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Chapter Text

The locker room still smelled like old turf tape and sweat, even though they hadn’t played a real game since their last fall scrimmage three months ago.

It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just different.

Fall had come and gone in a blur of early-morning fog and cleats on frozen turf. With Dylan at college, they initially felt less like a wildfire and more like a slow burn. Jake cracked more jokes to make up for the silence. Ryan tightened drills until they felt like punishment. Connor hovered in the gaps, filling roles no one asked him to, keeping Sam from slipping back into the version of himself that stayed too quiet. They weren’t broken, but just incomplete. 

And Sam, though he didn’t say it out loud, missed his big brother in the way a compass misses north. Even when they were winning, even when things were going well, the ache remained.

Dylan was still there. He texted. He called whenever he could, often from a dorm hallway filled with yelling or a cafeteria with terrible lighting and echoey ceilings. He sent clips of his goals and terrible cafeteria pizza, selfies with the caption pray for my GPA, and voice memos that ranged from pep talks to weirdly sincere reminders to stretch. He was still there. Still in it. Just... far.

They found a new rhythm, a four-person kind of normal, stitched together with late-night group chats, half-burnt waffles, and inside jokes no one else would ever understand. It wasn’t the same without Dylan, but it still worked. It still felt like home, most days. They were still best friends. Still brothers. (Except for the ferret incident. They had been permanently banned from talking about that.)

There were two glorious weeks in December when Dylan had come back for break - boots thudding on the porch, hair longer, grin louder, like he’d never left at all. They all stayed up too late watching film and arguing over warmups, all five of them practically living on Sam's living room floor. It felt like the world snapped back into place.

But now it was January again. The wind was mean, the field was frozen, and Dylan was back at college. His absence wasn’t sharp anymore, not like the first month, but it still thudded in the chest sometimes, quiet and steady. Like a bruise just beneath the surface.

But some things, like the smell of the locker room, never changed.

Sam sat on the edge of the second bench, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, cleats swinging just above the tile. He’d outgrown this particular hoodie over winter break, but he wore it anyway. It was worn-in and familiar, the cuffs were chewed soft, and the logo was nearly faded off the chest. Around him, the returning players clustered into loose groups; half of them sprawled like it was homeroom, the other half sitting like Coach might start quizzing them on tactics and grit any second.

The whiteboard at the front still had the fading ghost of last year’s lineup scrawled in red marker, like a memory someone had tried to erase but couldn’t quite forget. Just below it, taped in slightly crooked printout form:

Preseason Planning - Spring Tryouts 2 Weeks Out.

Ryan leaned against the wall by the door, arms folded, earbuds slung around his neck like punctuation. Jake was backward in a chair, chin resting on the backrest, doodling spirals into a Gatorade label with a pen that was probably stolen from the library. Connor sat cross-legged on top of an unused ball cart, humming under his breath and tapping out a rhythm on his knee pads.

“You guys think Coach will finally upgrade our warm-up playlist this year?” Connor asked, stretching his legs out like a kid on a jungle gym.

Ryan snorted. “You mean, will he stop punishing us with off-brand techno from 2010? No chance.”

“I heard he added Nickelback to it,” Jake said with mock horror.

Sam blinked. “That actually might be worse.”

Connor smirked and pointed at Sam. “See? Sam gets it. He has taste.”

“I do,” Sam said, deadpan. “Which is why I bring my own headphones.”

Jake yawned and tossed his peeled Gatorade label at Connor’s face. “You’re all cowards. You haven’t truly trained until you’ve done suicides to dubstep bagpipes.”

That got a laugh. Even Sam managed a grin, small and fleeting, but real. He liked this version of the team: loose, joking, rough around the edges, but soft in ways no one said out loud.

The door creaked open. Coach stepped in, still wearing the same battered windbreaker and track pants he’d probably worn since his first day on the job. Clipboard in one hand and his whistle around his neck, even indoors. His presence shifted the air instantly.

Conversations all around the locker room died mid-sentence. Sam sat up a little straighter without meaning to.

Coach cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s keep this short. Tryouts are in two weeks. Conditioning’s been solid. Returning players are expected to lead drills and help evaluate potential roster additions. Anyone dicking around gets booted, understood?”

Scattered nods, a few half-hearted “yes, Coach” replies.

“Good,” he said. “Now for captains.”

Sam felt it like a thread snapping taut in his chest. No way. He hadn’t even considered-

“We’re running two this season.”

Wait. What?

“Ryan’s stepping up as one of the upperclassmen.”

Ryan was a choice that was predictable and deserved. Everyone clapped, some louder than others. Ryan gave a small, easy nod and didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms tighter like he’d been expecting it since fall.

“And the second,” Coach paused, just long enough to make Sam’s pulse stutter. “-is Sam.”

The silence hit like a body check.

Sam blinked. “What?”

Coach didn’t repeat himself. He just handed Sam and Ryan a clipboard and dropped his gaze to his own, scribbling something in the margin, already moving on.

Sam’s ears burned. His stomach turned over, low and twisting, like he’d just gotten the wind knocked out of him and his body forgot how to refill.

Captain? No. Not him.

He was a sophomore. He’d barely kept himself upright by the end of last season, pushing through games until his legs gave out and the monitor blinked yellow. He wasn’t loud. Wasn’t fearless. Wasn’t Dylan.

His voice barely worked. “Uh… Coach?”

But Jake beat him to it.

“I’m not really what they would call a leadership type,” Jake said dryly, raising his hands like he was offering himself for sacrifice. “You don’t want me talking to refs. Or people. Or anything, honestly.”

That earned a round of laughter, the tension snapping just a little.

Coach didn’t even glance up. “Exactly why you’re not captain.”

Sam opened his mouth again. Nothing came out.

The locker room felt warped, like someone had stretched it a few degrees off-kilter. His heartbeat was in his ears. It wasn't racing or wrong, but just loud. He couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough.

Then Ryan stepped forward. He didn’t say anything at first, crossing the room and giving Sam a light smack on the back. Not hard, but grounding.

“It’s kind of hard to captain from the goal during a game,” Ryan said, voice calm and clear. “So having two makes sense.”

He paused.

“Plus, you deserve it, Winchester.”

The words landed like an anchor tossed into deep water. Steady. Surprising. A little bit holy.

Sam didn’t know what to say. He didn’t trust himself to try. So he just nodded, hands still curled tight in his sleeves.

Coach clapped the edge of the whiteboard with the corner of his clipboard. “Tryouts are coming. Let’s make this season count.”

And just like that, it was over.

Chairs scraped and bags rustled. The other boys on the team were stuffing shin guards into their bags, pulling on jackets, and arguing about which playlist they wouldn't let Coach use.

The buzz under his ribs hadn’t faded. It wasn’t a bad feeling. At least, he didn't think so. It wasn't panic, it wasn't that flutter he would get before his heart monitor blinked yellow. It was something deeper. Warmer. Heavier. Like the world had tilted a little and pointed straight at him.

Captain. It didn’t feel real.

​​The cold hit Sam in the face the second the locker room door swung shut behind him.

Late January in South Dakota didn’t believe in easing you into anything. The sky was that flat gray that never quite turned to snow, the air sharp enough to sting his cheeks, and the wind threaded straight through his hoodie like it wasn’t even there.

He hunched into himself, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and starting across the gravel lot. His cleats clicked against the concrete for the first few steps before he switched to walking on the edges of his soles, trying to keep the noise down like it might draw more attention.

