk, flipping through a slim folder with the kind of ease that only came from doing this a hundred times before. He wore sneakers, dark jeans, and a windbreaker stitched with clean university lettering, though Sam couldn’t quite make it out from the angle. His presence felt... official.

The man looked up, eyes sharp but kind, and gave a small nod of recognition. “You must be Sam Winchester.”

“Uh-yes,” Sam said, suddenly hyper-aware of the sound of his brace dragging softly across the floor. “That’s me.”

The man closed the folder gently, tucking it under one arm as he stepped forward. It wasn’t rushed, just steady. Confident.

He held out his hand. “Mason Yates. Regional Development for Athletics.”

Sam shook it, still a little dazed. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a pause before Mason smiled. A real one, quiet and certain.

“I’m with Stanford University.”

The word hit like a dropped stone: heavy, sharp-edged, reverberating through every part of Sam that had never dared say it out loud.

Stanford.

His fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his backpack. The monitor blinked under his hoodie. Still steady. Still real.

Mason studied him for half a second longer, then nodded toward the chair across from Coach’s desk. “You okay standing, or do you want to sit?”

Sam somehow managed to get his mouth to work. “I can stand."

Mason smiled again, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, and leaned casually against the edge of the desk like this was just another Monday. Like this wasn’t insane.

“I appreciate you making the time,” he said. “This isn’t an official visit. NCAA doesn’t let us recruit underclassmen directly, especially not freshmen.”

Sam nodded slowly, his backpack still half-slipped from one shoulder. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He settled for tucking his thumbs into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.

“But,” Mason continued, “we’ve been watching.”

That word hung in the air for a second. Watching.

“And after that championship match…” He tilted his head, eyes bright with something like respect. “Let’s just say your name moved a little higher on our radar.”

Sam stared. “Because I got flattened?”

Mason laughed at that, short and amused, but not mocking. “Because you predicted the play before it happened. Because you baited a senior into a game-losing foul while injured, and still walked off the field.”

Sam winced slightly. “Limped.”

“Still movement,” Mason said, like it was obvious. “And more importantly, you didn’t panic. You kept control of the moment. That’s not just instinct, that’s field vision. Tactical awareness.”

He turned and opened the folder again, flipping past a few sheets before laying one gently on the desk and angling it toward Sam.

“This is from our regional match review team,” he said. “We track standout athletes. Not just by goals or assists, but by presence. Impact. How they shift a game without needing the ball at their feet.”

Sam stepped forward slowly and leaned over the desk. His name was highlighted again and again: clean pass sequences, pressure deflections, defensive reads, and near the bottom, a bold underline under Game-Changing Interception - 2nd OT.

He blinked.

Mason continued, voice softer now. “We track players who make their team better. Who adapt. Who think ahead.”

Sam let out a slow breath. His ribs pulled at the motion. He reached one hand up and touched the spot along his side where the wrap was still cinched tight beneath the fabric of his hoodie. 

“But I’m a freshman,” he said quietly.

“You are,” Mason agreed with no hesitation. “And you’re also one of the most field-aware athletes I’ve seen at your age. We’re not just looking for speed or height or flash. We’re looking for players who change the tempo of a game without asking for permission.”

He paused then, just for a moment, and studied Sam the way someone might study a compass: looking not for where he stood, but where he pointed.

“You’ve had setbacks,” Mason said. “I know that. Medical stuff. I read the note your coach has filed. I know about the monitor.”

Sam looked down automatically, like he could see it blinking through his shirt.

“I know you’re carrying more than most,” Mason added gently. “But I also know your grades are outstanding. Your coach says you’re the first one at practice and the last one to leave. And after what you did in that final? That wasn’t lucky. That was someone who understands how to hold pressure and make it work.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. There was something in his throat - not a lump, exactly, but a pause. A full stop.

Mason reached into the folder, pulled out a card, and set it on the desk between them. It was simple: name, email, phone number, and a small embossed tree at the corner.

“If that drive you have holds,” he said, “you'll be a contender. Maybe not today, but soon.”

Sam stared at the card. It looked too clean. Too normal.

He asked it before he could stop himself: “Are you sure you’ve got the right kid?”

Mason smiled, not with amusement, but with absolute certainty.

“I’m sure,” he said. “And if you’re not yet? That’s okay. Just keep playing. We’ll be watching.”

He stood, gathering the folder and straightening the Stanford jacket as he moved toward the door.

“Take care of that ankle, Sam,” he said, pausing at the threshold. “You’ve got more games ahead of you.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room was suddenly too quiet.

A moment later, Coach reappeared holding a Styrofoam cup of something that probably started as coffee and gestured vaguely with his eyebrows. “Well?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at the card in his hand, then at his ankle brace, then back again.

“I think…” he said slowly, quietly, like the words didn’t fully belong to him yet. “I think I just got noticed by Stanford.”

Coach took a slow sip and nodded once, calm as ever. “Then maybe it’s time you started seeing what the rest of us already do.”

Sam swallowed. The card sat heavy in his palm.

He lowered himself slowly into the chair, ankle throbbing, ribs stiff. The desk still smelled like coffee and Sharpie and old game film.

And for the first time in a long time, the thing ahead of him didn’t feel impossible.

It felt open.

____

Dinner was over, but the smell of garlic and tomato still clung to the air. Sam stood near the fridge, one hand jammed into the pocket of his hoodie, fingers brushing the edge of the card he’d carried around all day.

His dad was at the sink, sleeves rolled up, humming something tuneless as he attacked the dishes. The overhead light buzzed gently. It was peaceful, the kind of ordinary calm that made everything feel softer and safer.

Sam shifted his weight and swallowed.

It was now or never.

“Hey,” he said.

Dad glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, bug?”

Sam stepped forward, heart hammering. “I, uh… I wanna show you something.”

The humming stopped. Dad turned fully, dish towel slung over his shoulder, eyebrows already knitting in that is this a problem? way.

Sam pulled the card from his hoodie and placed it on the kitchen table.

Stanford. Clean serif font. Mason Yates. Scout Relations.

Dad looked down and didn’t speak.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “He came to school today. Said it wasn’t official, they can’t recruit until after sophomore year, but he wanted to talk. He’s been watching me play since before the championship, apparently.”

Still nothing.

“He said…” Sam paused, cheeks warming. “He said I played smart. That I made the team better around me. That I’ve got instincts.”

Dad reached out and picked up the card slowly. His thumb passed over the embossed seal like it might vanish if he blinked.

“It’s not a real offer,” Sam added quickly. “Just a conversation. I just… I wanted you to know.”

Dad didn’t say anything right away, but when he looked up, his eyes were full and shiny.

Sam froze.

“Wait,” he said cautiously. “Are you- Dad, are you crying?”

Dad let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “No. Shut up.”

“You are!” Sam gawked, unsure if he was supposed to panic or make fun of him. “You’re tearing up right now!”

“I’m not crying,” Dad muttered, swiping at his face like he could will it dry. “I’m just… hell, Sammy. Stanford? That’s huge.”

Sam’s heart twisted. “I didn’t think you’d cry. I thought you’d be smug about it.”

Dad laughed again, voice thick. “Oh, I’m smug. I’m insufferably smug. I’m just also…” He shook his head, blinking hard. “Damn proud of you. You know that?”

Sam looked down, suddenly overwhelmed. “It’s not even real yet. It might not be anything.”

“It already is,” Dad said. “They saw it. They saw what I’ve always seen.”

And then, before Sam could process another word, Dad wrapped him in a full-body, arms-around-the-shoulders, ribs-careful-but-heart-crushing bear hug.

The kind that held everything - pride, love, fear, relief - without saying any of it out loud.

Sam pressed his face against his dad’s shoulder and let out a quiet breath.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one scaring you,” he mumbled.

“You do,” Dad said, voice muffled. “But this time? In a good way.”

They stood like that for a while. No rush. No pressure.

Just them.

And when Dad finally pulled back, eyes still glassy but grinning like an idiot, he ruffled Sam’s hair and said, “You keep that card somewhere safe. If I ever find it in the trash, we’re gonna have words.”

Sam grinned. “Yes, sir.”

____

The house had settled in the way it only did after Sam was truly asleep.

Dean stood by the kitchen sink, one hand braced on the counter, the other wrapped around a half-cold mug of coffee he wasn’t drinking. The overhead light was off. Only the porch bulb cast a dull gold glow through the window, catching the edges of the worn wood and the steel sink.

He didn’t turn when he heard the shuffle of socked feet behind him.

“Didn’t think I made that much noise,” Dean murmured.

“You didn’t.” Bobby’s voice was scratchy with sleep. “Old house. She tells on you.”

Dean huffed quietly but didn’t look away from the dark glass over the sink. “You ever have one of those days where you feel like your chest is too full, and you don’t know whether it’s pride or a heart attack?”

“Plenty,” Bobby said, stepping into the kitchen. “Usually when it comes to you two.”

Dean finally turned. Bobby was in flannel pants and an old Singer Auto Salvage tee, but his eyes were sharp even in the low light.

Dean set the coffee down and leaned both palms against the counter.

“Sam said a guy showed up at school today,” he said. “Scout. From Stanford.”

That got Bobby’s attention.

“Not official,” Dean added quickly. “He just… wanted to talk. Said he’d been watching.”

He paused, lips parting like there were too many things to say and none of them fit.

“He saw Sam play,” Dean said finally. “Saw how he moved. How he thinks. Said he’s got instincts. That he leads without even trying.”

Bobby didn’t answer right away.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and exhaled hard. “He told Sam he’s got a shot. Not a guarantee, but a shot. Said they’re watching.”

Still, Bobby said nothing.

“He kept the card,” Dean said, voice quieter now. “Tucked it into his sketchbook. Didn’t make a big deal of it. He just gave me this look, like he didn’t wanna hope too loud.”

His throat tightened. He cleared it and looked away, blinking hard.

“I held it together when he told me. Mostly.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Mostly?”

Dean laughed, sharp and quiet. “Cried. Like an idiot. Scared the hell out of him.”

“Good,” Bobby said, folding his arms. “About damn time that boy saw how much you feel outside of life-or-death situations.”

Dean looked down at the counter, knuckles white where they gripped the edge.

“You know what scares me the most?” he said. “That this might all be real. That Sam has a future with doors instead of dead ends. And that someday, I won’t be the one standing next to him when he walks through them.”

Bobby stepped closer. “Dean-”

“I want it for him,” Dean cut in. “God, Bobby. I want it. I want him to have everything he never thought he could. I just…”

His voice broke.

“I don’t know who I am without watching his back.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was full, settling, like grief and joy had decided to sit side-by-side for a while.

Bobby stepped forward and gripped Dean’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to stop watching,” he said gently. “You just might have to watch from a little farther down the field.”

Dean breathed in through his nose, sharp and shaking. “I saw him in the kitchen today, holding that card like it was made of glass. Like it might vanish if he breathed on it too hard.”

He looked up, eyes wet now, voice low and reverent.

“And all I could think was that he made it. After everything. After Dad. After Minnesota. After the heart murmur and the visions and the goddamn courthouse. After every time that I wasn’t enough or didn’t see it coming. He made it.”

Bobby didn’t try to interrupt, didn’t offer anything trite or fix-it fast.

He just nodded. “Damn right he did.”

Dean swiped a hand across his face, embarrassed but too tired to pretend.

Then: “You should’ve seen him, Bobby. Paper crown at lunch, the team all yelling his name. Jake sent me pictures. He walked into school like a kid who finally believed he belonged.”

Bobby grunted. “You ever doubt he’d get there?”

“Every day,” Dean whispered. “Until he did.”

He stood still for a long moment, the only sound the creak of old wood and the soft click of the monitor upstairs, audible to him somehow even from here. One steady blink every five seconds.

Still here.

Still ticking.

Dean finally moved toward the stairs, hand trailing the banister as he paused on the first step.

“I’m gonna frame that card someday,” he muttered.

Bobby raised a brow. “You gonna ask permission first?”

Dean grinned - crooked, tired, and full of light.

“Hell no.”

____

The Dairy Queen parking lot hummed with that almost-summer atmosphere. Cars were idling, kids were laughing near the patio, and there was the occasional shout from someone trying to win a free Blizzard trivia question. The minivan sat a little off-center beneath a flickering streetlamp, its sliding door wide open, the inside lit by the soft dome light and the golden halo from the neon sign above.

Jake had borrowed his mom’s van. He made Ryan drive because of his knee and claimed it “built character.” Dylan had claimed, "If we're going to hang out in a parking lot, it's not going to be squished into a damn Jeep."

The floor was sticky, and the music only played out of one speaker, but no one cared.

The soccer season was over. They had the trophy. They had the bruises. And for the first time in weeks, they had nothing to plan for.

Sam sat in the middle row, leg stretched carefully across the seat, ankle brace peeking out from under the cuff of his sweats. His ribs still twinged every time he twisted wrong, but the edge had dulled. He was healing. Slowly.

Connor had taken over the front passenger seat. At some point, Connor turned in his seat and reached back, resting a hand briefly on Sam’s shin, fingers brushing the edge of the brace. Checking, almost absentmindedly, like he needed to know it was still holding, still okay. He didn’t say anything, just gave the strap a light pat and turned back to arguing with Ryan about whether a third cone was “excessive.”

Jake sprawled next to him, one crutch propped against the cupholder, the other across his lap like a sword. His Blizzard was half-melted and mostly untouched.

Dylan lounged sideways in the back row with his feet up and a cone balanced expertly on his knee.

Sam took a slow sip of root beer and stared at the glowing DQ sign outside the windshield.

It felt like now or never.

“So… I kind of met with someone,” he said, not quite loud enough to interrupt Connor’s impassioned argument.

Ryan twisted in the driver’s seat, slamming a hand over Connor’s mouth. “Met with who?”

Sam glanced around. “A scout. From Stanford.”

Connor pulled his face back from Ryan's hand. “Wait- like… Stanford Stanford?”

Jake sat up so fast his crutch clattered to the floor. “As in California? As in smart people and secret societies and palm trees and one of the best soccer programs in the nation?”

Dylan raised his eyebrows, expression unreadable. “Seriously?”

Sam shrugged, trying to play it off, but his ears were pink. “Coach Miller pulled me aside on Monday. Said someone came to see me. Technically, it’s not official, but they’re keeping an eye on me.”

The van went quiet for a second.

Then-

Jake let out a strangled wheeze. “Dude. You absolute nerd.”

Ryan blinked. “Wait, so you’ve been sitting on this for how long?”

Sam scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t know how to bring it up. Or if I should.”

Dylan sat forward slowly. “You should’ve told us.”

Sam hesitated. “I didn’t want to jinx anything.”

“You’re not jinxing it,” Dylan said. “You earned it.”

Connor pointed his cone like it were evidence. “You broke your body winning us state. If anyone deserves a college scout, it’s you.”

Jake nodded. “Also, I once saw you do that inside-cut thing in warmups and thought, ‘yep, that kid’s gonna get recruited or abducted by aliens.’”