His breath fogged in front of him, and each exhale was uneven.

Captain.

The word was still bouncing around in his skull, clunky and impossible. Every time he thought it had settled, it rattled loose again, sharp-edged and surreal. 

He’d have to tell his dad. He could already hear the teasing. Not mean - never mean - but surprised. A little too proud. A little too close to the bone.

He wasn’t ready for that.

He wasn’t sure he was ready for any of it.

“Winchester!”

Connor’s voice cut through the wind; familiar, grounding, loud enough to be heard but not enough to startle.

Sam didn’t turn, but he slowed, his stride softening until Connor caught up. A second later, Connor fell into step beside him, his letterman jacket zipped up, hands jammed into the pockets like the fabric might hold him together.

“You good?” he asked, shoulder-bumping Sam lightly. “You dipped out of there like someone said ‘pop quiz.’”

Sam gave a half-shrug, eyes on the cracked pavement. “Didn’t think he was gonna say my name, that’s all.”

Connor snorted. “Yeah, neither did I.”

Sam turned to look at him, caught between alarmed and offended, but Connor was grinning like he’d just poked a bear and was proud of himself for surviving.

“Kidding,” Connor added, bumping into him again. “I figured it’d be you. Coach doesn’t hand out clipboards for fun.”

“I thought he was gonna pick Jake.”

“Jake,” Connor said flatly, “told a JV player last week that we only run suicides when someone breaks an unspoken code of honor. Like we’re in the mafia.”

Sam let out a startled huff of laughter, breath fogging the air in a quick burst. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah, well,” Connor said, “I think the freshman is still waiting for someone to be whacked.”

They kept walking, boots crunching in sync over old salt and frozen gravel, the sky hanging low and heavy over the parking lot.

Sam’s steps faltered. “You really think it makes sense?”

Connor raised a brow. “What, Coach’s choice?”

“Me,” Sam clarified, voice lower now. “Being captain.”

Connor didn’t answer right away. He kicked a chunk of packed snow out of his path, the scuffed toe of his cleat slicing it clean.

“You’re gonna be good at it,” he said eventually, like it was just a fact.

Sam didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t find the right words. There was something under his ribs again, like pressure without pain. That strange tilt he couldn’t name.

Connor kept going. “You see the field better than anyone. You don’t scream just to be loud. People listen when you talk.”

Sam blinked at that. “They do?”

“Yeah, man,” Connor said. “They do, especially the JV players. You’re like… mysterious and capable. You know. The kind of guy who could take down a bear with a bungee cord and a stare.”

Sam cracked a small smile. “That’s a weirdly specific image.”

“I’m saying it’s a vibe.”

Sam shook his head, amused despite himself. “They’re not impressed. They’re scared of me.”

“They’re impressed because they’re scared,” Connor corrected. “You pulled the whole season together last year after almost passing out mid-game, what, three times?”

“Twice.”

“Plus the midfield shot.”

“That was one time.”

“And the injury that won us state, in case you forgot about that.”

“Connor-”

Connor held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying: if anyone’s earned it, it’s you.”

Sam nudged a half-frozen leaf with the toe of his boot, watching it skate along the blacktop toward the storm drain. “It feels too early,” he said finally. “Like I skipped a step.”

“You didn’t,” Connor said, no hesitation. “You just got here faster.”

They reached the far edge of the lot where Connor’s truck was parked. It was a dented silver thing that had probably survived five different teenage drivers and twice as many winters. The windows were fogged up from the inside. A half-eaten protein bar was still on the dashboard.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Sam stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. His voice was quieter now. “You ever get that thing where you can tell something’s coming before it happens?”

Connor blinked. “Like deja vu?”

“Sort of.”

Connor tilted his head, considering. “Only when Jake says he has a plan. Why?”

Sam hesitated. The wind picked up and stole the silence right out of the space between them.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just… never mind.”

Connor didn’t push. He nodded, like he understood there was more to that question than Sam was ready to unpack. He jangled his keys as he headed toward the driver’s side, then paused with one hand on the door.

“Are you coming, or are you planning to dramatically walk home in the snow like a sad indie movie protagonist?”

Sam blinked. “I was gonna-”

“You’re fifteen,” Connor said, eyebrows up. “Unless you’ve got a fake license and a getaway car stashed behind the bleachers?”

Sam huffed. “I could’ve walked.”

Connor shrugged. “Sure. And I could let you. But then I’d have to explain to Coach why our brand-new team captain froze to death on Main Street. Plus, your dad is scary, and I don’t feel like getting murdered today.”

Sam rolled his eyes but crossed to the passenger side and climbed in. The truck creaked a little under the shift in weight, old and familiar and full of someone else’s snack wrappers in the cupholder. The vents kicked out stale heat that smelled faintly like fast food and whatever Jake had spilled back in October.

“You guys act like I’m helpless.”

“Nah,” Connor said, sliding behind the wheel. “Just underage.”

Sam buckled in with a sigh. “It’s not that weird. I’m only a grade behind you.”

“You’re practically a baby,” Connor teased. “Which means until your birthday rolls around, we drive, you ride, and nobody gives you real shit about it.”

Sam gave him a look. “You give me a little shit.”

Connor grinned. “Yeah, but only the affectionate kind.”

They pulled out of the lot, tires crunching over frozen gravel, the truck rattling. Outside, the town looked soft and gray, the horizon smeared with low-hanging clouds. Inside, the cab was warm enough to breathe easily.

Connor reached over to flip on the radio. “So, real talk: do we fight Coach on the warm-up playlist this year, or just surrender to the chaos?”

Sam leaned back, watching the houses blur past his window.

“Let’s fight him,” he said.

Connor grinned. “Knew I made the right call backing you.”

And for the first time all afternoon, Sam let himself believe it.

By the time Connor pulled up in front of the house, dusk had folded into full-on winter dark. The porch light spilled a wide amber circle across the front steps, catching on the edge of the snow piles his dad had shoveled two days ago. The house looked small from the outside, quiet and unremarkable. But to Sam, it still felt like the only place in the world where he could let go of the breath he was holding.

Connor coasted to a stop with the easy rumble of the old truck and leaned across the seat as Sam popped the passenger door open.

“Tell your dad I didn’t break you,” Connor called.

Sam huffed. “You only emotionally terrorized me a little.”

Connor grinned, flashing teeth. “All part of the job. Later, Captain.”

Sam groaned at the word, flipping him off half-heartedly as the truck pulled away. The red glow of tail lights faded behind the bare-limbed trees that lined the yard.

He stood at the edge of the porch for a moment, hoodie zipped to the chin, hands still jammed in his pockets like that might be enough to hold him together.

Captain.

It didn’t feel like it fit. Not yet.

He wasn’t the loudest guy on the team. Wasn’t the strongest. He still didn’t have a driver’s license. And when Coach had said his name, it hadn’t felt triumphant, it had felt like a mistake that everyone was too polite to correct.

But Connor hadn’t flinched. And neither had Ryan. Or Jake. 

He took a deep breath, then let himself into the house.

It was warm and familiar inside. The kind of lived-in comfort that wrapped around him like a hoodie fresh from the dryer. The air smelled faintly like takeout and motor oil, like Dad had been eating in the garage again, and the radio from out there was still playing some classic rock track low and scratchy in the background.

Sam took off his boots by the door and slung his backpack down next to them. The clipboard still inside felt like a weight he hadn’t earned yet.