Sam laughed, short and surprised, and it eased something in his chest. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“You say that like it’s new,” Ryan muttered, then reached for the aux cord and turned up an old punk-rock playlist they’d somehow all agreed on during playoffs.

Jake, never one to let a moment breathe, stood with effort and hung out of the open door, one crutch in hand like a staff.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the entire parking lot, “we interrupt your ice cream to bring you breaking news: our very own Sam Winchester is being watched by Stanford!”

Connor grabbed his empty cup from his lap and shouted, “Sources confirm he is, in fact, still a huge nerd!”

Dylan leaned forward and shouted out the window: “You’re looking at next season’s most terrifying midfielder!”

Ryan, deadpan from the driver’s seat, added, “Stanford declined to comment but winked suspiciously.”

Sam covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”

“Too late,” Jake said. “The press conference has begun.”

Sam peeked out between his fingers and caught the absurdity of it all - the flashing Dairy Queen lights, Jake dramatically gesturing with his crutch, Connor giving an “official” reporter nod, Dylan grinning like he couldn’t believe his joy. And Ryan, calm behind the wheel, steady as ever, letting the whole thing happen like it was the most normal way to celebrate someone’s future.

Sam let his hands fall. He looked down at his ankle brace, then out the door at his friends.

He couldn’t say everything he felt, but he could say this: “Thanks, guys.”

Dylan tapped his cone against Sam’s cup like a toast. “You’re gonna kill it out there, man. But until then?”

“Until then,” Jake said, “we make a shirt.”

Connor nodded solemnly. “And blare this playlist every time we pass a college billboard.”

Ryan added, “And get Jake back in the car before he breaks something else.”

Sam leaned back in the seat and smiled. The speaker crackled. The music kept playing. And the night, somehow, felt like the beginning of something new.

Hours later, the engine of Dylan's car clicked softly in the warm silence. They were parked at the curb just outside the salvage yard, headlights off and windows cracked an inch. The only sounds were the faint ticking of the dashboard clock and the steady whisper of wind brushing past the side mirrors.

Ryan had driven them from Dairy Queen to Jake’s house first. Jake and Connor had peeled off there, tossing crumpled napkins and lopsided promises about movie nights and t-shirt designs and group chats that better not die, or so help me, Jacob. Ryan was last, tapping once on the passenger window before heading to his car. “Text us when you get home, rookie.”

Dylan drove Sam the rest of the way. He hadn’t asked, just reached for Sam’s things without comment and opened the door.

Now they sat in the driveway, the house dark and still in front of them. Neither moved. The Impala wasn’t in sight, but Sam could feel his dad was close. He always was.

Inside the car, the air smelled faintly of vanilla from a melted air freshener and the remnants of fries in a grease-stained paper bag. Sam’s cup was mostly melted, the condensation leaving a ring around his fingers. His ankle was propped on the dashboard, braced and aching, but his mind was still spinning.

Dylan was quiet. He was leaning back, one arm draped behind Sam’s headrest like it belonged there, the other lazily tapping the steering wheel. He hummed once, tunelessly, and let it fade.

Eventually, Sam broke the silence. “You’re not gonna make fun of me, right?”

Dylan didn’t look over. “About the Stanford thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope.” A pause. “I think it’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said out loud.”

That pulled a quiet breath of laughter from Sam. He shook his head slowly. “It feels too big. All of it. It's like I’m standing at the edge of something and I’m not sure if it’s a cliff or a runway.”

Dylan finally looked at him then, not with a smirk, but with something softer. “You don’t have to jump yet, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t even flinch at the nickname. Not anymore. Not when it came from Dylan.

“I know,” he said. “But I think I want to. Not right this second, but someday. I want more.”

“That’s not weakness,” Dylan said, his voice low and steady. “That’s guts.”

The quiet between them now felt thick, but safe. Sam leaned his head lightly back against the seat. Not quite touching Dylan’s arm, but close enough to feel the warmth of it.

“You think I can do it?” he asked.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. “I know you can.”

Sam blinked hard at the windshield. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel real. Like... Stanford? Me? That’s someone else’s story.”

“Maybe,” Dylan said. “But if it is, you stole the pen. And you’re already rewriting it.”

Sam turned to look at him, and Dylan reached across the console and gave Sam’s shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze.

“You’re not just smart,” Dylan said. “You’re good. You don’t even know how many people would follow you into fire.”

Sam gave a faint huff. “Yeah? You gonna start quoting Coach now?”

“No,” Dylan said. “I’m quoting myself, because I’ve seen it. On the field. In the locker room. With the team. And with me.”

Sam looked down again, fingers twitching against the side of his cup. “You helped me want more.”

Dylan’s voice was almost a whisper. “You made me stay longer.”

They didn’t say much after that.

The quiet that came wasn’t awkward; it was earned. The kind of silence that only happens when the hard stuff has been said and the important things don’t need repeating.

After a few minutes, Dylan exhaled through his nose and murmured, “You want me to text your dad we’re still alive, or are we risking his wrath?”

Sam smirked. “You text him. He likes you better.”

Dylan snorted. “Bold of you to assume that, considering I bring you home late and injured.”

“Touché.”

Dylan grabbed his phone from the cupholder but didn’t send the text right away. He glanced sideways, his voice low and careful. “Hey. This stuff with college and next year… It’s gonna change things. But I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”

Sam nodded, small but certain. “Yeah. I know.”

Dylan smiled. “Good. I just wanted to hear you say it, because if you don’t answer my daily cafeteria rants, I will show up and force you to hang out with me in public.”

Sam’s grin was soft and real. “Guess I’d better reply, then.”

Another pause. The kind only brothers-in-all-but-blood could share.

“Night, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t roll his eyes at the nickname this time. “Night, Dyl.”

And for the first time that day, he believed things might turn out okay.

____

The banquet was louder than Sam expected.

It wasn’t elegant, just the high school cafeteria gussied up with red and white streamers, a few helium balloons sagging over the buffet table, and folding chairs with mismatched legs. But there was something about it that made the noise bounce higher, stick longer. Plates clinked, Gatorade cups crinkled. The speaker in the corner whined every time someone passed too close.

Sam sat at the middle table with the rest of the team, shoulders stiff and one foot braced awkwardly out to the side. His ankle was still wrapped tightly. The wrap under his sweater vest tugged every time he twisted in his seat. He hadn’t even tried wearing a belt. Just a button-down, black jeans, too-formal shoes that dug at the heel, and the quiet hope that he could fade into the background.

No such luck.

The other parents were scattered around the room, grouped up like cliques at a wedding: moms in nice cardigans, dads in polos and team hoodies. Somewhere near the back, his dad stood with his arms crossed, flannel over dark jeans, looking ten kinds of uncomfortable but trying to seem relaxed.

Next to him, Uncle Bobby nursed a styrofoam cup of whatever passed for coffee, grumbling under his breath about the folding chairs and “damn indoor acoustics.” But when Sam caught his eye, the older man lifted the cup like a salute.

Sam shifted again. The monitor under his shirt blinked yellow once before settling. Not ideal, but not dangerous.

“You good?” Dylan asked, nudging Sam’s good arm.

“Yeah,” Sam murmured, lying mostly out of habit. “Just stiff.”

Jake was balancing a breadstick on his upper lip. Ryan tried to knock it off with a plastic fork. Connor was losing it in silent wheezes.

It was stupid. Loud. Familiar.

Sam let himself smile.

At the front of the room, Coach Miller stood behind a podium that had been borrowed from the drama department, shuffling index cards like he was grading papers mid-sentence.

“Alright. Let’s knock out the big ones,” Coach said, tapping the mic. “Team MVP. Most Improved. Then we’ll get to the ones that’ll really piss people off.”

Scattered laughs rang around the room.

Jake called out. “If I don’t get Most Handsome, I’m flipping a table.”

“You weren’t even nominated,” Ryan muttered.

Awards started rolling out. Connor got Most Improved and gave a little awkward wave, cheeks pink but grinning.

Jake, somehow, got Team Spirit and accepted it with a hand over his heart.

“I’d like to thank my teammates, the group chat memes, and the snack table,” he declared. “And also myself. For being me.”

Connor groaned audibly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Jake threw him finger guns and a wink.

Then Coach called Ryan’s name for Best Defensive Play, and for a second, Ryan just blinked, like maybe he hadn’t heard right.

He stood up slowly, nodded once, and took the plaque with a quiet, “Thanks.”

Jake whistled low. Connor clapped like a maniac.

Ryan sat down again, ears slightly red, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Jake leaned over. “That’s my boy. Human wall. Emotionally unavailable, defensively impenetrable.”

Ryan elbowed him lightly. “Shut up.” But he didn’t stop smiling.

Then Coach paused, looked down at the final card, and said, “And MVP this season goes to someone who led by example. On and off the field.”

He looked up. “Dylan Reid.”

There was a beat of silence, like the room took a breath for him. Then the applause broke, loud and insistent.

Dylan blinked once, then stood up slowly, almost sheepish. Sam clapped until his palms stung.

Dylan gave Coach a firm handshake and took the plaque like it weighed more than it did. He didn’t say much, just, “Thank you,” and a nod to the team. But his eyes found Sam’s across the room, and his expression softened into something more private.

Jake yelled, “MVP! MVP! MVP!” until Connor threw a napkin at his face.

Jake caught it, dramatically clutched it to his chest, and said, “Finally. Recognition for my role in shaping a legend.”

Dylan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Sam clapped for each one and tried not to think too hard about where he fit in this. He’d played in every game. Took a foul on purpose that won them the penalty that won them the title. His ribs still hurt from it. His ankle still twinged when he walked too fast.

But he hadn’t expected anything.

He wasn’t that kid. Not the one who got called up. Not the one who won things in rooms like this.

So when Coach cleared his throat again and glanced down at a new card, Sam barely registered it.

“This next player came in quietly,” Coach said. “Real quiet. Wouldn’t say hi to a teammate. Barely made eye contact. I’m still not sure he knew how to make a joke.”

There were some laughs. Sam smiled faintly.

“But then he started playing. Started reading. Started thinking. And suddenly, he’s pulling fouls like he wrote the handbook, and nearly gave me and his entire family a collective stroke during the final.”

That’s when Sam realized.

“This year’s Rookie of the Year goes to Sam Winchester.”

For a split second, the room went silent.

Then Jake screamed. “GET UP, KING!”

Connor whooped. Ryan pounded the table like a drum. Dylan leaned in and said, “Called it.”

Dad was already on his feet. Uncle Bobby elbowed him, said something low that made his dad huff a laugh, but his hands were clenched tight, and Sam could see it from across the room.

Sam stood slowly. The applause was real. Too loud. Too much. His ears buzzed. His fingers tingled.

He kept his eyes low as he crossed the room, afraid he might trip, or fall, or somehow break the moment.

Coach handed him the plaque with a nod.

“You’ve got it, kid,” he said quietly. “Not just the feet. The vision. Keep trusting that.”

Sam nodded, mouth dry. He turned, not quite ready for the sheer number of people still clapping.

When he got back to his table, Jake grabbed his shoulders, grinning like a maniac. “Do NOT forget this moment,” he declared. “I will remind you daily.”

Connor leaned back in his chair with a mock-serious nod. “He’s immortalized now. Rookie King.”

Ryan raised his cup in a solemn toast. “Long live the bait.”

Dylan leaned in, his voice low so only Sam could hear. “Told you,” he murmured. “You belonged here.”

Sam sat gingerly. The plaque was smooth and warm from his hands. It said his name.

Not just Winchester. Not just player. Rookie of the Year.

From the back of the room, his dad mouthed something he couldn’t hear, but it looked a lot like “proud of you.” When Sam looked away, his ribs hurt a little less.

Sam had just started to breathe again when the night was wrapping up.

The plaque still rested on his lap, smooth and warm under his fingers. He still wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the applause or the way his dad stood halfway out of his chair when Coach said his name. He felt a little like he was floating, adrift in adrenaline and pride and disbelief.

He could hear his teammates still whispering, laughing - Jake leaned across the table and muttered something about polishing it with Gatorade - but Sam was only half-listening.

Until Coach cleared his throat again.

“Alright. Our final words tonight go to the loudest voice in the locker room and the reason I lost half my hearing this season: your captain, and MVP, Dylan Reid.”

Applause. Stomping. Jake banged his hands on the table like he was summoning a rain god. Connor let out a dramatic boo, which got him elbowed in the ribs. Sam looked up in time to see Dylan shake his head, smirk, and walk up to the mic like he owned it.

But when he got there, something in his posture shifted.

Dylan looked out at the crowd, took a breath, and then didn’t start with a joke. “Okay,” he said. “So I had this speech planned. Some of it was funny. Most of it involved making fun of Connor. But I think I’m gonna skip it.”

The room quieted, like everyone instinctively sensed the tone change.

“This team has been my home since freshman year. I’ve played through rolled ankles, brutal losses, and one truly unfortunate haircut my sophomore year. But this season… this season was different.”

Sam straightened slightly. The compression bandage around his ribs tugged with the motion.

“Not because we won,” Dylan continued. “I mean, yeah, that helped. But I’ve been part of teams before that didn’t feel like this one. This one-”

He looked out across the tables, over the familiar faces, the noise and movement, and the parents in the back.

“This one mattered,” Dylan said finally. “Because we stopped playing for the scoreboard. We started playing for each other.”

Sam’s stomach fluttered. This was Dylan’s thing, making the team feel like more than cleats and drills, but this sounded heavier. Like it was being set down instead of tossed.

“We made room for each other,” Dylan said, slower now. “We backed each other up. And this year, someone new showed up.”

Sam froze. Dylan didn’t look at him, not yet, but Sam could feel it.

“He didn’t talk much, but he didn’t need to. Just walked in like he already knew how to play the game three steps ahead. Like he could see the play before the ball even moved.”

Now Dylan looked at him.

“He took hits. He out-thought guys twice his size. He pulled a foul in the state final so clever the ref almost apologized for the whistle.”

That got a big laugh. Jake shouted, “BAIT KING,” and Sam thought about sliding under the table.

But Dylan’s face had gone serious again.

“He didn’t just earn a spot on the field. He earned our trust. Mine included. And I’m not just saying that because Coach made me.”

Laughter again, but softer this time. Real.

“So yeah. Rookie of the Year? Absolutely. But also? He's the reason I’m not worried about leaving.”

Sam’s ears rang with the weight of it. Not worried. Because of him. He didn’t know how to hold that.

But then Dylan did something that knocked the breath straight from his chest. He pulled something from his back pocket.

The captain’s armband, worn and slightly frayed at the edge. Sam had seen it a hundred times on Dylan’s arm in every game, in every huddle, like it was just part of him.

But now, Dylan glanced once, not at Sam, but toward Coach Miller. It was just a flicker of a look. Like asking for permission without words, or maybe just making sure this was real. Coach gave a small dip of his chin.

Dylan turned back and stepped down from the mic, walking toward their table. Toward him.