He padded down the hall toward the kitchen, socks silent on the floor.

Dad was already there, hunched over the kitchen table in his flannel and jeans, sorting through a stack of mail like he was personally offended by every envelope. He looked up when Sam came in, eyes doing that quick top-to-bottom scan that always made Sam feel oddly safer, even if it was just instinct now.

“You eat before practice?” Dad asked.

Sam nodded. “Connor had snacks in the truck.”

“Good. Don’t let him feed you nothing but vending machine trash.”

“I didn’t.”

Dad grunted approvingly. “Uncle Bobby made a casserole for dinner. Go eat,” he said, eyes back on a credit card bill.

Sam hovered for a second near the counter, then pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. He fidgeted with the edge of his hoodie sleeve, the familiar nerves coiling in his chest, tight and twitchy, like the flutter right before a game started.

He hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. But he knew if he didn’t, the moment would pass, and he’d hate himself for letting it.

“I, uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “Coach picked captains today.”

Dad’s hand froze halfway through sorting the mail. He looked up again, slower this time. “Yeah?”

“Ryan’s one of them. Which makes sense.”

Dad nodded once. “Sure.”

Sam curled his hands tighter into his sleeves. “I’m the other one.”

The words landed like a dropped wrench.

For a second, Dad just looked at him. No jokes, no smirks, no raised eyebrows like he was waiting for a punchline.

Just quiet, steady recognition.

Sam could feel his pulse in his throat. His palms were warm. His shoulders were tense.

Then Dad sat back, the old kitchen chair creaking under his weight, and gave the kind of nod that felt like approval and understanding, and I see you all in one.

“Well,” he said, voice soft but sure, “guess he’s not as dumb as he looks.”

Sam let out a breath. It escaped like laughter, thin and crooked.

“It’s probably just because Jake didn’t want it,” Sam mumbled, eyes flicking down to the grain on the table.

Dad gave him a pointed look. “Jake once duct-taped his shin guards to the outside of his socks.”

“…Okay. Fair.”

Dad leaned in again, forearms braced on the table, eyes never leaving him now. “You earned it, Sammy. And not just ’cause you show up. You hold people together. You keep the team moving. You make ‘em better. That’s what a captain does.”

Sam swallowed hard. His throat felt tight in the way it sometimes did after big wins or long practices or when someone said something real and didn’t try to back out of it afterward.

“I don’t even have my license yet,” he said, like that disqualified him somehow. Like being fifteen and barely finished growing should cancel out the vote of confidence from an entire coaching staff.

Dad smirked. “Captain of the field, not the highway. One thing at a time.”

Sam managed a shaky smile.

Dad didn’t say anything more right away. He just reached over to the drawer next to the fridge, fished out a dull pen, and tore a corner off an old pizza coupon. He scribbled something quickly and slid it across the table.

Sam picked it up and turned it over.

CAPTAIN WINCHESTER

Underlined three times. A smiley face drawn next to it, complete with cleats and a tiny clipboard.

Sam stared at it for a long second. Then, he gently folded it in half and tucked it into his hoodie pocket like it was something worth keeping.

Because it was. Because Dad had made it.

Dad stood up and opened the fridge. “You want orange soda or root beer to celebrate?”

Sam blinked. “Both?”

His dad handed him the root beer first.

After dinner, Sam lingered at the kitchen table longer than he needed to, peeling the corner of a napkin into tight spirals. Dad had gone back to the garage to mess with the heater fan again, leaving him with a ruffle of his hair and a proud grin.

Sam slipped upstairs with a can of orange soda and retreated to his room.

The clipboard was still in his backpack. His hoodie still smelled faintly like turf from earlier. And his brain? Still looping Captain like a word he wasn’t allowed to wear out loud.

But he couldn’t not tell Dylan.

He flopped onto his bed, thumbed open his phone, and typed it plain.

SAM: made captain

The read receipt popped up immediately.

Then nothing.

Then-

DYLAN: What

WHAT

We’re Facetiming right now

The screen lit up before Sam could even sigh.

He hit accept.

There was Dylan, already dramatic and mid-rant, shirtless and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it was a microphone.

“You texted me?” Dylan yelled. “You made captain, and you texted me?”

“I’ve been home for like ten minutes,” Sam said.

“Unacceptable! Unbelievable! We’ve shared Gatorade bottles. I let you use my shin guards, man.”

Before Sam could reply, the screen split with a cheerful ding, and Ryan’s face filled half the screen. Hood up, lounging against his headboard, the image kind of blurry but unmistakably smug.

“Oh my god,” Dylan muttered. “You knew already.”

Ryan just grinned. “Yup.”

Another chime. Then Jake, horizontal, upside down, camera pointed at his ceiling fan.

“We found out at the pre-season meeting today,” Jake said. “Sam froze like a startled cat when he said your name.”

“I didn’t-” Sam started, then gave up.

Another chime sounded.

Connor popped into the frame with his phone propped against a stack of textbooks and a protein bar in his mouth. “He didn’t just freeze,” he said, chewing. “He just forgot how to speak for, like, eight seconds.”

“You know too?” Dylan gasped, scandalized. “You all know?”

“You're at college,” Ryan said, exasperated.

“You mean to tell me,” Dylan said slowly, “that my son, my prodigy, my beloved soccer gremlin, got made captain and I was the last to know?”

Connor raised his eyebrows. “Did he just call you his gremlin?”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Sam muttered.

Jake chimed in lazily. “It’s definitely in the top three weirdest things he’s said.”

“Okay,” Dylan cut back in, pointing at the camera with his granola bar. “Tell me everything. How’d it happen? Did Coach give a speech? Did Ryan cry?”

Ryan flipped him off without looking.

Sam hesitated. Then he grinned. He couldn’t help it. “It was just the preseason meeting. Coach said he wanted two captains. Ryan and I.”

Dylan beamed, big and bright and almost too much through the screen. “Damn right he did.”

“Connor gave him a ride home,” Jake added helpfully. “Didn’t want him freezing to death and making headlines.”

“Plus,” Connor said, deadpan, “your dad’s got that look, the one that says he buries bodies alphabetically. I wasn’t taking chances.”

Ryan laughed. Sam flushed but didn’t deny it.

The call kept going. Dylan demanded to see the clipboard. Jake tried to convince him to sign it like it was a yearbook. Connor started a fake chant in the group chat: CAP-TAAIN SAM! CAP-TAAIN RYAN! CLIP-BOAARD BOYS!

Even Ryan got in on it, snapping a blurry screenshot and sending it with the caption: Your local benevolent dictator.

Sam shook his head, grinning so hard it hurt. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. He watched the screen shuffle and blur, listened to the familiar noise of his people, his team, and let it sink in.

Outside in the hallway, Dean passed by his closed door and slowed at the sound of laughter - loud, real, and effortless. He stood there a moment, smiling to himself.

Then kept walking.

Inside, Sam rolled onto his back and held the phone above his head like it was too much to carry on his chest.

He still didn’t know what kind of captain he was going to be. But in that moment, surrounded by noise and teasing and love, he thought: maybe the kind who didn’t have to carry it alone.

____

The house was asleep.

Dad had retired to his room a while ago. Rumsfeld had settled somewhere downstairs, tail thudding once when Sam passed earlier, but otherwise still. Uncle Bobby was held up in the study, researching a hunt for Rufus. Even the refrigerator had stopped its periodic wheezing, like the whole house had agreed to hold its breath.