The whole room watched. Sam didn’t breathe.

Dylan stopped in front of him and didn’t make a big show of it. He didn’t lift the armband like some movie prop. He just held it low and casual, and said, “Doesn’t mean you’re next. Unfortunately, that’s Coach’s call. But it means I trust you.”

The words hit like a knee to the sternum. Not painful, just deep, like they went all the way in.

Sam reached out slowly and took the armband like it might burn his fingers. It was warm. Rough. Real.

He stared down at it, unsure what to do with his hands, his heart, his face. Something inside him pressed against his ribs - soft and huge and trembling.

“I-” He started, then stopped.

Dylan just grinned and patted his shoulder. “Don’t let ‘em slack off.”

Sam exhaled a shaky breath. “I won’t.”

His voice was quiet, but it was steady.

And when he looked back at his dad in the crowd, he wasn’t standing anymore.

He was leaning against the wall now, arms loose at his sides, wiping something from the corner of one eye. Uncle Bobby stood beside him, elbowing him gently and muttering something that made Dad huff out a teary chuckle.

Sam turned the armband over in his hands, thumb tracing the edge of the stitching.

He wasn’t the captain. But maybe… maybe someday.

And until then, he’d carry the weight. Not because it was expected, but because Dylan had handed it to him. Because the team had seen him. Because he belonged.

____

The clinic smelled too clean.

Not hospital-clean, but close enough to make Sam’s skin itch faintly under his hoodie. He sat on the edge of the exam table, fingers curled under the vinyl edge, one knee bouncing just enough to betray him.

His dad sat in the chair against the wall, his arms crossed as if he were trying to look relaxed. But Sam knew better. He’d seen the way Dad had hovered that morning: double-checking the appointment time, making sure the monitor was logging, packing an extra granola bar just in case. His knee was bouncing too, even if he didn’t notice it.

Sam exhaled slowly.

The door swung open, and Dr. Lewis stepped in with a warm smile and a tablet tucked under her arm.

“Well, look at you,” she said. “Still vertical after state, huh?”

Sam managed a smile. “Barely.”

Dad snorted. “He’s been moving like a ninety-year-old lineman, but yeah. Still standing.”

“Bruised, not broken,” Sam said.

“I saw that final,” Dr. Lewis said, scrolling through her tablet as she stepped up beside him. “Tough game. You took a couple of hard hits.”

Sam nodded in place of not knowing what to say.

“But no emergency alerts,” she added, glancing at Dad. “No hospital visits. No red flags?”

Dad shook his head. “One urgent care visit, an ankle brace, and a lot of ice packs.”

“Good,” she murmured, tapping through his data. The monitor blinked its steady green light through his shirt.

Sam held his breath.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, but her face didn’t tighten the way it used to when something was wrong. She just studied the numbers: data from weeks of strain, pressure, cold weather, adrenaline, bruised ribs, exhaustion, and a near-constant thrum of nerves.

Finally, she looked up.

“Well,” she said, “I’d say you held steady.”

Dad sat forward a little. “Even after that last game?”

“Especially after that last game,” she confirmed. “The monitor went yellow for a little bit, but there was no major destabilization during high exertion. No rhythm dropouts from impact. Honestly? I’m impressed.”

Sam let himself breathe.

“You’ve recovered well,” she said gently. “Even with the rib strain, your cardiac response stayed consistent. You took care of yourself, and you trusted your body to hold.”

Sam’s fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sleeve. “So what now?”

Dr. Lewis gave a small, approving nod. “Now we step down to part-time monitoring, if you’re ready. You can keep the monitor on just during games and practice. Everything else - school, home, day-to-day - you’re cleared to go without it.”

Sam stared at her.

The idea of not wearing the monitor full-time felt strange. Not bad, but unfamiliar. Like standing at the edge of something bigger than he could see. A blank stretch of road after a tight curve. A kind of freedom that felt too sudden.

He looked down at the wires tucked under his shirt, the slight bulge where the monitor sat. He was used to the weight of it now. The quiet reassurance. The way his dad would glance at it without thinking, how Ryan had learned to read the little blinking light like it meant something sacred. How Dylan’s hands would still when it beeped. How he could feel okay falling asleep because it would catch what he couldn’t.

Letting go of it felt like letting go of their hands.

What if something happened and he didn’t notice? What if he missed it? What if they missed it?

What if this was like everything else - fine until it wasn’t?

“I think I want to keep it on,” he said quietly, eyes still down. “During the day. For now.”

Dr. Lewis smiled. “That’s absolutely fine. This is your call, Sam. You’ve earned that.”

Dad’s hand found his knee, steady and warm. “You sure?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I just… I’d rather not push it. Not yet.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Dad said. “You got through the season, kiddo. You won a state title. You did more than anyone expected. Hell, more than I knew how to hope for.”

Sam looked down. His throat tightened.

“I’m proud of you,” Dad added. “Whether you wear it or not.”

Dr. Lewis printed the updated clearance form and handed it over. “Light activity for two more weeks. Check in with me before summer conditioning starts, alright? Just a phone call.”

Sam nodded.

“And no more skipping breakfast on game days.”

Dad raised an eyebrow at Sam, who sighed. “That was one time.”

“It was two,” Dad corrected, standing.

They stepped out into the warm spring air. The sky was pale, the kind of gray that couldn’t decide between rain or sun. Sam tapped his chest through the hoodie and felt the familiar shape of the monitor casing beneath the fabric. 

Once back home, his dad had sequestered Sam on the end of the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, his ankle propped on a pillow and wrapped loosely with an ice pack that had mostly melted into condensation. His ribs ached in the background - less now, dulled into something manageable - but the brace still tugged when he moved too fast or too far.

His sketchbook sat open beside him, but the pencil hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Instead, he stared at his phone.

The group chat was already awake.

RYAN: someone stole my backup hoodie. I know it was one you.

CONNOR: prove it was yours

JAKE: prove you didn’t deserve it

DYLAN: prove you two can function unsupervised

RYAN: I hate this group

JAKE: you love us

Sam smiled before he could stop himself, the kind of involuntary twitch that pulled across his face and loosened his chest. He took a breath, blinked against the low throb in his ribs, and typed:

SAM: just got back from my check-up

cleared for light conditioning

no sprints. no scrimmages.

ankle’s still tight

ribs = annoying

but I’m okay.

The replies appeared immediately.

RYAN: define “light”

JAKE: if he does one push-up I’m calling the president

CONNOR: you have the president’s number?

JAKE: maybe

also I still have a crutch. do not test me.

DYLAN: I am the president

(of keeping Sam from doing anything reckless)

JAKE: my bad, Mr. President

should I salute or curtsy?

SAM: you’re all so weird

He barely got his thumb off the send button before the screen lit up again.

INCOMING FACETIME CALL

Sam groaned, but he was already smiling. He accepted.

The screen opened to chaos. It jostled like someone was running with the phone.

“Dylan, is it recording? Is he on?”

“He’s on!” Connor shouted. “Go, go, go!”

The view settled into something almost clear: Jake standing dramatically in the middle of someone’s backyard - Sam vaguely recognized Dylan’s broken lawn chair in the background - one crutch propped under his arm, the other in the air like a staff.

“BREAKING NEWS,” Jake announced, “SAM WINCHESTER HAS BEEN CLEARED FOR LIGHT MOVEMENT. THE PEOPLE REJOICE.”

Connor shoved a Gatorade bottle into frame like it was a microphone. “Sam, what are your thoughts on this historic comeback?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Historic?”

“You’re the comeback kid,” Ryan said from off-screen. “Shut up and enjoy it.”

Dylan leaned in, entirely too close to the camera. “We were gonna wait until your official return to do the welcome-back ceremony, but Jake threatened to hobble to your house and narrate it from your front yard.”

“Still an option,” Jake said cheerfully.

“I’d pay to see that,” Connor muttered.

Ryan’s voice came in quieter, more grounded. “We just wanted to check on you. You doing okay?”

Sam blinked. He hadn’t expected that shift. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. Still sore. But… better.”

“Good,” Dylan said, and this time it wasn’t teasing. “Because the moment you’re back on the field, I’m making you run drills until your soul leaves your body.”

“You’re not even captain anymore,” Sam pointed out.

“Force of habit,” Dylan said, grinning.

Connor interrupted, voice theatrical. “We’ve also compiled a recovery playlist in your honor.”

“I hate all of you,” Sam said flatly.

“Too late,” Ryan muttered. “We’re emotionally attached.”

Sam shook his head, laughter tucked behind his breath. The camera wobbled again as Jake tried to swing the crutch like a sword, only to almost drop it and yell, “THIS IS A HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT.”

“Sam,” Dylan said, suddenly serious again, cutting through the nonsense with that tone he used when he meant something, “we’re proud of you, man. For real.”

Connor nodded. “You made it through a whole season. A championship. Freaking Stanford noticed you. You deserve to rest for a second.”

“And to be bullied,” Jake added helpfully. “Lovingly. Gently. From one injured icon to another.”

Ryan’s voice came quiet again: “We’ve got your back. No rush. We’re here when you’re ready.”

Sam swallowed. That knot behind his ribs loosened a little more. His eyes burned for no reason he’d admit.

“Thanks,” he said. “Seriously.”

They didn’t say much after that. The screen jostled again as Connor tried to throw something at Jake and missed. Jake yelled. Ryan sighed. Dylan laughed. It was just noise. Beautiful, grounding, idiotic noise.

When the call finally ended and the phone went dark, the house was still again.

But not lonely.

Sam set the phone beside him and let his eyes drift shut for a moment, and for the first time all week, the quiet didn’t press in. It held him.

He picked up his pencil and started sketching again.

____

The football stadium buzzed around them: parents fanning themselves with folded programs, balloons tangled in rafters like sad party ghosts, and someone’s little sibling humming the Jeopardy! theme under their breath like it was a war anthem.

Sam sat stiffly between Jake and Ryan, the collar of his pale blue shirt sticking to the back of his neck. It was the one his dad had picked out. The one Sam had insisted was “fine,” even though it felt like it was made of sandpaper. His ankle brace tugged with every shift under his slacks, and his ribs still ached faintly from the lingering bruises, but the wrap was gone now.

The drive there had been chaos incarnate.

Ryan had insisted on driving because, quote, “It’s tradition for the calmest person to pilot the war van.” Which was debatable given that Connor had spent half the ride trying to DJ and the other taming his flaming red hair down with gel, Jake had kept yelling about “air circulation rights” from the back seat, and Sam had been about two seconds from flinging himself out the window when Ryan missed the second exit because he was busy meditating at a red light.

Now here they were in the third row of bleachers, middle of the crowd. Sam had already checked the program three times to confirm it: Dylan’s name was still near the end of the list.

Of course it was. Dylan would be alphabetically dramatic.

“I swear,” Jake muttered under his breath, fanning himself with the program, “if they start one more speech, I’m storming the podium. I’m not even kidding.”

Connor leaned forward from the row behind them. “Shut up. You’ll ruin the moment.”

“I am the moment,” Jake whispered.

Sam didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes on the graduates lining up off-stage: red gowns flapping, tassels swaying, sneakers and dress shoes all marching toward the same stage like soldiers going into battle. He spotted Dylan near the back: tall, square-shouldered, moving like he was walking into a playoff final instead of a send-off.

They’d agreed earlier: no yelling. No signs. No kazoos. (Jake had tried. Sam had threatened to sit on the kazoo.)

Just one thing.

Sam cleared his throat quietly. “Get ready.”

Jake rolled his eyes but sat forward. Ryan adjusted his collar. Connor straightened in his seat.

The speaker called out, voice slightly too loud over the ancient PA system: “Dylan Reid, graduating with honors.”

In perfect unison, the boys stood.

No hoots. No cheers. Just four soccer players rising like sentinels: arms at their sides, hands over their hearts, faces solemn and proud. Like they were saluting a flag instead of a person.

A few heads turned. Someone behind them giggled, probably thinking it was a joke.

But they didn’t move.

Sam kept his hand pressed firmly to his chest, right over the wires of the heart monitor beneath his shirt. It blinked steadily. Calm. The way it always did when he was exactly where he needed to be.

On stage, Dylan stepped forward.

He hit the center and paused, just for a second. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching. Then he saw them.

Sam watched it happen in real time: the flicker of recognition, the slight hitch in Dylan’s breath, the twitch at the corner of his mouth fighting to turn into a smile. It won.

Dylan didn’t stop walking, but he gave the tiniest shake of his head, half-exasperated and fully delighted. The grin didn’t leave his face the rest of the way across.

After the ceremony, they found him in the crowd - still in his gown, cap tilted back on his blonde hair, diploma folder tucked under his arm, and looking like he’d just run a marathon with too much polyester and not enough water.

“You absolute dorks,” Dylan said as soon as he saw them. His voice cracked on the laugh trying to break through.

Jake threw his arms as wide as he could on his crutches. “You’re welcome.”

“That was the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done,” Dylan said, still shaking his head.

Connor smirked. “We were going for dignified.”

Jake reached into his pocket and triumphantly held up a small fistful of glitter. “I had this ready. Just in case.”

Ryan gaped. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did,” Jake replied smugly, wiggling his eyebrows.

Dylan blinked, looking genuinely confused. “Where were you even hiding that?” he asked.

“Trade secret,” Jake said with a wink, closing his fist around the glitter like it was gold.

Sam was laughing now; quiet, warm, steady. The way he always laughed when it was safe to.

Dylan stepped closer and bumped his knuckles lightly against Sam’s shoulder. “You guys didn’t have to do all that.”

Sam met his eyes and shrugged. “We know. That’s why we did it.”

Something flickered in Dylan’s face then. A pause. A blink. Just enough to make his eyes go glassy before he rolled them away.

“Okay,” he said, “but next time, someone bring water. I’m dying in this polyester nightmare.”

Jake raised his hand again, “Can I throw the glitter now?”

“No!” Sam and Connor both said at once.

Ryan piped up, completely deadpan: “I have a hydration strategy flowchart in the car.”

Dylan just laughed and shook his head. “God, I’m gonna miss you guys.”

Jake saluted, hand over his heart. “We miss you already, Captain Graduate.”

And Sam, sore, sun-warmed, still standing, didn’t move an inch when Dylan pulled him into a hug.

____

The night felt softer out here.

Cooler than it had any right to be after the brutal heat of the day, the kind of hush that wrapped around your lungs and made everything slow down. The field shimmered under a veil of dew, lit faintly by moonlight and the distant orange glow of the school’s parking lot.

Sam walked the sideline with his shoes hooked in two fingers, his ankle brace tucked in his bag, and his slacks rolled clumsily above his calves. He could feel the grass stick wetly to the arches of his feet. It smelled like dirt and old cleats and spring just about to fade.

They hadn’t texted or set a plan, but somehow they’d all ended up here anyway.

Connor was already lying back in the center circle, arms folded beneath his head like he lived there. Ryan sat cross-legged beside him, methodically knotting and un-knotting a stray shoelace he’d found in the grass, his phone resting screen-down on his knee. Jake hobbled up last, grumbling with every step, his crutches thudding in the quiet.

“I swear, if I fall again, someone’s carrying me,” Jake muttered as he carefully maneuvered down the tiny slope near the bleachers.

Sam turned and offered a hand, but Jake waved him off with mock offense. “I got this. I’m athletic and tragic. It’s my brand.”

Sam snorted and flopped down beside Ryan, his ribs twinging just a little as he settled. “You’re about three steps away from tragic Disney sidekick.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Ryan said smoothly, not looking up as he tightened the loop one last time and flicked the knot away like it had offended him.

Dylan showed up a few minutes later, gown ditched, wearing his usual hoodie and a grin that looked too big for the quiet.

“Didn’t know if you’d come,” Sam said, glancing up.

Dylan shrugged. “Didn’t think I couldn't.”

He jogged over, bumped Connor with his foot until he scooted over, and dropped into the grass with a sigh like his bones had been waiting all day for it.

For a while, they didn’t talk. They just kicked a ball around - slow, barefoot passes, lazy arcs that curved more from memory than coordination. Sam’s touches were controlled. Ryan’s were meditative. Connor’s were chaotic.

Jake couldn’t kick, but he commentated from the sideline like a retired legend.

“Sam Winchester with the approach. Graceful, haunted by his tragic past. He winds up, sending it to absolutely no one...”

Sam kicked it directly at him.

Jake caught it with one crutch and flailed, nearly tipping over. “This is assault! I’m injured!”

“You’re dramatic,” Ryan said, deadpan.

Dylan just laughed, tipping onto his back in the grass. “God, I’m gonna miss this.”

They went quiet after that.

Sam eventually picked up the ball and held it against his chest. “This is gonna be weird without you captaining.”

Dylan sat up slowly, brushing grass from his hoodie sleeves like it took effort to shake off the weight of the night. He didn’t smile, not right away. He looked at them, quiet and thoughtful.

Jake, sulking theatrically on the sidelines like the world had wronged him. Ryan, steady and silent, hands draped over his knees like he could hold up the sky if someone asked. Connor, fiddling with a stray blade of grass, trying too hard not to look sad. And Sam, still standing at midfield, holding the ball like it was something more than stitched leather.

Dylan pushed to his feet, crossed the distance, and reached for the ball.

He didn’t take it roughly, easing it from Sam’s grip and giving it a casual toss. “Good thing you don’t need me anymore.”

The ball bounced once, soft in the damp grass, then settled at Sam’s feet.

Dylan glanced around, his voice lighter now, fond and just a little teasing. “You’ve still got two very long years with these idiots.”

Connor looked up, indignant. “Hey-”

Dylan raised a hand. “You know what you did.”

Connor frowned. “We didn’t even do anything.”

“Exactly,” Jake muttered.

That earned laughter, low and reluctant, the kind that cut through the quiet without shattering it.

Sam didn’t join in. He just stared at the field lines beneath his feet, faded white and half-worn from a season that had taken more from them than they expected.

They stayed like that for a while, close but quiet, the night curling around them.

Finally, Jake broke the silence. “It’s gonna be weird next season. Without you yelling at us like we’re blind.”

“And talking to refs like you’re their disappointed father,” Connor added.

“Or giving pregame speeches that somehow made me cry and want to fight someone at the same time,” Ryan said.

Sam didn’t say anything. His chest felt too full of it; the ache of something ending, but not quite gone.

Dylan exhaled, low and fond. “I’ll just be playing midfield somewhere else. Not dead.”

Jake sniffed. “Debatable.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now, soft and real. “Plus, do you think I’d ever miss you all crushing Haverford next season?”

Sam finally looked up. “You better not.”

Dylan slung an arm around his shoulder. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

By the time Sam got home, his hair was still damp from dew, and the hems of his slacks were wet with grass. He didn’t bother turning on the porch light. He just slipped inside, smiled at the soft snore from the living room (Uncle Bobby, fully asleep with the TV remote on his chest), and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible.

He sat on his bed and pulled out his phone to charge it.

Six unread messages.

He didn’t even need to look to know which chat.

Sam tapped it open.

JAKE: what are we naming the next team dog

CONNOR: wait. are we getting a dog?? this is critical.

RYAN: we are not getting a dog.

JAKE: speak for yourself, future dog-denier

CONNOR: I vote for Sir Kicks-a-Lot

JAKE: okay but that's amazing

RYAN: I’m removing myself from this narrative

Sam huffed a laugh, lying back on the bed, phone resting against his chest. The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, clicking just faintly with every rotation.

He opened the camera roll, pulling up the photo from earlier.

The five of them were barefoot. Dylan was in the middle, still smug from graduating. Jake was leaning slightly on one crutch. Connor was grinning like a lunatic. Ryan looked suspiciously composed. Sam was caught just as he was smiling, not posing.

He stared at it for a second longer than he meant to.

Then, without a word, he dropped it into the chat.

SAM: good game

There was a pause.

One minute. Then two.

For a moment, Sam thought maybe that was it. That the thread had burned bright for a second and gone out. That maybe the moment on the field was the last.

Then-

DYLAN: Best one yet.

Sam closed his eyes and smiled.

____

Sam wasn’t sure what time it was when the knock came on his bedroom door - soft, almost sheepish, like someone trying not to wake the whole house.

“Sammy,” came Dad’s voice, low through the door. “C’mon. Hoodie and socks. You’re gonna want to see this.”

It wasn’t the kind of voice his dad used when something was wrong. It was quieter than that, almost excited. The kind of voice that reminded Sam of hot chocolate after hard days. So he sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and pulled on the old hoodie draped over the bedpost and a mismatched pair of socks before heading downstairs.

The porch light was off. The sky beyond the screen door stretched wide and dark and full of stars.

Dad was already outside, leaning against the Impala, two steaming mugs balanced on the roof, and a blanket draped across the hood like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Seriously?” Sam asked, stepping out onto the porch. “It’s like midnight.”

Dad just gestured up. “Perseids. Meteor shower. I used to watch 'em with Bobby when I was a kid. Figured it was your turn.”

Sam sighed, but he wasn’t annoyed. He padded down the steps and accepted one of the mugs, letting the cocoa burn his fingers through the ceramic.

Dad hopped up on the hood, patting the blanket beside him. “Come on. Best seats in the house.”

Sam climbed up and settled in. The Impala was still faintly warm from the sun earlier. The blanket itched against the backs of his legs, and the mug steamed against his knuckles. The sky above stretched forever.

They sat like that in silence for a long while, shoulders occasionally bumping.

Dad was the one who broke it. “You remember which one is Cassiopeia?”

Sam blinked. “The W one?”

“Ding ding.” Dad pointed upward. “There, just above the chimney line.”

Sam followed his finger. Sure enough, five stars bent into a lopsided W. It was one of the first constellations Dad had ever taught him, years ago on another roof, another blanket, another quiet night like this.

“You always said she looked smug,” Sam said, sipping his cocoa.

Dad chuckled. “She does. Queen on her throne. Probably judging our formation.”

“You’re mixing Greek mythology with soccer again.”

“Always,” Dad said, like it was a badge of honor.

More silence passed. Another star streaked across the sky, quick and silver.

Sam swallowed. “Can that one count as mine?”

Dad gave him a sidelong glance. “Only if you wish on it.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “I don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno. Never seems real.”

Dad leaned back on his palms, exhaling through his nose. “You believe in ghosts and magic and curses. But a little stardust wish is where you draw the line?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Fine. I’ll wish.”

He didn’t say it out loud. He just looked up at the stars and let his chest loosen. Let himself feel the quiet. Let the warmth of the night and his dad’s presence and the distant echo of everything they'd been through settle into a shape that made sense.

He wished for time. For another season. For the people he had now to still be there when the next one started. He wished to hold onto what they’d built.

Another meteor split the sky.

Dad grinned. “Bonus wish.”

Sam turned to him. “Did you wish for anything?”

Dad shook his head slowly, eyes still up. “I don’t need to. Already got mine.”

Sam looked down at the cocoa in his hands, then back at his dad. The man who’d taught him where Orion was. Who’d pointed out the dippers and the hunter and the dog star and made up names when they forgot the real ones. Who could be gruff and overprotective and sometimes overbearing, but who always - always - showed up.

“You remembered all the constellations,” Sam murmured.

Dad shrugged. “You remembered more.”

Sam leaned into him, just slightly. “Thanks for waking me up.”

His dad bumped his shoulder. “Thanks for not throwing something at me for it.”

They sat there a little longer, stargazing in silence. The Perseids kept coming, carving bright streaks across the night. And when Sam eventually fell asleep, head tipped against his dad’s shoulder and cocoa forgotten, he just stayed there with him under the stars, the sky still drawing lines overhead.

Just a dad and his kid, in the middle of the quiet world they’d fought to keep.

____

Dean stood in the middle of the kitchen, glaring into the fridge like it had personally betrayed him.

The milk was down to an inch. Not enough for cereal, barely enough for coffee. And the leftover pasta he'd made two nights ago, an entire family-sized tray meant to last through the week, was gone. Not even a crust of garlic bread left.

The snack drawer was worse. Granola bar wrappers crumpled in pairs, and someone’s empty protein packet was jammed in behind a bag of crushed tortilla chips. There was one sad, lonely Pop-Tart left in the box, and it was the weird seasonal kind Sam didn’t even like. Maple something. Dean had not bought that one.

He closed the fridge with the kind of ominous finality he usually reserved for demon-slaying and tax paperwork. He turned slowly.

Sam was at the kitchen table, hunched over a spiral notebook, chewing on the end of a pen like he was drawing battle plans. Probably was, knowing him. It looked like half a soccer formation and half a war map. The kid never stopped.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You got something to confess?”

Sam looked up like a deer in the headlights. “Uh… no?”

Dean jerked a thumb toward the pantry. “I bought a dozen Gatorades on Monday. There’s one left. It’s fruit punch. Nobody drinks fruit punch.”

“Jake drinks anything cold,” Sam offered, far too casually.

Dean stared at him.

“That doesn’t explain the disappearing Pop-Tarts.”

Sam pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to smile. “You know they’ve been hanging out here more.”

Oh, he knew.

He knew because someone had left a muddy cleat by the back door this morning, and he’d stepped on it in socks. He knew because the bathroom smelled like two types of body spray and not enough deodorant. He knew because last night he’d found a half-eaten protein bar in the couch cushions and a pair of size eleven socks under the coffee table.

“Oh, I know.” Dean walked over to the junk drawer and yanked it open with purpose.

Inside was chaos.

A pair of mismatched soccer socks, wadded and damp. A Gatorade cap with DR scrawled in Sharpie. Three rogue shin guard straps tangled together like seaweed. A sticky wrapper from one of those weird fake peanut butter bars Sam kept pretending to like. And a small, mysterious container of hair gel.

Dean pulled out the socks and held them up like they were biohazards. “Whose mold farm is this?”

Sam didn’t even look. “Connor’s.”

Dean pulled out the strap pile next. “This mess?”

“Ryan.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and picked up the Gatorade cap. “And this?”

“Dylan,” Sam said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean stared into the drawer again. He hadn’t seen the bottom of that thing in a month. Somewhere under all the wrappers and mystery gear was probably a screwdriver and a half-dead flashlight he’d meant to replace.

“At what point exactly,” he said slowly, “did I adopt four more teenage boys without signing anything?”

Sam shrugged like that was an answer.

“They crash here sometimes,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Dean set the socks on the counter like they might explode. “Not a big deal. Right. Because every house needs a junk drawer full of foot stink and betrayal.”

Sam had the audacity to laugh.

Dean was about to launch into a rant about boundaries and pantry budgeting when Sam’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, glanced at it, and slid it across the table toward Dean.

Dean squinted at the screen. It was a group text.

RYAN: what’s for dinner

JAKE: if it’s not chicken nuggets I’m revolting

DYLAN: Tell Dean I’ll do the dishes if there’s mac and cheese

CONNOR: seconded

RYAN: we’re already in the driveway

Dean blinked.

And then, right on cue, the unmistakable sound of car doors slamming echoed from outside, followed by voices. Jake was arguing loudly about how hot sauce technically counted as a vegetable if it had tomato in it.

Dean closed his eyes. Counted to five.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He tucked his pen behind his ear like this was perfectly normal. Like this was routine.

Dean muttered something under his breath that might’ve included the phrase “feral pack of hyenas” and opened the pantry.

Fine. Let them eat. Let them destroy his leftovers and clog the shower drain and fill the air with whatever teenage disaster cologne they thought would impress girls.

He pulled out a box of pasta. Then a second.

“Somebody better take the trash out tonight,” he muttered.

Sam grinned and stood to help, his shoulder bumping Dean’s in that casual way he did now, like they were in on something together.

Dean didn’t move away. He just grabbed the cheese sauce and reached for the big pot.

“Next time I’m not feeding anyone," he said. "They're like strays."

Sam bumped him again and said, “Too late for that, Dad.”

____

It was supposed to be a short hike.

Something easy. A celebration of Jake’s crutches and Sam’s ankle brace being gone. A flat trail. One hour, tops. Connor had pulled up the map on his phone like he was planning a summit expedition. Jake had packed half a bag of snacks, none of which were remotely helpful, and exactly zero ounces of water. Dylan had made a show of clapping his hands together and saying, “Let’s just not die. Or wander off like dumbasses with poor directional awareness.”

Naturally, Jake led the group confidently off-trail within the first thirty minutes.

“It’s not even off-trail,” he insisted, stomping over a mossy log that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Civil War. “It’s an alternate loop. See?” He waved a hand at what was clearly not a trail. “Natural. Rustic.”

“You mean wrong,” Dylan deadpanned, arms crossed, looking like he was already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

Sam didn’t mind. 

The woods smelled like pine and warm dirt. The light came down in sharp patches between the trees. It was cooler in the shade, and the trail (or what was left of it) felt soft beneath his sneakers. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, but not in a bad way. They weren’t lost-lost. Just… slightly turned around. Temporarily unsupervised by logic.

And if Sam kept glancing back over his shoulder now and then, just to check the path was still behind them, that was no one’s business.

Still, after another hour passed and the same fork in the trail appeared again, exactly as they'd seen it thirty minutes earlier, the group started to fray.

Connor muttered something about getting eaten by bears. Ryan climbed halfway up a rock and held his phone to the sky like it was a sacred offering, and promptly got dive-bombed by a bug the size of a quarter. Jake declared with newfound confidence that he was “eighty percent sure the pond was that way.”

Dylan turned to Sam, brow already raised. “This is your fault for encouraging him.”

“I said nothing,” Sam replied, deadpan. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Jake called from the front, triumphant in his wrongness.

“Stop,” said three voices in unison.

Sam let out a breath through his nose. The serenity of the forest had worn off. His legs ached, his sweatshirt felt damp at the collar, and his snack was gone. He didn’t even remember eating it. For a second, he thought about turning around entirely, finding a nice patch of moss, and declaring it his summer home.