But Sam couldn’t sleep.

He’d tried. Twice.

Pajamas on. Teeth brushed. Phone turned facedown like a shield. He’d flopped onto his side, then his back, then his other side. Nothing stuck. His limbs were heavy but restless. His thoughts were loud. His heart kept skipping like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to beat or pause.

His chest didn’t hurt, but it felt full, like he was breathing through cotton. Like every inhale had to wait in line behind ten others.

He hated this feeling. The in-between. The not-right.

So now he sat at the window. Hoodie zipped, knees hugged to his chest. His forehead was pressed to the cold glass as if that might drain off the buzzing just under his skin.

Outside, the street was winter-soft. Wind moving lazily through the trees, brittle branches creaking. A porch light flickered down the block. Harmless.

He let his eyes drift to the nearer streetlamp.

Buzz. Buzz.

The lamp flickered once. Then again, a slow, deliberate stutter.

And at first, Sam thought nothing of it. South Dakota power lines weren’t exactly reliable, especially in the cold. 

But something under his skin was already tightening.

And then it hit. Not the light. Him.

It was like getting yanked backward out of his own body, an electric snap at the base of his skull. The world tilted. His stomach dropped like an elevator with the cables cut. Light fractured behind his eyes.

And suddenly, he was somewhere else. Not fully, but enough.

The vision crashed into him in pieces, jagged and fast:

Cleats skidding on damp grass.

A freshman - too small, still learning - falling hard, one leg twisted beneath him.

A flash of green laces.

The slap of bone on wet turf.

A cry: short, sharp, surprised.

Mud. Cold.

A delayed snap that echoed like it was right next to him.

Sam jerked back from the window with a choked gasp.

His head slammed into the drywall. The room swam. He scrambled to the floor without meaning to, knees drawn up, hands shaking so badly he could barely zip the hoodie tighter.

His heart was pounding like it was trying to fight its way out.

“No,” he whispered. “No. No, no, no-”

His voice cracked at the edges. The word didn’t feel like his.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his forehead to his knees, and curled up smaller.

It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened yet.

That was the worst part.

It wasn’t a dream. Not a nightmare, not a flashback to something real. It was something that hadn’t happened, a flicker of something he wasn't supposed to know. 

And that meant it was back.

His powers. His visions.

His curse, if you asked the wrong people.

The last time he’d felt anything like this was the fall of his freshman year, when Callaghan was still out there, when everything had been sharp and dangerous and too much. Since then, things had been quiet. Manageable. He’d let himself believe that part of him had gone dormant again. Maybe it had burned itself out with the rest of his adrenaline.

But this was real.

He recognized the feeling like an old friend. The sudden cold behind the eyes. The heavy silence that settled in after, like the air was waiting for something to happen.

His fingers dug into the hem of his hoodie. His breath rattled in his throat. The buzzing wouldn’t stop. He felt wrong, like his skin didn’t quite fit.

What if this wasn’t a one-off? What if this was the start of something? What if it got worse again? What if he missed something and someone got hurt?

What if Dad noticed?

He sat there for a long time, curled in the narrow space between the wall and the window. Listening to nothing. Watching the shadows in his room like they might move if he blinked.

He didn’t fall asleep. He didn’t even try.

____

The parking lot at school still hadn’t fully thawed. Patches of old snow clung to the corners like forgotten homework, and the rest was gravel and blacktop stained with road salt. Sam stood on the pitch near the far bench, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, breath fogging in front of him as he watched the wind tug at the corner of the cone layout he’d triple-checked before anyone else had shown up.

He wasn’t usually this early, but he couldn’t stay in bed this morning. Couldn’t sit still.

His brain felt like it had run three miles without telling his body. Every thought came with too many what-ifs trailing behind it.

He still hadn’t told anyone about the vision. Not Dad, not Uncle Bobby. 

Part of him didn’t want to believe it had happened.

But the image kept flickering behind his eyes: cleats, green laces, the fall. It felt like watching an hourglass turn. He didn’t know when it would hit, only that it would. And when it did, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

Voices broke through the fog, laughter and bickering that could only belong to the one group of idiots he trusted.

Jake’s voice came first. “This is the dumbest weather. I swear to God, it’s colder now than it was at Christmas.”

“You chose to wear Vans in January,” Ryan muttered.

“Hey, my ankles breathe better when they’re frostbitten.”

Connor was the first to spot him. “Winchester, you trying to pretend you slept here?”

Sam blinked, shook himself back to the moment. The three of them were standing in front of him now, the rest of the team scattering across the field.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” he said, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Too wound up, I guess.”

It came out casual. Believable. He even managed to look tired in a way that read normal.

Jake raised a brow. “You look like someone hit pause mid-blink.”

“Thanks for that,” Sam said dryly.

Ryan had stopped beside him and was scanning the field with his usual goalie-level intensity. “You want to run warm-ups today?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, pulling the folded paper from his hoodie pocket and handing it over. “Got everything on a schedule. Color-coded. Don’t judge me.”

Connor peered over Ryan’s shoulder. “He actually did it. Look at this. ‘Station A: Passing under pressure, modified diamond, three-man rotation.’ Are you applying for college or just captaining us?”

“I multitask,” Sam muttered.

He could feel his pulse in his temples. 

Not now, not now, not now.  

But the laugh the guys gave him was real and familiar. It bought him a few more seconds of normal.

Jake flopped down dramatically on the bench. “I’ll take whatever involves the least physical exertion and the highest chance of yelling at someone.”

“That’s Station D,” Sam said, almost without thinking. “Supervising reaction drills.”

“Perfect.” Jake snapped. “I’ll bring my throne.”

Connor snorted. Ryan rolled his eyes. The cold wasn’t biting as sharply anymore, and the nerves in Sam’s chest started to untangle just enough for him to stand straighter.

The newcomers were starting to arrive now: awkward, quiet, tripping over their bags and cones and nerves. One of them, he spotted, had bright green laces threaded through his cleats.

Sam’s stomach flipped. He looked away fast, pretending to count cones, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Connor stepped beside him. “Hey.”

Sam turned.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice lower now, not joking.

Sam held his breath for a second too long before nodding. “Just tired.”

Connor didn’t push. He never did. But he clapped Sam lightly on the back and said, “You’ve got this. Let’s go boss some terrified children around.”

And, somehow, that made it better.

Sam gave one last glance at the kid with the green laces. He was still upright. Still fine.

Then he clapped his hands and called for warm-ups to start, Ryan telling the returners where to go. Sam was still holding his breath, but at least he was moving.

The team moved like muscle memory: Ryan herding a group of returning players toward the sideline to stretch, Connor wrangling a cluster of nervous freshmen who were all looking at the cones like they might be traps. Jake had already started mock-sprinting around Station D like he was training for a drama competition.

Sam walked the perimeter slowly, clipboard tucked against his side, eyes scanning every face. It wasn’t even conscious at first. Just counting. Tracking. Waiting.

Warm-ups ran longer than usual, the cold making everything stiff, nerves doing the rest.

Connor took the lead for Station B, half because he was closest, and half because he had that Dylan tone in his voice when he wanted it. Confident, loose, and kind of obnoxious in a way that made people listen without realizing they were listening.

Connor clapped his hands. “Alright, grab a partner. Defending under pressure. If you can’t talk, at least point like your life depends on it.”

Someone groaned. Someone else dropped their jacket.

Connor grinned. “If you cramp, hydrate. If you puke, hydrate. If you cry, also hydrate.”

There was a beat of silence, then a laugh from one of the new kids.

Sam blinked. That line, Dylan had said that. Last year, during the first week of practice. He’d shouted it across the field while pretending to coach with a whistle made out of a juice box straw. Everyone remembered. No one corrected it.

Connor caught Sam’s eye briefly and shrugged, kept going. Sam didn’t say anything, but something eased behind his ribs.

The freshman with the green laces was at Station A, paired with two other kids who looked equally overwhelmed. He was tall for a freshman, all arms and knees and uncertainty, with a windburned nose and a too-big jacket tied around his waist. His hair stuck out under his beanie in stubborn curls.

He looked like a kid. Just a kid.

Sam’s throat went dry.

He kept moving.

“Alright!” he called. “Pass-and-go drill first. Focus on timing, not power. Eyes up. Communication matters.”

The ball rolled, and cleats shuffled. Shouts rose in uneven bursts as the first passes started flying.

After five minutes, he felt the shift in the air. A sharp buzz of something behind his ribs.

Sam froze mid-step.

The kid with the green laces stepped forward. His foot landed wrong, a split-second too far left. Sam saw the twist before it happened. His mouth opened, and he didn’t even know what he meant to say, but the yell was already coming.

The kid’s ankle rolled. He went down hard, body twisting, leg catching underneath him.

Exactly like the vision.

Sam called for the drill to stop, his voice coming out sharp and short. 

Ryan was already jogging over from the other side of the field. One of the freshmen shouted for Coach. The kid on the ground cursed softly and tried to sit up, only to hiss and grab his ankle with both hands.

“I got it,” Sam said, already moving.

He crouched beside the kid, adrenaline in his throat, every nerve still lit up with that awful sense of I knew.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice lower now.

The kid winced. “It-yeah. I think I rolled it. I didn’t even see, I just stepped weird.”

Coach knelt beside him a second later, already waving over one of the student trainers. “Don’t move. Stay down until we check it.”

Sam backed away slowly, watching the trainer wrap ice in a towel and elevate the kid’s leg. The others kept practicing. Connor gave him a subtle nod from across the field. Jake offered a theatrical grimace and mimed a cartoon fall to lighten the mood for the younger players.

At the end of tryouts, Sam sat on the far end of the bench, clipboard resting loose in his hands. His fingers had gone still. His breath fogged in front of him, faint and uneven.

He’d seen it.

Not imagined. Not feared. Not suspected.

Seen it.

The twist, the fall, the snap of the ankle - not a break, thank God - but still exactly like the image in his mind. Every frame matched. He could feel it still buzzing behind his eyes, like a reel stuck on loop. He’d tried to warn him, but it hadn’t been loud enough. Fast enough. Real enough.

What if next time he saw something worse? What if he froze again?

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to rub the memory away, but it clung like mud.

He had told himself this was over: the visions, the flashes. He thought they’d burned out when Callaghan was taken down. He thought maybe he'd get to be normal now. Just a sophomore. Just a kid.

But this wasn’t normal.

And it hadn’t stopped.

The cold on the bench froze his legs. He stayed there long after most of the others had cleared out. The field lights buzzed once, then dimmed with a tired flicker.

Eventually, footsteps crunched behind him.

“You coming?” Connor asked, voice softer than usual.

Sam blinked and stood, stuffing the clipboard under one arm like it might make him look less frozen. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I just spaced out.”

Connor didn’t push; he just nodded and turned toward the truck. Sam followed.

They walked in silence across the frozen gravel lot, boots crunching in sync. The sky was the same dull gray as before practice, but the air had turned colder. Sharper. Like it knew something had shifted.

Connor stopped at the passenger side and leaned against the door instead of getting in right away. He reached into the front seat and pulled out a half-mashed protein bar from the cupholder, offering it with a sideways glance.

“Refueling,” he said. “Coach’s orders.”

Sam took it without thinking and peeled the wrapper with stiff fingers. He didn’t bite right away.

Connor tapped his knuckles lightly against the doorframe. “Are you really okay?”

Sam didn’t lie, not exactly.

“I just need to get some real sleep tonight,” he said.

Connor stood there a second longer, nodding slowly, watching him in that quiet, weighty way Connor had when he was taking in more than he said.

Then, finally, he spoke. “Alright.”

They climbed in. The truck groaned as it started up, heater coughing before it settled into a low hum.

Neither of them talked on the drive. When they reached the house, Sam reached for the door handle and paused.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, not looking over.

Connor nodded, gaze still on the windshield. “Anytime, Captain.”

Sam stepped out, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, the guilt still curling low and warm in his chest.

He hadn’t stopped it.

He hadn’t told anyone.

And he didn’t know which part was worse.

____

The house was dark that night.

Not the warm, settled kind of dark, the kind with distant TV sounds or the faint hum of laundry finishing downstairs. This was deeper. Still, like the whole place had pulled a blanket over its head and dared him to do the same.

Sam didn’t move.

He sat on the floor next to his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled down over clenched fists, knees drawn up like scaffolding to keep himself steady. The carpet beneath him was cool against his socks. The air in his room smelled like detergent and pencil shavings and the half-faded pine of the old dresser Uncle Bobby helped him refinish over summer.

His phone sat in his hands, the screen glowing softly against the dark. It was the only light left on.

He’d opened Dylan’s contact first out of instinct, not intention. Dylan always answered. Always listened. He wouldn’t laugh, he wouldn’t panic.

But Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t send it.

What would he even say? Hey, so you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but ghosts and demons and every bad thing you’ve ever heard about are real. Also, I’m a psychic freak who sees things before they happen. 

He opened his dad’s contact instead. He could tell him. Dad would listen. He wouldn’t freak out, not right away. He’d sit next to him on the edge of the bed and say Okay, we’ll figure it out, like he always did.

But Sam could already hear the change in his voice. The new edge. The way Dad’s hand might grip the couch cushion a little tighter. The way he'd start checking Sam’s eyes more closely in the morning, watching his breath when he slept. Listening too long when Sam didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t want to be watched again. He didn’t want to be worried about. He didn’t want to be a burden.

Not now. Not when things were finally - finally - normal.

He was a captain. He hadn’t missed any school since the courthouse. He was running drills, managing practices, and helping the JV players fix their cleats.

No one looked at him sideways anymore when he came up winded. No one asked if he needed to sit out or if his heart monitor was on. He had a place. A rhythm. And if he broke it…

He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t want to find out.

He stared at the empty message bubble.

Typed: hey. can we talk about something weird?

Then sat there, watching the letters glow. Watching the arrow. Then he pressed backspace, one key at a time, like erasing the thought might un-think it.

He set the phone down screen-first. His hand shook a little. 

He reached under the bed and pulled out the notebook Missouri had given him last year: leather cover, soft binding, a little worn at the edges.

He hadn’t opened it in months.

Not since Callaghan. Not since the last time a vision had left him sobbing in his dad’s room and ended with him bleeding on a courthouse floor.

He flipped past the filled pages. Sketches. Emergency notes. Vision logs.

Found a blank one.

Wrote:

Vision - sophomore tryouts

flashes only. no pain.

sideline. freshman.

no blood. no voice. just images.

I could’ve warned him. I didn’t.

I don’t think I should tell anyone.

not yet.