But then Ryan’s voice cut in from ahead. Louder, this time, sharp with hope. “Water. I see water.”

The group pushed through a final tangle of undergrowth, sneakers crunching over twigs and dried leaves, and spilled into a clearing that sloped gently down toward a pond.

It was quiet. Blue-green and ringed with reeds. No trail markers. No benches. Just water, still and real and glinting in the sun like it had been waiting for them.

Sam stopped at the edge of the clearing and let his shoulders fall. The tension that had been sitting low in his chest, coiled and buzzing, unspooled.

Connor flopped into the grass like he’d been dramatically shot. Jake sat down and immediately started emptying pebbles from his shoes. Dylan muttered something under his breath about never trusting Jake again without GPS and a flare gun, but even he sounded lighter.

Sam stepped forward, near the pond’s edge, sneakers sinking just slightly into the damp soil.

The rocks at his feet were smooth and flat, worn down by time and water.

He crouched, picked one up, and turned it over in his fingers. The surface was cold, almost slippery. He weighed it carefully before flicking his wrist, fast and practiced.

One, two, three, four skips before the stone vanished.

Jake let out a low whistle. “Okay, Wizard of Skipping Rocks. Your reign begins.”

Connor scrambled to his feet, grabbing another rock. “Oh, it’s on.”

That was all it took.

Suddenly, it wasn’t about the trail or the time or the fact that no one had cell service and half of them were sore. It was about physics and bragging rights and who could find the flattest rock. It was about yelling things like “That one was sabotaged by algae!” and “Style points don’t count if you miss the water!”

Dylan managed five skips and was crowned “King of the Pond” until Jake accidentally pegged a half-submerged log and insisted he deserved bonus flair points. Ryan found a rock shaped like a heart, held it up like a trophy, then declared it cursed and threw it into the woods. Sam was halfway through his next throw when Jake stepped too close to the edge and slipped, his foot sinking ankle-deep in pond muck with a glorious, wet shlurp.

Sam laughed so hard he nearly dropped his whole pocket of rocks.

It was stupid. It was perfect.

By the time they finally started back - the right way this time, with Dylan leading and Jake demoted from trail duty for life - the sun had dipped lower in the sky, painting the leaves in gold. Their shoes were muddy, their socks damp, and their pockets full of nothing useful.

Sam lagged a little behind, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves, the sound of the others ahead of him carving a warm, steady rhythm into his chest.

____

It started with the door.

More specifically, the screen door on the back porch that was now swinging on one hinge like it had lost a fight with a linebacker and barely survived.

Dean found it around noon, when he stepped outside with a fresh cup of coffee and nearly walked into the wreckage. The frame was warped. The mesh was torn. One of the screws had fully popped loose and rolled across the porch like it was trying to escape the crime scene.

He stood there for a long minute, coffee in hand, squinting at the carnage.

Then he turned back into the house and bellowed, “Living room! Now!”

It took less than sixty seconds.

Connor was first, looking guilty before he even knew why. Jake followed, still chewing whatever snack he’d stolen from the kitchen. Ryan wandered in half-awake from a nap and blinked at Dean like this was a dream he hadn’t signed up for. Dylan and Sam came down last, shoulders bumping like they’d been mid-conversation.

All five boys stood in a loose line, varying degrees of sheepish.

Dean crossed his arms. Classic stance. Grounded stance.

“I’m gonna say this once,” he started, voice deceptively calm. “Someone broke the back door. It didn’t rip itself off the hinges, and unless Rumsfeld grew opposable thumbs, I’m assuming one of you had something to do with it.”

Five mouths stayed shut.

No one moved.

Dean sighed through his nose.

“No one?” he asked. “Really? Not a single one of you geniuses wants to admit what happened?”

Connor opened his mouth. Closed it.

Jake shrugged. “Could’ve been the wind.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Could’ve been my boot, too. Want me to test it?”

That earned a small snort from Dylan, quickly smothered.

Dean didn’t smile.

He looked each of them down, one by one, and said, “I don’t care who did it. I care that it got hidden. That no one owned up. That you all thought it was better to leave it broken and hope I didn’t notice.”

Silence again.

“It was me,” Sam said suddenly.

All heads turned toward him.

Dean blinked. “No, it wasn’t.”

Sam hesitated. “Well, I might’ve-”

“Don’t lie, Sam,” Dean said flatly. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s endearing. Stop it.”

Sam opened his mouth like he might argue, then thought better of it. He pressed his lips together and tried not to smile.

Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw, exasperated.

“This is what I get,” he muttered, half to himself. “Five boys. One house. Zero common sense.”

Jake raised a hand. “Technically, we have some sense.”

Dean shot him a look.

Jake lowered his hand. “Sorry.”

Dean sighed again, long and slow.

“Fix it. Or clean up while I do. But if I find one more door, drawer, or wall treated like a wrestling ring, I’m dragging you all to Home Depot and making you sit through a tutorial video on proper screw installation. Got it?”

Murmurs of “Got it,” and “Yes, sir,” and “Understood, Dean” circled the room.

“Good,” Dean said, already turning toward the back. “Now get moving.”

The group scattered in every direction. Except Sam. He lingered in the doorway, watching Dean rifle through his toolbox with a muttering intensity only frustration could fuel.

“Hey,” Sam said quietly.

Dean glanced up.

“Are you mad?”

Dean paused before shaking his head and reaching for the drill.

“No,” he said. “Just… this is what having five teenage boys in the house gets me, apparently.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard by the casual weight of it. He ducked his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he turned to grab a broom.

____

Sam wasn’t sure when the sun had gotten so loud.

It beat down in waves against the cracked concrete of Connor’s cousin’s driveway, heat radiating off the truck’s hood as it shuddered to a stop. Jake exploded out of the front seat before the engine even cut, already barefoot and halfway through peeling off his shirt as he whooped something about reclaiming his “Cannonball Crown.” Ryan followed with a cooler and a ridiculous flamingo float, slamming the door with his hip. Connor let down the truck bed and immediately started dragging out a crate full of pool noodles like he was preparing for battle.

Sam climbed out slower than the others, feeling the pulse of summer all around him: heat, music, chlorine in the air. He wore board shorts and an old team T-shirt, his flip-flops slapping softly against the pavement. No brace. No heart monitor. No hoodie. The scar across his chest was just there. Pale. Faint. Familiar.

The others didn’t look twice. They never did anymore.

But Sam still hesitated at the edge of the pool deck, standing just out of the splash zone, like the water might ask for credentials.

Dylan wandered up, already damp, sunglasses shoved back on his head. He gave Sam a look, equal parts knowing and gentle. “You good?”

Sam shifted. “Yeah. It's just weird, being out here without the monitor. Feels like I forgot my ID or something.”

Dylan bumped their shoulders together lightly. “You don’t need a blinking green light to exist, Sammy.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Tell that to my cardiologist.”

But when Dylan smiled at him, quiet and warm, Sam believed it. A little.

Still, when the cannonball contest started, Sam claimed the clipboard and Sharpie without argument and plopped down on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in.

Jake launched first - full shout, full send, full body slap on impact. Sam held up a scorecard with a 6.8 and a written note that read: Too much trash talk. Mild belly flop.

Ryan dove in next, tighter form, bigger splash. Sam gave him a 9.3 with a note next to it that said splash zone MVP .

“You’re biased,” Jake protested.

“I’m accurate,” Sam countered, scribbling DENIED across the margin of Jake’s scorecard.

Connor declared open war by unleashing the noodle crate. Within minutes, Sam had two in his hands, spinning them like sabers. He got Ryan across the back, Jake in the shin, and Connor in the arm before the crate even hit the ground.

“I should’ve never taught you to defend yourself,” Connor gasped dramatically, retreating behind a lawn chair.

By the time Dylan waded over, Sam was perched on a lounge chair with a popsicle and a look of smug victory.

“Alright,” He said, arms crossed, wet footprints trailing behind him on the concrete. “Enough judging. Your turn.”

“Nope,” Sam said, leaning back slightly in his chair like that would somehow protect him. “I’m chill.”

“You’re not chill, you’re avoiding,” Dylan replied, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m supervising,” Sam offered innocently.

“You’re not glass, Sam,” Dylan said, softer this time, but firm.

Sam blinked, caught off guard. That was harder to argue with than usual.

Before he could come up with a snarky retort, Dylan bent, scooped him up like a rag doll, and started walking straight for the pool.

“Dylan,” Sam hissed, clinging to his neck. “I swear to God-”

“Too late,” Dylan said, stepping deeper.

Sam squirmed as the water rose past his calves. “I can walk!”

“You can also swim,” Dylan said calmly. “And I’m dropping you. Ready?”

“No!”

Dylan leaned forward and released him just as a wave surged by. Sam yelped as his reflexes kicked in, quite literally. His foot shot out and nailed Jake, who had just surfaced nearby.

Jake flailed backward. “He’s armed!”

Sam came up sputtering. “I didn’t mean to!”

“He’s a menace!” Jake groaned theatrically. “A soggy menace!”

Dylan laughed. “Now you’re in.”

And then Sam really was.

He adjusted, orienting himself. Muscle memory took over. In seconds, he kicked off the wall and shot forward, gliding clean and straight across the pool. He flipped underwater, sliced back the other way, and came up near Connor, who was now clinging to the pool ladder like it had betrayed him.

“You sandbagging little-!” Connor started.

Sam grinned, wiping his face. “Swimming didn’t need a monitor.”

Jake paddled up, still rubbing his chest. “You torpedoed and assaulted me.”

“You swam like a fish,” Dylan said, sounding half-proud, half-stunned. “You’ve been hiding that?”

“I forgot I liked it,” Sam admitted, quieter now.

For the next hour, the pool descended into total chaos.

They invented at least three new games, only one of which had rules, and even those kept changing. Sam dunked Ryan with zero remorse. Ryan retaliated with an overly dramatic flamingo joust that ended with both of them wheezing from laughter. Connor somehow kept inventing new splash strategies without meaning to. Jake weaponized the pool noodles like it was a full-scale naval battle.

And Dylan didn’t stray far from Sam’s side.

It wasn’t a hovering kind of presence. Not protective, exactly. More like... grounding. He'd drift a little, then bump shoulders with Sam as he passed, or cannonball too close on purpose. Every time he did, Sam laughed, and Dylan just grinned and did it again.

When the sun started its slow golden descent and everything softened, Sam dragged himself out of the pool and toweled off with lazy hands. He dropped into Dylan’s lounge chair without asking and burrowed into the folds of a beach towel like it was a sleeping bag.

Someone handed him a popsicle. He didn’t remember who. His eyes closed a minute later.

He heard them still, faintly:

Jake approaching, muttering something about “our little burrito.”

A soft rustle. Another towel laid gently over his shoulders.

Connor whisper-yelling about sunscreen.

Ryan humming something that sounded like a lullaby, but badly off-key.

Dylan’s voice, closest: “Let him sleep.”

Sam didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He let the warmth settle into his bones and the water evaporate from his skin. No blinking light. No buzzing alert. Just sun, friends, breath, and rest.

____

It started with a wrench.

Or maybe with Sam saying the word “bored” out loud.

He’d been on the couch, one leg folded under him, sketchbook open in his lap, half-erased arrows ghosting across the page in what might’ve once been a midfield rotation. He hadn’t looked up when he said it, just exhaled and muttered, “I might reorganize the fridge.”

And from the kitchen, Uncle Bobby grunted. “You come with me to the hardware store, or I swear to God, I’ll make you label the mustard.”

So now Sam was in the truck, seatbelt cutting across his chest, watching the heat ripple off the windshield while Uncle Bobby muttered about threaded bolts and the death of common sense.

His phone buzzed.

DYLAN: Where are you?

Jake says you’ve “vanished into a sad Victorian child fugue state.”

SAM: hardware store w bobby

DYLAN: Got it. On it.

Sam stared at the reply, then sighed.

“Problem?” Uncle Bobby asked, not looking away from the road.

Sam shoved the phone into his hoodie pocket. “Probably.”

They’d barely made it to aisle four when they started to arrive.

Dylan walked in like the air-conditioning was waiting for him personally. Sunglasses pushed up in his blond hair, iced coffee in hand, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed. He looked like someone who’d been pulled off the set of a vaguely indie surf movie and accidentally wandered into Ace Hardware.

Uncle Bobby glanced over. “What the hell?”

“I tried,” Dylan said, hands up like he was making a peaceful offering. “I really did.”

He tilted his head toward the front doors.

A beat passed.

Then Jake wandered in with a bucket on his head. “Wrench knight, ” he announced. “I come bearing torque.”

Connor followed, holding a broom handle and a trio of paint swatches. “I have a vision.”

Then Ryan walked in last, his gaze skimming the signs overhead.

“They moved the galvanized bolts to 8C,” Ryan said calmly, like it was nothing. “Next to the hex keys.”

There was a pause.

Everyone turned.

“What?” Ryan asked, blinking.

Uncle Bobby narrowed his eyes. “How the hell do you know that?”

Ryan shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Absolutely not,” Sam said, baffled.

Dylan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I feel like I should be more concerned than I am.”

Ryan ignored them, already walking toward the fasteners. “5/8-inch lag screws. Strong hold. Don’t use them for metal unless you’re pre-drilling.”

“Dude,” Jake said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m thriving,” Ryan replied.

They moved through the aisles like a weather system.

Uncle Bobby was efficient and precise, muttering about thread counts and wrench grips as he filled a small metal basket.

Sam followed in his wake, hands deep in his pockets, watching the team orbit around them like untrained satellites.

Dylan kept wrangling them: grabbing a crowbar out of Jake’s hands, redirecting Connor away from the fertilizer, adjusting the cart when Jake tried to ride it like a scooter.

“I swear,” Dylan muttered, “every time I take you people in public, I lose six months off my life.”

“We’re enriching your soul,” Jake said, attempting to dual-wield tape measures.

“You’re enriching my blood pressure,” Dylan snapped.

Sam smirked as they passed the wind chimes, where Connor was testing each one like he was tuning a harp.

“Reginald likes this one,” Connor said softly, holding the cactus he’d picked up at some point.

“Put it back,” Dylan groaned.

“Reginald needs wind,” Connor argued.

“I need peace,” Dylan muttered.

Ryan, meanwhile, was thriving.

“This is a masonry bit,” Ryan said, holding up a drill attachment and inspecting the tip. “Cuts clean through concrete, but you’ll burn it out fast if you use the wrong speed setting.”

“Ryan,” Sam said cautiously. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” Ryan replied. “Honestly, this is peaceful.”

Connor leaned toward Sam and whispered, “Do we think he was secretly raised in a hardware store?”

Jake stage-whispered back, “I bet he had a summer job he never talks about. Like… Ryan’s True Origin: Ace Hardware.”

“I can hear you,” Ryan said, placing a level into their cart with reverence.

Uncle Bobby just kept walking, expression flat. “You all need therapy.”

At the register, Dylan sorted the pile like a practiced parent.