He paused. Tapped the pen against the paper once.

Then added:

If I say it out loud, it’s real.

And beneath that:

I can handle it. I have to.

He didn’t write any more. He didn’t reread it. He closed the notebook and shoved it back under the bed, climbed up, curled under the covers, and let the darkness settle back around him like a second skin.

He didn’t sleep, but at least he didn’t tell.

____

The kitchen was warm in the early morning, but not loud.

No music. No morning radio. Just the pop of the toaster, the low hum of the fridge, and the faint tap of Rumsfeld’s nails as he settled by the back door. Outside, the sky was that dull winter gray that made the clock feel slow, and the house felt too still for a school morning.

Dean flipped the eggs in the pan. Two, over easy. Sam’s favorite. He’d already buttered the toast like he always did (before Sam even came downstairs).

He glanced at the hallway.

“Sammy,” he called out, but not loudly. “You fall in the tub or what?”

There was no answer.

Dean frowned. It wasn't unusual, exactly. Sam took his time getting up some mornings, but something about the quiet this morning wasn’t comfortable. It was that weird kind of silence that made the air feel tight.

He turned back to the pan, plated the eggs, and set them on the table.

A minute later, Sam appeared in the doorway with slow steps, hoodie sleeves over his hands. His hair was a mess.

Dean studied him.

There wasn’t any limp. No grimace. No obvious signs of a nightmare or a skipped dose or a heart issue flaring up. But something was off. Sam’s face wasn’t just tired, it was blank. Careful. His eyes were inward. Dean knew that look too well.

Sam dropped into the kitchen chair without a word. No morning groan. No stretch. No smartass comment about the smell of slightly-burnt toast.

He just sat.

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Well, good morning to you, too, Eeyore.”

Sam blinked. “Morning.”

That was it.

Dean sat across from him, trying not to let the coil of panic in his chest get too loud. Trying not to chase it.

Because the thing was, everything had looked normal before, too. Back when Sam was seven and couldn’t get enough oxygen to his brain. Back when he was ten and hiding a fever. Back when he was fourteen and flatlined in the garage . He’d looked fine all those times, right up until he wasn’t.

Dean couldn’t not think about that now.

“You sleep okay?”

Sam nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I just went to bed late,” Sam said. “Had a lot on my mind.”

The tone was easy and dismissive, but Dean had seen Sam lie before. Hell, he’d taught the kid how to pull it off, and this had all the signs of a strategic truth. Not wrong, but not enough.

“School stuff?” Dean asked.

“Tryout stuff.”

Sam picked at the toast. No butter, no jelly. He moved it around the plate like he had somewhere else to be.

Dean’s pulse kicked up a notch.

He lowered his mug. “You sure you’re alright?”

Sam didn’t look up right away. And that - that two-second pause before answering-was the thing that made Dean’s stomach drop.

“I’m fine,” Sam said, soft and smooth. Too smooth.

Dean didn’t believe him, not fully, but then Sam looked up and smiled.

It was small and gentle. That same I’m okay, Dad, smile Sam had given him the night after Minnesota, the day after the courthouse, the week he stopped wearing the heart monitor full-time.

It was weaponized reassurance. And damn it, it worked.

Dean hesitated and then let himself lean back, just a little.

“Okay,” he said. “If you say so.”

Because he couldn’t push yet, not this early. Not if he wanted the truth later.

Sam reached for the salt. “The eggs are underdone, by the way.”

Dean smirked, but his brain was already filing everything away: tone, posture, appetite, eye contact. Just like he’d been doing for fifteen years.

Patterns. Always watch the patterns.

“You’re driving with Connor again?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell him I said not to floor it on that turn by Mitchell’s,” Dean said, keeping it light. “Kid treats second gear like it’s optional.”

Sam smiled again, and this one was a little more real. “I will.”

Dean watched him for another second and just breathed. Let the moment hold.

But the coil in his chest never unspooled.

Because something was wrong. He just didn’t know what it was yet.

____

The sun was almost down by the time the field lights came on.

They buzzed overhead in an old, uneven hum that bled down in hard white beams, casting sharp shadows across the grass. The ground was still half-frozen underneath from the morning chill, soft on the surface but brittle deeper down. Practice had started with daylight and windbreakers, but now most of the team had zipped up, pulled on sleeves, or layered beneath pinnies. The cold came back fast in South Dakota.

It was the first real practice of the season.

Not just conditioning, not just tryouts, not scrimmage drills with only the returners and the clipboard in Coach’s hands. This was the whole roster: JV players who’d moved up and transfers and new players and last-year seniors. And one sophomore captain, trying to hold it all together with his voice steady and his stomach tied in a knot that he didn’t talk about.

Sam stood just off the center line, hands on his hips, hoodie flapping slightly beneath his training vest. He was watching a younger midfielder fumble a rotation on the triangle drill, but his brain wasn’t all the way there.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to work the tension out of his upper back. His head felt tight. He wasn't in pain, but there was a low-pressure kind of hum beneath the surface, like something humming just under his skin. The same way the world felt seconds before lightning.

He glanced toward the sky.

The field lights above the west end buzzed louder for half a beat before one of them stuttered.

Just once.

A flicker. A surge. A microsecond of motion that most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But Sam felt it. Not just in his eyes, though they burned faintly around the edges, but he felt it in his teeth. In the crown of his head. In the pressure behind his sternum. Like someone had brushed fingers over his nervous system and left it singing.

The light steadied. The world kept moving.

But inside him, something reeled.

A flicker. Then a pulse. Then gone.

He blinked hard. His knees shifted, unconsciously bracing against the sway that never came. The drill continued twenty yards ahead, Connor calling names, Jake barking from the sideline about cutbacks.

No one else noticed. No one ever did.

Sam let out a slow breath and pressed his fingers to the side of his brow, like that could rub the feeling away. It didn’t hurt, but it buzzed. Like the air had shifted for him, and only him.

Like a warning.

“Winchester!”

Connor’s voice cracked through the air, sharp and familiar.

Sam blinked, dropped his hand.

“Hey, Earth to Captain! We resetting or just staring into the void?”

That earned a chuckle from Jake nearby. A couple of other players laughed too, nerves loosening just a little.

Sam straightened. “On it,” he said quickly, scooping up the cones and tossing them toward the pile near midfield.

He didn’t look back at the lights. Whatever it was - that flicker, that feeling, that barely-there jolt - it hadn’t left.

It was still there. Low. Waiting. Sam had seen it.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had seen him, too.

____

The wind had shifted.

Not in the way it did before a storm, but enough to change the smell of the field. Light, dry air from the west stirred the corner flags and kicked up just enough grit to make the turf smell like August instead of late-winter. Dust and sun and worn leather.

Coach Miller folded his arms and scanned the field from the sideline, squinting slightly under the glare of the stadium lights. The air was cooling fast, shadows stretching longer across the grass, but the boys kept moving. Breath visible. Cleats digging.

The triangle drill was holding together better than expected for a first practice.

The rookies were rough: too many over-corrections, nervous chatter, ankles too stiff. But they were listening. That mattered more.

The vets were loud and locked in. Connor and Jake were running comms like they’d never stopped. Ryan anchored from the goal, voice cutting through the wind with precision. He didn’t even have to leave the box to keep the backline in check.

And then there was Sam.

Miller watched him for a full minute without blinking.

Sam didn’t yell, didn’t grandstand.

But players moved when he did. Adjusted spacing when his eyes tracked the play. The younger guys mirrored his footwork like it was gospel. Even Jake, cocky as ever, kept throwing glances his way before running a new rotation.

Sam was steady. Efficient. Calm.

But it wasn’t his quiet calm. Not today.

Miller noticed it for the first time during warmups. Sam had hit his pace slower than usual. Subtle, but not his norm. Then again, during the water break, Sam stood with his hand pressed to his temple like the sun was too bright.

Then there’d been that moment at midfield.

Sam had gone still for a full beat, just watching the lights. Not distracted. Not zoning out. Waiting, maybe. Like he expected something to happen.

Miller didn’t say anything, not then, but he kept watching.

And when practice ended and the gear was being dragged off the field in bundles, he made his move.

“Hey, Ry,” he called, not quite raising his voice.

Ryan turned from the net, gloves looped through his fingers. “Yeah, Coach?”

Miller tilted his head toward the bleachers. “Walk with me.”

Ryan jogged over as he kicked a ball, adjusting his hoodie over one shoulder. They strolled in silence for a few paces, the field lights casting long, clean shadows behind them.

“Did Winchester seem off to you today?” Miller asked casually, like he already knew the answer.

Ryan hesitated and tapped the ball under his foot once. “He was a bit quieter than usual.”

“Quieter than his usual quiet?”

Ryan cracked a smile. “Fair point.”

Miller nodded, gaze drifting to where Sam was talking quietly with a new midfielder, his stance easy, but his jaw just a little too tight.

“He led alright?” Miller asked.

“Yeah,” Ryan said without pause. “He’s good. The new guys already follow him without thinking.”

Miller said nothing for a second. Then, “Does he look like he’s hurting to you?”

Ryan frowned. “Like physically?”

“Or mentally. Or something else.”

Another beat passed. Ryan’s eyes flicked toward Sam, who was now hauling cones into a bin with Connor.

“I dunno,” Ryan admitted. “He’s not limping or anything. But he’s… internal. Today, more than usual. Like he’s thinking a few things ahead but not saying any of them.”

Miller hummed low in his throat.

“You worried?” Ryan asked.

Miller exhaled. The kind of slow breath you take when your gut is whispering things your brain can’t prove yet.

“Not yet,” he said.

But the truth was, he already had a mental folder open. And Sam’s name had just been written at the top.

____

 The bell shrieked like metal tearing.

Sam winced before he could stop himself. The sound rang in his teeth, just for a second, like someone had dropped something heavy inside his skull.

He ducked his head and slipped out of the classroom before anyone could notice.

The hall was instantly loud: voices bouncing off the tile, sneakers squeaking, lockers clanging open and shut. A freshman dropped his binder and swore softly. Someone else laughed too loud. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that way that made Sam’s skin crawl when he was already tired.

He was tired a lot lately.

Sam adjusted his backpack strap and veered into the side corridor near the science wing, the one no one used except to cut between lunch and gym. It was quieter there. Dimmer. Still.

The air smelled like old floor polish and marker ink. The kind of smell you didn’t notice until you were already in it.

He stopped by the drinking fountain and bent to take a sip.

And that’s when it hit. Not slowly, but all at once. A surge of pressure behind his eyes, sharp and cold, like a wire had snapped deep inside his brain and flung him outward.

White tile. Bare walls. A door left ajar. Shadows pooling at the edges of the floor.

Footsteps. Not his.

And a voice calling his name.

“Sam?”

It was muffled, like it was coming from behind a thick wall.

Then louder.

“Sam!”

It was panicked, not angry. Afraid.

Sam tried to answer.

But he had no mouth. No voice. No body.

He was floating, hovering, somewhere just behind himself. Watching. Listening. A ghost inside his own life.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Sam!”

The world snapped back like a rubber band.

The hallway was bright again, too bright. The lights were too loud. His hand was braced hard against the drinking fountain, legs locked in place, pulse racing so fast it felt like his chest couldn’t hold it.

Sam staggered backward and hit the lockers behind him with a soft clunk. He didn’t fall. But he stayed there, hunched in, hands gripping the strap of his backpack like it was the only real thing in the room.

He dragged in a shaky breath. Then another.

His thoughts were scrambled. Slippery. He couldn’t tell if the vision had lasted a second or a full minute. He didn’t even know whose voice that had been.

Dad’s? Dylan’s? Connor’s? His own?

His eyes burned. He wiped at them fast and pressed the heel of his palm to the center of his forehead like he could press the rest of the world back into place.

It hadn’t been like the other flares. There was no moment to stop. No danger to react to. No future injury or choice or mistake.

Just absence. He hadn’t been there. He had been missing.

And someone had been looking for him.

By the time the hallway cleared, Sam had forced his breathing into something steady. Mechanical.

He fixed his hoodie sleeves. Shifted his weight. Stepped away from the lockers and down the hall like nothing had happened.

He didn’t remember what his next class was. Or if he was late.

He just walked.

And the voice - still faint, still echoing - followed him the whole way.

____

The phone buzzed just after ten, lighting up Sam’s nightstand in soft blue.

DYLAN CALLING, the screen read.

Sam blinked at it, grabbing it before it could buzz again. He was already in bed. His blanket was twisted around one ankle, fan spinning slowly in the corner, the green light of his heart monitor blinking faintly through the hem of his shirt.

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” Dylan’s voice came through, warm and a little scratchy. “Did I catch you before sleep?”

“You always do.”

A pause. Then a chuckle. “You psychic or something?”

Sam smiled faintly, shifting so the monitor strap didn’t dig into his ribs. “I’ve got a sixth sense for college guys who have the world’s worst sleep schedule.”

That earned him a laugh, real and easy.

They talked for a few minutes. About Dylan’s roommate, about Sam’s new lit teacher who pronounced Shakespearean words like they were an insult, about all the new players on the team.

Then Dylan got quiet for a second.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

Sam hesitated. His eyes flicked to the slow blink of green near his ribs.

“Yeah,” he said. Then added, softly, “I’m fine.”

Dylan didn’t press.

But Sam kept thinking about the monitor. The strap. The weight of it. The way it still felt like wearing a spotlight on his chest some days.

And before he could stop himself, the memory surfaced:

Dylan’s house had been quiet, one of the last days before Dylan had to leave for college. 

Sam had been curled up on the floor of Dylan’s room, tucked between the bed and the open window, hoodie wadded under his head like a pillow. Dylan was across from him, half-studying his new formations, half-packing, but mostly watching.

Sam had shifted once, absently rubbing at his ribs, and that’s when Dylan noticed the monitor strap was unclipped. Just dangling there.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just reached down, adjusted it, clipped it back on with practiced care, and let Sam’s shirt fall over it again.

Sam hadn’t moved. Hadn't protested.

“It was chafing,” he said after a moment, eyes still closed.

“It still stays on,” Dylan replied.

And when Sam had whispered, barely audible, “At least you won't have to care soon, when you're at college.”

Dylan had said, “I'll always care. Because I’m your big brother. That doesn’t stop when I leave.”

Sam blinked back to the present like surfacing from underwater.

“Hey,” Dylan said gently. “You still there?”

“Yeah.” Sam shifted, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Yeah?”

“That day, right before you left. When I took the monitor off.”

Dylan paused. Then: “I remember.”

“I didn’t really mean to make a thing out of it. I was just tired of it. Of all of it.”

“I know.”