Jake tried to convince the cashier to let him price match a wrench “based on emotional value.”

Connor placed Reginald, his cactus, on the counter and then, with a guilty whisper, moved him back to the windowsill near the exit. “He’s not ready.”

Uncle Bobby didn’t blink. He paid for the wrench and bolts, ignored the cashier’s weary stare, and handed the receipt to Sam as they stepped outside.

“Log it under team bonding,” Uncle Bobby muttered.

Sam looked down at the crumpled paper. “We bought, like, seven things.”

“And a memory,” Uncle Bobby said.

Outside, the Civic was parked slightly askew next to Bobby’s truck, one tire hovering over the painted line. The back door was open. Jake was sitting on the hood yelling, “WE RIDE AT DAWN,” while Ryan adjusted the air conditioning vents from the back seat with surgical precision.

Connor stood nearby, muttering goodbye to Reginald. Sam lingered at the passenger door of Uncle Bobby’s truck, receipt still in hand.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Uncle Bobby raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Not kicking them out,” Sam said.

“I considered it,” he replied.

“But you didn’t.”

“Figured they’d find a way back in anyway,” Uncle Bobby said, then nodded toward the car. “You’ve done good, kid.”

Sam smiled. “You keep saying that.”

Uncle Bobby grunted. “You keep making it true.”

Sam climbed in, squeezing into the back between Connor and Ryan. Dylan dropped his coffee into the cupholder and started the car.

“Everyone accounted for?” he asked, squinting into the mirror.

“I left my cactus,” Connor whispered.

“Too late now,” Dylan said.

Ryan leaned forward slightly. “Ace Hardware has better socket organizers than Home Depot.”

The car went silent.

Everyone turned to stare.

Jake blinked. “Ryan… what the hell?”

“I know things,” Ryan said.

Dylan shook his head and pulled out of the lot. “I’m scared of how much I love you.”

Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the low hum of the engine mixing with the heat and the noise and the ease of being surrounded.

____

The house was quiet in that particular way it only ever got in late summer. It was too hot to argue, and the boys were too tired to move. It was the kind of lull that followed hours in the sun and too many snacks.

Dean stepped through the front door with a bag of groceries balanced on one arm and a receipt stuck to his thumb. The paper fluttered slightly with the breeze from the ceiling fan. He nudged the door closed with his foot and immediately frowned.

The living room looked like it had been hit by a very specific kind of natural disaster: teenage boy. Someone’s backpack had exploded across the rug. A soccer ball was wedged under the armchair. There was an open bag of pretzels on the coffee table, half-empty, salt scattered like confetti. A spoon rested in what looked like an abandoned yogurt cup on the floor.

But no one was moving.

Jake was face-down on the carpet with one sock off and a Gatorade bottle clutched like a teddy bear. Ryan was slumped on the couch at an angle that looked medically inadvisable, one leg over the backrest like he’d collapsed mid-dive. Connor was curled in the armchair, headphones in, mouth open, snoring gently.

And on the floor, just in front of the fan, were Dylan and Sam.

Dean stopped.

Sam was out cold on his side, one arm bent under his head, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His t-shirt was rumpled, his shorts creased, one sneaker still on. Dylan was behind him, shoulder-to-shoulder, one leg stretched out, the other pulled in. His chin rested on his arm, eyes shut, chest rising and falling with that deep, steady rhythm Dean had come to recognize as real sleep.

Dean paused in the doorway.

They weren’t even touching, not really, just close enough that their shoulders brushed. Just enough that, if Sam shifted even an inch, he’d end up in the crook of Dylan’s arm.

Dean stood there a beat longer, the bag of groceries suddenly feeling heavier, and let himself breathe in the silence. 

He remembered Sam at the start of the season: tightly wound, quiet, always watching. A kid who flinched more often than he spoke. And Dylan, too, loud-mouthed and too observant for his own good, watching Dean like he was measuring him up, like he wasn’t sure this setup was real.

Now, Sam was dead asleep in the middle of a disaster zone, and Dylan was next to him like it was the most natural place to be.

Dean swallowed around a lump he wasn’t going to admit was there.

He stepped around the sleeping mess and set the groceries on the counter. The fridge door opened with a gentle suction pop. He didn’t reach for anything.

Instead, he turned back quietly and grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch. He walked it over, slow and careful, and draped it over both boys.

Dylan stirred faintly. His hand twitched once and then settled again, just brushing against Sam’s shoulder. Not grabbing. Not holding. Just there. Steady.

Dean stayed where he was, arms crossed.

He didn’t say anything.

Because this? This was it. The thing he didn’t plan for. The part of parenting no one warned him about. Not the mess or the laundry or the grocery bills. He could handle all that. But this… this quiet miracle of watching a kid he raised let someone in - really in - and seeing that someone meet him halfway?

Dean would’ve fought the whole world for that.

He’d spent years keeping Sam safe. Fighting off ghosts and monsters and their damn history. He didn’t expect someone else to show up and see Sam the same way he did. To step into that quiet without fear and sit there like it was where he belonged.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he trusted Dylan now. He trusted them all. That was new. And it mattered.

Dean watched them sleep for another moment. And then, with a breath that felt heavier than it should’ve, he turned and went to start dinner.

____

The fire had burned past the showy stage. No more dramatic flare-ups, no clouds of sparks, but a steady orange heart beating at the bottom of the pit, throwing slow light across Connor’s backyard. They’d been out here for hours: a pile of snacks, a Bluetooth speaker no one could keep on the same playlist, and enough half-told inside jokes to fill a season of reruns.

Jake was a sprawl of limbs beside the pit, face streaked with marshmallow soot because he refused to admit you could burn sugar. Ryan lay on a blanket, one knee bouncing to the off-beat music while he flicked pretzel sticks toward the dark like darts. Connor, the unofficial host and designated DJ, kept thumbing through songs, looking for the perfect one, but never quite finding it.

Sam sat sideways in a deep lawn chair, hoodie pulled to his nose, a ginger ale can sweating in his sleeve-covered grip. He’d taken a single courtesy sip of Jake’s bourbon earlier, shivered once, and gone right back to soda. Dylan clocked the whole sequence: the polite sip, the invisible shiver, the way Sam’s shoulders settled only after the bottle moved on.

Dylan watched things. That was his job now.

He wasn’t sure when it had become his job, exactly. Somewhere between his junior year and the moment Sam Winchester walked into the varsity locker room with a heart monitor and a medical clearance note, Dylan had become Team Big Brother. Protector, snack provider, assignment checker, late-night driver, emergency contact. He wore the role comfortably, most days.

But tonight, with bourbon circling the group and laughter drifting into the soft hours between eleven and midnight, something old and sharp pressed under his ribs.

He looked around the circle and took quiet inventory, like he always did. Jake’s eyes were glassy but steady. Ryan was alert. Connor wasn’t pushing anything. And Sam was bundled, quiet, untouchable in the safest way. 

They were good.

Not perfect, not invincible, just five boys with nowhere to go tomorrow and no one else watching the time. No parents hovering. No curfews. No backup plans. Just a firepit, a half-dead speaker, and the kind of safety you didn’t know how much you needed until you had it.

Dylan made sure they stayed that way.

He reached for the bottle. No theatrics. Just a fingertip against the rim, a measured pour into a plastic cup, and a shot swallowed so neatly Ryan didn’t realize it had happened until Dylan set the cup down.

Jake’s head whipped around. “Did the captain just do a shot?”

Ryan pushed up on his elbows. “I thought you were all carbs and electrolyte gel.”

Connor’s jaw dropped. “Our father who art in cleats?”

Dylan wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Relax,” he murmured. “I used to live for this.”

That pulled the energy back for a second, a few soft chuckles. Ryan reached for the bottle and poured a little for himself. But Sam stayed still with his hood up, legs folded tight near the fire, face half-shadowed.

His eyes didn’t leave Dylan.

Dylan exhaled.

He hadn’t told them the full story. Not like this. Not all at once. But maybe it was time.

“Back then,” he began, “I didn’t know any of you, not really. Sophomore year ended, and I had my license and a mom who wasn’t around. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home for two or five days. She’d leave a note that said Don’t forget to water the plants with some cash, and that was that.”

He rubbed his thumb over the rim of the cup, but didn’t drink more. “I had an empty house and too much time. Drinking felt like a solution. Nobody cared about my age where I went. I figured if I stayed loud enough, no one would notice I was tired.”

He paused. Then, voice flatter now: “At the beginning of junior year, there were a couple of weeks where I took shots before school.”

The fire cracked.

“I thought it was funny,” he said, almost like he was trying to convince himself it had been. “Smirnoff in a water bottle. Red Bull in the parking lot. I’d walk into first period and pretend like I was just amped.”

Connor looked over, brows pulled together. Ryan had stopped fiddling with his shoelace. Jake, for once, didn’t say anything.

Dylan went on. “Sometimes I showed up to practice hungover. Sometimes I didn’t show up at all. Told Coach I had a stomach thing. Or family stuff. He stopped believing me pretty fast.”

He tossed a twig into the fire. It hissed, curled, and vanished.

“There was a girl named Emily,” he added after a beat. “Smudged eyeliner, constellation tattoo, peach-schnapps breath. We fell asleep in the back of a stranger’s truck one night. Woke up under the sunrise and exhaust fumes.”

He paused, gaze distant, the firelight flickering gold across his cheek. “It wasn’t romantic. We weren’t in love. Just... lost in the same direction for a while.”

He swallowed. “She told me I was beautiful with the lights off. I told her I didn’t believe in anything.”

The fire popped. No one moved.

“She wanted to follow the stars to California,” Dylan said. “And I realized I didn’t want to follow anything.”

Sam shifted slightly near the fire. Still quiet. Still wrapped in that old hoodie. Still listening. But Dylan could feel it - the way Sam was hearing everything.

“I was barely keeping my head above water,” he continued. "I wasn’t doing anything dramatic. Just not doing anything right, either. Parties. Late nights. Stuff I didn’t care about with people who didn’t care about me. Coach knew. I think he saw it before I did.”

Dylan glanced into the fire. “He called me into his office. Told me I was moving like someone who didn’t care what happened to him. Said he’d already buried one player who lived like that.”

Jake shifted slightly, expression unreadable.

“I came to fall conditioning hungover one morning,” Dylan said, voice lower now. “Not sloppy, but not okay either. Coach smelled the whiskey. He didn’t say anything in front of the team. But after, he told me, ‘Don’t go anywhere.’”

He looked up, mouth pulling into a faint smile. “When I walked into his office later, Jake was already there.”

Jake blinked. “Wait- what?”

“You don’t remember?” Dylan asked.

Jake frowned. “I remember chalk dust. And Coach talking formations.”

“Exactly,” Dylan said. “He sat us down and drew some fake 4-4-2 setup on the board. Talked about pressure and structure and spacing. I think he just… wanted me to sit in a room with someone who still saw me as a teammate.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but his jaw clenched.

“We’d been on and off teams for years. Middle school, summer leagues, whatever. But that was the first time I thought maybe I didn’t have to keep drowning.”

Dylan exhaled. “Coach didn’t give me some big lecture. He just looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’ve still got people, if you want them.’ Then he sent us to do cooldown laps like nothing happened.”

He swirled the cup in his hand. “A few weeks later, Connor got pulled up from JV. Ryan came in from football. And suddenly we were in the same locker room every day, breathing the same pre-game nerves.”

He nodded toward them, voice warming. “You three weren’t strangers. Same classes. Same lunch table sometimes. But that’s when I started noticing. Started choosing. ”

Connor’s voice was soft. “That’s when you got annoying.”

Dylan huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s when I stopped trying to disappear.”

He looked down at the cup again. “I think I scared Coach a little. But he gave me a door instead of a wall. And Jake… you didn’t ask questions. You just sat there with me like I belonged.”

He poured the rest of the bourbon into the fire. It hissed and flared.

“I’ve been choosing different ever since.”

Sam still hadn’t spoken, but Dylan didn’t look at him yet. 

Ryan muttered, “Jesus, man. You were subtler about this back then.”

Dylan stared into the coals. He hadn’t meant to say all that, but once he started talking, it had just kept coming. The girl. The drinks. Coach’s voice in that too-bright office. And the three boys who’d shown up without knowing they were saving him.

It wasn’t the entire story, but it was more than he’d ever told anyone.

“You didn’t fall apart,” Sam spoke up.

Dylan looked up slowly. Sam hadn’t moved, but he was looking at the fire like he saw something Dylan couldn’t.

“You were just falling through something,” Sam went on, voice steady. “But you caught yourself.”

Dylan didn’t breathe. No one interrupted. Even Jake, the king of deflection, stayed quiet. Ryan shifted like he was going to reach for something - maybe a response, maybe Sam’s hand - but stopped.

Sam still didn’t look up. “That matters,” he said.

And, God, Dylan felt it. Like a hand pressed to the center of his chest.

Then, after a beat, Sam added, barely above a whisper, “I’m glad you didn’t go anywhere.”

Dylan leaned back in his chair, the slats creaking softly under his weight. The bourbon buzz was mild, barely a hum in his bloodstream, but it loosened something tight in his chest. He looked across the fire at the others: Jake licking marshmallows off his fingers, Ryan pretending not to cry into his hoodie sleeve, Connor still holding his phone mid-scroll like he’d frozen mid-motion.

And Sam, the smallest thing in the circle. Curled in on himself like he wasn’t taking up any space, even though they all orbited around him now without thinking twice.

The kid hadn’t shifted closer to the fire once. In fact, Dylan realized, Sam had angled his chair just a little off to the side. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that the flames didn’t fall directly into his eyeline. He held the ginger ale like a buffer, thumb rubbing restlessly over the condensation. And every time the logs popped a little too sharply, Sam flinched just slightly. Barely noticeable.

But Dylan noticed. He always did.

“You know what’s weird?” Dylan said softly, voice scratchy with smoke and memory. “I was actually doing good. For real. Like, at the start of senior season, I felt solid. I’d cleaned up. I wasn’t crashing anymore. Even made captain. I thought maybe I’d finally figured it out.”

He looked across the fire again and met Sam’s eyes for real this time. “Then you showed up.”

Sam blinked, clearly not expecting that.

“And suddenly,” Dylan continued, “it wasn’t just about keeping myself steady. It was about walking someone else in. Making sure you didn’t feel the way I used to feel. Alone. Like no one saw you.”

He paused, letting the words settle. “That shifted something for me.”

Sam didn’t say anything, but his grip on the can loosened.

Dylan half-grinned. “You showed up with a heart monitor and a medical clearance note and zero expectations, and now half the team calls you the reason they care again.”

Connor laughed. “Man’s been holding that one in his heart like a Hallmark card.”

Dylan shrugged. “I’m just saying. He came in all quiet and catlike and then hit Connor with a blind backheel like it was nothing.”

Sam’s face flushed. “That was one time.”

“That was the first scrimmage,” Connor corrected. “I thought I was hallucinating.”

Jake leaned in. “I thought you were a narc.”

“You still might be,” Ryan said, deadpan. “You’ve got ‘undercover child prodigy’ vibes.”

Sam ducked into his hoodie. “I’m literally just trying to exist.”

“And somehow,” Connor added, grinning, “Dylan cuts the crusts off your sandwiches.”

“It was once,” Dylan muttered.

“It was three times,” Sam corrected, and now his voice was muffled but definitely smug.

Jake pointed a pretzel stick at Dylan. “You’ve got an adoption problem.”

Connor raised his cup. “You collect emotionally complicated soccer players like trading cards.”

Ryan leaned toward Sam and mock-whispered, “You’re the rare shiny.”

Dylan shook his head, laughing despite himself. “He earned it.”

Sam ducked his head again, but this time, he shifted his chair a little. Leaned subtly, instinctively, toward Dylan’s side of the fire. His shoulder tilted like he was anchoring himself to something solid. Like leaning into Dylan’s gravity was muscle memory now. Dylan felt it happen, and he didn’t say a word.

Sam’s voice came quietly. “I’ve never really had friends like this. Not before you guys.”

That stilled the circle. Sam didn’t look up. He just kept staring into the fire like he was saying it to the coals.

“It was always just me and my dad. And Uncle Bobby. They’re... everything. But it wasn’t the same.” He curled his legs tighter under him. “I didn’t think people like this existed. People who make space for you even when you’re weird, or tired, or hard to explain. People who do it even though they don't have to.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re all kind of hard to explain.”

Ryan bumped Sam’s foot gently. “You made space for us, too.”

Connor nodded. “You’re like a weird little mirror. You say freaky things about vampires and entropy, and we all start feeling things.”

Sam huffed. “I don’t mean to.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dylan murmured. “You’re stuck with us now.”

Jake smirked. “He says that like it’s a threat.”

Dylan shrugged. “It is. But only if you try to leave.”

Sam finally looked up. Eyes wide, face flushed, but smiling. That open, honest, and unguarded smile they didn’t get to see often enough.

And Dylan thought, just for a second, about that kid he used to be. Alone in a truck bed. Counting stars he didn’t believe in. Wondering if anyone would ever pick him.

Now he was holding space for the next kid in line. Because someone had to. Because Sam had come in like a quiet hurricane and rearranged everything, and none of them had stopped him.

“Group trauma, man,” Jake said, tossing the last pretzel into his mouth. “It’s beautiful.”

They laughed. Too loud, too tired, too full.

They stayed until the fire burned low. Safely, steadily, just far enough from Sam’s toes.

Sam had leaned in sometime after the laughter faded, slow and instinctive. First, a shoulder bump. Then a head tilt. And then, without ceremony, he’d gone still.

Asleep, right against Dylan’s side, folded into his hoodie like a blanket fort. He was breathing slowly, one hand loosely curled near Dylan’s ribs, like his body had decided to trust before his brain could argue.

Dylan adjusted his posture just enough to support him. Not a full arm around, but enough.

Connor’s voice came first, soft and low. “He’s really out, huh?”

Jake leaned forward and squinted across the fire. “Dead to the world. Man’s tucked in like it’s hibernation season.”

Ryan, flat on his back in the grass, muttered, “You’re gonna lose circulation in your whole left side and you’re not even gonna flinch, huh?”

Dylan smirked. “I’ll survive.”

Connor tilted his head, his voice quieter now. “Y’know... I didn’t know you were struggling that bad back then.”

Jake stirred. “Same. I mean, you were always on. Loud. Fast. Kinda exhausting.”

“Rude,” Dylan murmured.

Jake ignored him. “But you held the room like you owned it. I thought that meant you were fine.”

Ryan shifted onto his side, propping his head up on one arm. “I just thought you were that guy. You know, the one who always talks first, always shoves people when they’re too quiet, always picks the music.”

Connor added, “The guy who gets through things. Not the guy who needs pulling out.”

The fire snapped quietly. Dylan didn’t say anything.

Then Jake said, half-laughing but not unkind, “And now look at you. You’ve got a kid falling asleep on your shoulder and you don’t even care.”

Dylan looked down.

Sam hadn’t moved. His hoodie had slipped back just a little, revealing the soft line of his jaw, the scar tucked barely beneath his collar. He looked young like this. Fragile, but not breakable. Soft in a way that made Dylan’s chest ache.

“I care,” Dylan said finally, voice low. “Just not in a bad way.”

Jake smiled. “That’s kinda what I meant.”

Connor leaned back on his elbows. “I remember Coach saying once that you were the kid who could go either way.”

Ryan looked over. “And now?”

Connor nodded toward Sam. “Now he’s the one who followed you.”

Dylan let the quiet stretch. Let the weight of it settle like the blanket Connor tossed over them both.

Then, finally, “I was ready to disappear, back then. Not in a dramatic way. I was going to drift. Flame out. Nobody would’ve blinked.” He looked at them. “You didn’t let me.”

Connor gave a lopsided shrug. “We didn’t know what we were doing.”

“Still don’t,” Ryan said.

Jake smirked. “But you made it real easy to give a damn.”

They sat with that for a while. The kind of stillness that only comes when something heavy’s been spoken out loud and nobody wants to be the first to move.

Eventually, Jake stood and stretched. “Alright. Somebody help me drag Ryan inside before the coyotes decide he’s a snack.”

“I welcome the coyotes,” Ryan mumbled, unmoving.

Connor stood and lingered a second. “You staying out?”

Dylan nodded, adjusting slightly so Sam could rest more comfortably against him. “Yeah. I’ve got him.”

Connor smiled. “I know.”

The others drifted toward the house, feet on soft grass, voices fading to murmurs. And Dylan stayed still, one arm looped carefully and easily around the little brother he never asked for, but got anyway.

____

The fire had long gone out.

The porch light had clicked on at some point during the night, casting a muted yellow glow over the damp grass and the worn wooden planks. Somewhere in the field, birds were starting to sing, soft and hesitant, like they weren’t sure if the night had ended.

Sam woke slowly. Not in a panic, not like usual. There was no jolt, no chest-tightening drop back into his body, no second of clawing confusion about where he was or who might be near him. There was only warmth. Gentle weight. The smell of smoke and wood and Dylan’s laundry soap. The faint ache in his ribs was from sleeping curled up too tightly. His face was tucked into something solid. Someone, he realized a second later.

Dylan.

It came back gradually. The fire. The voices. The laughter softening into quiet. A hoodie tucked around his arms. Gravity tilting him sideways until Dylan had caught him without even shifting, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sam blinked.

His eyes were heavy with sleep. The porch light blurred at the edges. The whole world felt muffled and distant, like it was still holding its breath.

He hadn’t moved, and neither had Dylan.

They were still curled together near the fire pit, Sam half-tucked into Dylan’s side, a blanket someone must’ve thrown over them during the night. His legs were twisted under him, one hand curled near his chest, the other resting against Dylan’s hoodie.

And Dylan…

Dylan was steady. Warm. Real.

Not holding him, but not letting go either.

Sam stayed still, listening to the quiet. Letting it wrap around him like fog. His brain was starting to wake up, piece by piece, but not in the bad way. Not with that awful, bracing urgency that usually came with being somewhere unfamiliar. But this wasn’t unfamiliar. This was Dylan.

Sam shifted slightly, the smallest motion. Not away, but toward, just enough that his shoulder pressed more fully against Dylan’s ribs. Just enough to say: I’m awake. I know. It’s okay.

Dylan’s arm moved in response; just a slight shift, steadying him without a word.

Then Dylan murmured, voice still low and rough with sleep: “Hey, little brother.”

Sam froze. His breath caught like someone had turned gravity up for a second. Not because it was bad, not because it scared him. Because it landed.

Little brother.

It was a title he hadn’t worn in a long time. Not since everything changed. It hadn’t been taken from him all at once; it had just faded. Like a name that stopped fitting. Like a space that quietly disappeared. Slowly, it had shifted into something else.

Son.

That’s what Dean called him now. His kid. His boy.

Sam was the one who said it first - Dad - small and quiet and shaking a little. He was seven when he surprised Dean with the adoption papers.

And Sam loved it. Loves it.

He was Dean’s kid, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

But this was different.

Little brother wasn’t a title Sam thought he’d hear again. Not like this. Not from someone who meant it with a grin and a shoulder bump, not in a voice that carried steadiness instead of fire and loss.

And Dylan said it like it had always belonged to him. There was no weight to it. No expectations. No need to earn it or live up to anything. It didn’t ask him to be better or stronger or okay. It just fit - easy as breath, soft as an old hoodie.

And the second Dylan said it, Sam knew exactly how much he’d missed it. How deeply he’d wanted somewhere to be younger. Not helpless, just held. Not because he couldn’t carry his own weight, but because someone wanted to carry a little of it with him.

He didn’t say anything. He leaned in enough that his head tucked a little closer into Dylan’s shoulder, just enough that his breath warmed the side of Dylan’s hoodie.

It was all he could give in that moment. And it was enough.

Dylan tilted his head, soft and careful, until it rested lightly against Sam’s hair.

They didn’t speak after that.

The world hadn’t fully come back yet. And Sam, for once, didn’t rush to meet it. He didn’t check the time. He didn’t calculate the nearest exit. He didn’t brace for someone to notice.

He just stayed, breathing steadily. Held.

And deep in his chest, something settled into place.

He could be both. Son, little brother, whatever the people who loved him wanted to call him. He could belong in all of it.

By the time Dylan and Sam made it inside, the sun had started to rise in earnest. Soft orange light stretched low across the grass, catching on dew-wet windows and the edges of Connor’s kitchen cabinets. The porch creaked under their weight.

And inside the kitchen was chaos.

Jake was shirtless, unfortunately, and leaning against the counter, holding a slice of toast slathered in an obscene amount of peanut butter. Ryan sat at the table, spooning cereal into his mouth with the dramatic exhaustion of a man at war. Connor was silently rinsing grapes in the sink, inspecting each one like it had personally wronged him.

Sam blinked against the light.

He knew his hair was sticking up like he’d slept through a tornado. Dylan trailed behind him, hoodie rumpled, hair flattened on one side, voice gone gravel-deep from too many quiet hours without sleep.

The second they stepped into the kitchen, the room went still.

Three pairs of eyes snapped toward them.

Connor broke first. “I was gonna make fun of you, but I’m actually moved, and I hate that.”

Jake pointed with his toast. “One outside nap and now they’re bonded for life.”

“They’ve been bonded,” Ryan muttered. “This just made it official.”

Dylan grunted and went for the coffee.

Sam shuffled to the table, chair screeching against the tile. He folded himself into the seat like he’d done it a hundred times: legs pulled up, sleeves loose, hoodie bunched at the wrists. He blinked once and yawned into his sleeve.

Jake leaned over with a glint in his eye. “Hey, Sam.”

Sam didn’t look up. “No.”

Jake ignored him. “Want to see something majestic?”

“Please don’t.”

It was too late. Connor flipped his phone around and showed him the photo.

Blurry porch light. Sam dead asleep, head tucked into Dylan’s shoulder, sleeves over his hands like a toddler clinging to a stuffed animal.

Sam squinted and groaned. “Delete it.”

Jake gasped. “Delete art?”

Connor held a hand over his heart. “The tenderness. The marsupial posture.”

“You were so small,” Ryan said, absolutely no help. “Like a koala that curled up for warmth and accidentally found emotional safety.”

“I’m going feral,” Sam muttered. “I’m walking into the woods and never coming back.”

“You’ll get cold,” Connor said sweetly.

Jake grinned. “I vote we make it the group chat banner.”

Sam grabbed a banana from the table and raised it like a warning. “Say one more word and this becomes a projectile.”

Ryan’s eyes went wide with mock seriousness. “Koala’s gonna snap. Someone get him an eucalyptus branch.”

“That’s what happens when you interrupt a clingy nap.” Jake teased.

Dylan didn’t even look up from his coffee: “You say that phrase again and I’m disowning all of you.”

“Too late,” Jake said, grinning like he’d just declared a national holiday.

And then, Dylan smirked, just slightly.

He glanced up at Sam with that tired, familiar twinkle and said, voice lower but warm: “You were kind of clinging.”

Sam glared. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Dylan said. “I just also remember someone tucking their face into my hoodie and sighing like I was the world’s best weighted blanket.”

Sam buried his face in his sleeve. “You’re all the worst.”

Dylan grinned into his coffee. “Sure. But you still fell asleep on me.”

Sam groaned, but didn’t move.

Connor nudged his elbow. “You good?”

Sam nodded once. A slow, sleepy motion. Then, quieter, “I wasn’t cold.”

Ryan paused. “Huh?”

Sam rubbed his face again. “Last night. I wasn’t cold. Even when I fell asleep.”

Dylan stopped mid-sip. The room went quiet.

Then Jake, uncharacteristically gentle, said, “Yeah, man. That’s kinda the point.”

Connor nodded. “That’s what we’re for.”

Sam didn’t respond out loud, but he peeled the banana. Ate it slowly. Stayed curled where he was.

Breakfast stretched on. Connor abandoned the grapes. Jake made more toast. Ryan switched to pancakes.

Sam stayed at the table, warm, full, and okay. 

____

Dylan’s room was a mess.

Not a disaster, just that particular kind of organized chaos that came from trying to pack his whole life into six duffel bags while his friends refused to stop emotionally clinging to him. Hoodies were draped across furniture. His soccer gear was in a loose pile near the closet. A stack of half-folded t-shirts had been weaponized into a pillow war and never recovered.

Sam was curled cross-legged at the foot of the bed, a half-empty bag of popcorn balanced on his knee. Jake had claimed the floor like a starfish, limbs everywhere. Ryan was spinning lazily in Dylan’s desk chair. Connor had taken over the corner by the bookshelf, notebook open in his lap, doodling what looked suspiciously like a bracket system.

Dylan sat beside the bed with his back against the nightstand, legs stretched long across the carpet. Every few minutes, he nudged Jake’s ribs with a socked foot just to hear him complain.

The room smelled like clean laundry and protein powder and something warm underneath that just smelled like all of them. The lamp cast a soft glow across everything, low and golden, like the world had dipped into memory without telling them.

“You guys suck at emotional regulation,” Jake said, sitting up and tossing a granola bar toward Ryan with no warning. "This is supposed to be our last hang, and instead it's, like, a grief counseling session."

Ryan caught it one-handed. “You’re the one who started talking about backup therapy plans for Sam,” he shot back.

“Okay, but I was joking,” Jake said, dramatically flopping onto his back. “Mostly.”

Sam didn’t say much. He never did when it got like this. He just pulled his sleeves over his hands and watched them with those quiet eyes, like he couldn’t believe he still got to be here. Like he was waiting for someone to take it away.

He cleared his throat. “Alright. One last group act of chaos,” he said, voice just loud enough to cut through the noise.

Jake perked up immediately. “Oh hell yes. Am I being excommunicated?” he asked, eyes alight.

“Group chat name vote,” Dylan announced, picking at a loose thread on his sock. “New name. Post-me departure.”

Connor didn’t even look up. “It’s already Hot Dad and the Soccer Orphans in my mind,” he said, flipping a page in his notebook.

Jake raised a hand. “Seconded. Dylan is the hot dad,” he declared.

Sam snorted quietly into his sleeve, head ducking.

“Absolutely not,” Dylan muttered, shooting Jake a look. “Try again.”

“Hydrate or Die-drate,” Ryan offered, voice half-laugh, half-deadpan.

“You Can’t Outrun Feelings,” Jake added with a solemn nod. “That one’s for Sam.”

“I’m just sitting here,” Sam said, peeking up from his hoodie.

“Exactly,” Jake replied, grinning.

Connor finally looked up, pen still between his fingers. “What about Home Team?” he asked softly.

The room stilled.

Dylan blinked. Then smiled, slow and quiet. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the one.”

No one argued. He opened his phone and typed it in without fanfare. With no announcement, he added a new banner too: a slightly blurry photo from the bonfire, all five of them around the fire pit. Sam was tucked asleep against Dylan’s side in the middle of them, hoodie pulled high, smile barely visible in the porchlight glow.

Sam’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and stared.

“You said you only took one picture,” he muttered, voice small.

“I lied,” Jake said proudly, throwing both arms behind his head like he’d just declared peace.

Connor leaned over to see the screen. “It’s perfect,” he said with a nod.

Sam didn’t say anything. He just smiled - small and warm and quietly stunned - and nudged his knee against Dylan’s shoulder in a way that said more than words.

Connor flipped his notebook around with a flourish. “Cool. Next item: the Sam custody draft,” he said.

Sam looked up fast. “What?” he asked, already frowning.

Jake clapped once, sharp and loud. “In the tragic event of your emotional soccer guardian fleeing the state, we must determine who takes primary responsibility for your well-being and hoodie rotation,” he declared.

“I don’t need guardianship,” Sam said, cheeks already turning pink.

“You literally disappeared into a blanket for three hours last week and emerged only to demand hot cocoa,” Ryan said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m allowed to be cozy!” Sam shot back, face scrunched.

“Just admit you need us,” Jake said, already reaching for a pen.

“I do not-”

“I’ll take Mondays,” Ryan interrupted, flipping open his notes app. “That’s usually your existential spiral day.”

“Connor can have weekends,” Jake suggested, glancing toward the corner. "And I want Thursdays. That’s when the moon’s in retrograde.”

Connor nodded thoughtfully. “That tracks,” he said.

Sam groaned and collapsed further into his hoodie, but he didn’t leave the bed.

Dylan watched them and the way they moved around each other like puzzle pieces, like maybe this was the only shape that made sense.

He watched the way Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull away. Watched Ryan nudge Sam’s foot unconsciously. Watched Connor’s pen slow down when the room softened. Watched Jake grin like a menace and still look at Sam like he’d guard him with his life.

His room was full, loud and alive and sacred.

Not like the quiet years - the ones filled with echoes and too much space and a mom who was more absence than presence. Not like those nights he used to fall asleep with the TV on just to hear something human.

This was different. They weren’t just teammates. They were his little brothers.

All of them.

Even Jake, who was now trying to draw a crown on Sam’s forehead with a Crayola marker.

Dylan swallowed against the warmth in his throat and sat back, looking around the room like he was trying to bottle it all.

Dylan looked around the room: at the pretzel crumbs, the hoodie mountain, the four boys who’d walked into his life and refused to leave. Who filled his house when it had been too quiet for too long. Who made this room a home, even when the woman who was supposed to live in it never came back to say goodbye.

They were chaos. They were comfort. They were his.

“My little brothers,” he said softly. Like a secret. Like a promise.

Sam looked up at that. He met his eyes and didn’t look away.

And Dylan, for once, didn’t try to hide the way his voice cracked.

____

The Impala was still in the drive when Dylan pulled up, black and solid and familiar in the gray-blue light of early morning. The porch light was off, but the house looked awake somehow, like it could feel him coming.

He sat in the car for a minute.

His duffels were in the trunk. His room key was wedged between the seat cushions. The playlist Connor made for him was already cued up, but Dylan couldn’t bring himself to hit play yet.

He wasn’t ready for this part.

The screen door creaked when he stepped onto the porch. The boards still groaned in that same spot under the left side of his weight. Learned where the wind hit loudest, where Rumsfeld liked to nap, where Sam always sat when things got too quiet.

He knocked once.

Dean opened the door, already dressed, keys in hand, jaw working like he’d been up a while but hadn’t spoken yet.

“Thought you’d swing by,” Dean said, voice low.

“Yeah,” Dylan replied. “Had to.”

Dean stepped aside without asking. “They’re still asleep.”

Dylan nodded and stepped through the door into the house that had become something like a second home - maybe the real one, if he was honest. Bobby’s coffee pot was already brewing. Dean had that tired look in his eyes like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust himself to get through it.

Dean stepped aside without asking. “Figured you’d be heading out early.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said, stepping through the door. “Didn’t want to wake them.”

Dean nodded, guiding him down the hallway. “Bobby made coffee. It’s probably terrible. You need anything?”

“I’m good,” Dylan cut in, voice a little tight.

Dean nodded again. He didn’t push.

The living room was a battlefield of boys and blankets. Jake was half off the couch, one leg tangled in a hoodie that wasn’t his. Ryan lay draped across two cushions like he’d collapsed mid-sentence. Connor was in the armchair, notebook open on his lap. Sam was curled near the coffee table, half-buried in a blanket and Dylan’s old captain’s hoodie, one hand fisted loosely against the hem.

Dylan stopped in the doorway.

Dean leaned against the frame beside him, arms crossed.

“They stayed up too late,” he murmured. “Bobby caught them trying to cook at one in the morning. Something with marshmallows and an iron skillet.”

Dylan let out a quiet breath of a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They stood there for a minute. Watching.

Dean didn’t say much. He just looked out at them like they were something fragile and on fire all at once. Like maybe they were the best thing that had ever happened in his house.

Quiet stretched between them.

Finally, Dylan stepped forward. He crossed the room soft and slow, like moving through something sacred.

He crouched down next to Sam, careful not to wake him. He didn’t touch him, just looked.

Watched the way Sam breathed, soft and even, hair falling in his eyes. Watched how his fingers twitched, still curled in Dylan’s hoodie like an anchor. Like he knew, even asleep, that this moment was different.

Dylan reached into his hoodie pocket. Pulled out the folded “custody schedule” from the night before - still creased, still ridiculous - and tucked it gently under Sam’s hand.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. “And if you’re not, you call.”

He stood slowly, heart dragging behind him.

Dean was waiting by the door, eyes on him. There was something in his expression. Not pride, not grief exactly. Just… full.

They walked to the porch together.

“If you ever need anything,” Dean said, pausing by the steps, “you don’t have to ask. You know that, right?”

Dylan nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Dean reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder, not rough, not performative. Just solid. “Drive safe, kid.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said again, voice catching. “You too.”

He stepped down onto the gravel, hands shaking just slightly. Climbed into the driver’s seat. Closed the door with more finality than he meant to.

The sun was just starting to rise.

His phone buzzed before he started the engine.

It was a text from Jake. A picture of all four of them in the den, curled into one another like instinct, Dylan crouched beside Sam, hand halfway to his shoulder. Underneath, caption: we’re still yours.

Dylan pressed a hand over his mouth. He sat there for a long moment. Then he started the car and hit the highway.

The road was open. The sun was rising.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was driving away from something.

He felt like he was driving with it. Right there - four loud, ridiculous, relentless little brothers - packed somewhere deep in his chest where they’d always stay.

Home Team.

Always.

____

The couch was too full. As usual.

Jake had somehow taken up three cushions for himself, legs draped over Ryan’s lap, a bowl of popcorn dangerously perched on his chest. Ryan didn’t even flinch anymore. Connor had wedged himself onto the far end with a notebook, a red pen, and the militant focus of someone pretending he wasn’t watching the clock. Sam sat on the floor, hoodie pulled over one knee, thumb running along the seam of his sock.

The TV was still paused on a movie they hadn’t finished. The air smelled like salt and sugar and old hoodie fabric. Outside, cicadas hummed in that late-summer way that made everything feel like the last five minutes of something.

Sam’s phone buzzed in his lap. The group chat lit up.

DYLAN: Status update: I have survived

Barely

I look like a deflated lawn ornament

Jake leaned over Ryan’s arm and jabbed the screen. “FaceTime him.”

“I’m trying,” Ryan said, already tapping the call button. “You’re such a menace.”

The screen flickered, and then Dylan appeared: hair damp, shirt clinging to his shoulder blades, sitting cross-legged on what was unmistakably a dorm bed with ugly beige walls and a laundry basket in the background.

“Okay,” Dylan said, not even bothering to say hi, “no one told me college players are built like trucks. ”

Jake gasped like he’d been personally offended. “Did you get body-slammed?”

“Multiple times,” Dylan replied proudly. “It was beautiful.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “Are you concussed right now?”

“Spiritually, yes,” Dylan said.

Ryan leaned into the frame. “Do they yell as much as Coach?”

“They yell smarter, ” Dylan said, flopping backward onto his pillow. “Like, ‘make your own choices, but if you fail it’s your fault’ energy. Very psychological warfare.”

Jake nodded. “So you’re thriving.”

“Debatable,” Dylan said, grinning.

They spiraled like that for a while - questions and jokes and attempts at roasting Dylan’s dorm furniture (Sam was quietly proud of his “That dresser looks like it was built to trap souls” comment). The sound of them all talking over each other filled the room in a way that felt almost normal. Almost like he hadn’t left at all.

Sam didn’t say much. He never had to, not with them.

But Dylan must’ve noticed anyway, because after a lull - after Jake had loudly declared war on campus vending machines and Connor had started drawing on the edge of his notebook - Dylan sat up again, his face inching closer to the screen.

“Sam?” he asked softly.

Sam blinked. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

Sam nodded. Then hesitated. His hands tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie. “Did it feel like home at all?”

The question landed and stuck. Something shifted in the room.

Dylan looked away for a second and exhaled. His voice was quieter when it came back. “Parts of it did,” he said. “Enough to start.”

Sam nodded again. His throat felt tight in a way that wasn’t bad. 

He didn’t say anything else. But Dylan smiled at him then, and it stayed.

The call didn’t last much longer after that. Jake fell off the couch and declared victory. Eventually, the screen filled with static and goodnights and the quiet kind of I miss yous that no one said out loud but everyone felt.

Sam didn’t hang up right away.

He sat there on the floor, staring at the blank screen long after it had gone dark. His fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve, chest aching in that quiet, full way that didn’t feel like fear anymore.

He didn’t know when exactly it had happened: when the silence stopped feeling like suspicion, when the whispers about the fall and the courthouse stopped echoing through every hallway. When the boys stopped being the ones who knew and became the ones who stayed. But somewhere in the mess of games and late nights and pancake breakfasts and porch confessions, it had changed.

He had changed.

Sam reached for the folded paper Dylan had left, the ridiculous “Sam Custody Schedule” written in four different inks and covered in Jake’s doodles.

He unfolded it slowly and smiled.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Sam let himself lean back against the couch and just breathe.

It wasn’t perfect. Nothing was.

But this was his life now. And he didn’t want to run from it.

____

Dean spotted the glow through the windshield before he ever opened the screen door.

The Impala was parked like always: front tire angled slightly too far left, gravel dust soft along the fender. She looked good in the moonlight. Solid. Quiet. Home.

But it wasn’t the car that made Dean pause halfway down the porch steps.

It was the figure curled in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows, feet pulled up on the bench like he was still small enough to fold that way. 

Sam. Not asleep, but close. His shoulders were loose, but his jaw still carried the weight of whatever was going on in that mind of his.

Dean didn’t call out or announce himself. He walked down the drive, letting the gravel shift under his boots, as if he made too much noise, the moment might break.

He opened the driver’s door and slid in without saying anything.

Dean rested his arms across the wheel and exhaled slowly. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

Sam shrugged without looking over. “Didn’t feel like trying.”

Dean nodded. He figured that was answer enough.

They sat in the stillness for a long minute. Not awkward, just quiet. The kind of quiet Sam didn’t run from anymore.

Then Dean asked, “Nervous?”

Another shrug. “Not like last year,” Sam said. “But… a little.”

Dean looked over at him, really looked.

Sam had grown again. His sleeves were too short, his hair too long, legs too much for the bench seat he used to barely reach. But it wasn’t just the size of him. It was the way he held himself now, like he knew who would catch him if he fell. Like he’d finally stopped bracing for the day someone didn’t come back.

Dean’s throat felt tight.

“That’s good,” he said. “Means you care.”

Sam didn’t reply, just shifted, leaning his head against the window.

Dean didn’t press.

Didn’t tell him what he’d been thinking all day: how the back-to-school shopping had felt less like preparing for battle this time, and more like setting up someone who knew how to fight for himself now. How Bobby had said, just that afternoon, He’s got roots now, Dean, and Dean had to pretend he wasn’t feeling every damn bit of it.

Then Sam spoke again, voice softer now. “What if this year’s harder?”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Then we get through it.”

Sam’s eyes flicked over to him, just for a second. Quiet. Trusting.

“Like we always do,” Dean added, voice steady.

Sam just nodded.

And Dean had to look away - out the windshield, up at the stars, anywhere but the kid beside him who’d somehow become the best damn thing he’d ever done without even trying.

He remembered that first night here. Not just passing through, not just crashing for a few days, but staying.

Sam had crawled into bed with him before the sun even came up. Dean had woken to a mumbled, “Sorry, De,” and the weight of a small, casted arm already curling against his chest.

He’d pulled Sam in without a word, arm slung protectively over the kid’s tiny frame, feeling the bones of him, the tension, the kind of fear that didn’t go away just because someone said you’re safe now.

Sam had clutched the amulet around Dean’s neck like it was the only thing keeping him here. Told Dean in a whisper about the dream. About John finding them, hurting Dean, taking Sam away again.

Dean had brushed his bangs back and told him no one was taking him anywhere. Not again.

And then Sam had asked, voice barely there: “So you’re not gonna leave again?”

Dean had kissed the top of his head - never, baby - and meant it with every inch of his soul.

He still meant it.

That boy, bruised and scared and quietly holding his breath, was still in there. But now, tonight, Dean could see what he’d become. Taller, stronger, still soft in the ways that mattered. Sitting beside him in the Impala, not because he had nowhere else to go, but because this was still the place he felt safest.

Dean looked over again when he felt the weight of Sam’s head pressing against his shoulder. And when Sam leaned the rest of the way into him, quiet and unafraid, Dean turned, dipped his head, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“You’ve got this, Sammy,” he murmured.

Sam didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away.

So Dean stayed where he was, arm curled around the kid who’d once asked if he was going to leave again. And who now, years and miles and one blue cast later, finally knew the answer.

Never.