“But you just… fixed it. You didn’t get mad. You didn’t even ask.”

“I didn’t have to.”

Sam’s voice was quieter now. “You said I was your brother.”

“I meant it.”

There was another silence, but this one wasn't heavy.

“You still mean it?” Sam asked, his voice small in the dark.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

Sam smiled. Barely there, but soft and real. “Okay.”

On the other end of the line, Dylan let out a long breath. “Get some sleep, Sammy. I’ll text you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“And hey?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever take that thing off again,” Dylan said lightly, “I will FaceTime you mid-lecture just to rat you out to your dad.”

Sam snorted. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too, little brother.”

Sam clicked off the call, set the phone on his chest, and closed his eyes.

The monitor blinked. Still green. Still steady.

____

The wind cut through Sam’s practice jersey like knives.

Late winter in South Dakota never let up without a fight. The sun was out, sure, but the air still sliced under sleeves, still rattled the flags like bones. The turf was dry, but the wind made everything feel colder than it was.

Sam could feel the buzz of it on his skin. Not the cold. The hum.

The same kind he’d felt yesterday in the hallway.

His chest tightened just remembering it. That weird, wrong moment behind the water fountain. The voice calling his name, the cold tile, the flicker of not being anywhere. It hadn’t gone away, not really. Even now, under the stadium lights, he could still feel it somewhere deep in the back of his head. Like static on a bad channel.

He adjusted the press of his heart monitor under his shirt. It beeped green once. Still okay.

They were running sprints. End-to-end, no ball, full-speed; just drills and drive and gut.

Coach Miller’s whistle was relentless. Clean. Punctual. Like a blade.

Sam ran. He had to.

He was the captain, even if he was fifteen. Even if he still felt like the world might tilt sideways again at any second.

And then it did.

On the last sprint, just as his foot pushed off the turf, the edge of his vision whitened. Just a flicker. A wrong turn in his brain.

The image from the hallway surged up hard and fast.

His name was shouted.

No body.

Just tile. Just shadow.

The feeling of being gone.

And then there was impact. Not in the vision, but in real life.

He hit the ground, one knee first. His palm caught the turf. The monitor buzzed again, still green, but louder.

The sky was too blue.

“Hey!” Connor’s voice shot across the field. “Sam, what happened?”

Sam looked up. His pulse was sprinting. His mouth was dry.

“I’m fine,” he said fast. “I tripped.”

Jake was there a second later. “You sure? You dropped like somebody yanked your plug.”

“Fine,” Sam repeated, pushing himself up. “Just lost my footing.”

From the goal box, Ryan was already jogging in. “Monitor okay?”

“Yeah.” Sam tugged the hem of his shirt up to flash the blink. “Still green.”

Ryan didn’t look convinced. Connor looked concerned. Jake looked ready to make a joke, but didn’t.

And then Coach Miller was there. “Did you eat today?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did you sleep?”

The lie burned on his tongue. “Some.”

Coach didn’t say anything for a beat, looking at him.

Sam shifted his weight. His legs still felt hollow. His head still had that pressure behind the eyes like something in there was tilted off-center. The echo of the hallway vision hadn’t fully faded. He wasn’t dizzy. Not exactly. But he wasn’t here , either, not the way he wanted to be.

“I said I’m fine,” he muttered again, quieter now.

Coach finally sighed. “You fall like that again, I’m pulling you. Get me?”

“Yeah. Got it.”

Coach turned to the others. “Water break. Jake, cones. Ryan, reset the backline. Sam, no more sprints.”

“But-”

Coach cut him off with a glance. “The team needs you upright. Go walk the line if you need to move.”

Sam gritted his teeth and nodded again, backing down.

Jake hung back as the others moved.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, this time with less teasing, more weight.

“I’m good,” Sam said, taking a long drink from his bottle. “Just pushed too hard.”

Jake pointed at the monitor. “If that thing goes red, I’m carrying your ass to the nurse and calling your dad.”

Sam let out a shaky laugh. “Not necessary.”

Connor came up beside him. “Pretty sure your dad could melt metal just by looking at it. We're not risking that.”

Sam didn’t answer. He kept sipping his water, eyes fixed on the far end of the field.

He could still feel it, the echo in his skull. Not a headache, not pain, just a wrongness. A slant. Like the floor in his mind wasn’t level anymore.

No one else could feel it. No one else had to.

That was the job, wasn’t it?

Keep pace. Keep quiet. Keep going.

The monitor blinked green.

Sam set his jaw and got ready for the next drill.

____

The group call started like it always did: chaos first, context later.

Jake had texted something about getting yelled at by an old woman in the jerky aisle at the gas station for “bad vibes,” and Connor responded with a single text:

Saturday Symposium of Morons, ETA ten minutes. Attendance Mandatory.

Sam joined out of habit. He didn’t think about it, just opened the call on his laptop and let the screen fill with faces.

Jake was the loudest, naturally. He was sprawled backwards across his kitchen counter with a spoon dangling from his mouth and a tub of marshmallow fluff balanced on his chest. “I didn’t even say anything to her,” he was explaining. “I was just standing there. Apparently, I looked like trouble.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Connor muttered from his beanbag.

“You once bit a Gatorade lid in half,” Ryan added, already exhausted.

“I was five!”

Dylan chuckled, sitting in his dorm room with headphones slung around his neck, a notebook half-covered in what looked like math notes, and a Monster can off to the side.

Sam sat cross-legged on his bed, hoodie sleeves over his hands, screen brightness turned down so the glow didn’t reflect off his monitor settled in his lap.

He laughed where he was supposed to. Smiled enough. Said little.

His head still felt lopsided. Like the hallway vision hadn’t worn off. Like the near-collapse at practice yesterday had knocked something out of alignment that hadn’t snapped back into place.

He felt like he was sitting behind glass, watching his friends through it. Close enough to hear them, but not touch them.

“Hey, Sam,” Jake said, mid-rant about why the new protein bars in the locker room tasted like ‘the ghosts of expired granola.’ “Are you alive over there or what?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Just listening.”

“Uh-huh,” Jake said. “That sounded a lot like a lie. Connor, back me up.”

Connor tilted his head toward the camera. “You’re super quiet, man.”

“I’m fine,” Sam said quickly. “Coach just killed us this week, with the first game coming up. I think my bones are still mad about it.”

“Connor said you went down at practice,” Dylan cut in. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly. “What happened?”

Sam hesitated. “I tripped.”

“That’s it?” Ryan asked. He’d been quiet until now, but his tone was the kind that carried weight.

Sam shrugged. “The turf’s bad near the thirty. It was nothing.”

Jake raised both brows and pointed a spoon at the camera. “That’s not what I saw. You dropped pretty hard.”

“I just slipped,” Sam said again, sharper this time.

The group went quiet for a beat.

Dylan leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes squinting through the screen. “You’d tell us if it was something else, right?”

“It’s not.”

“Sam.”

“I’m fine.”

Connor frowned, just a little. “You’ve barely said anything. You’re like there, but not really.”

That landed harder than Sam expected. He tugged the drawstring of his hoodie tighter and shifted on the bed. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

“You sure?” Dylan asked, voice gentler now. “Because you haven’t texted much either. And when you do it’s all ‘yep’ and ‘k.’”

Jake nodded. “Even your insult game’s gone cold, bro. We’re worried.”

Sam forced a laugh. “You guys are being dramatic.”

Connor leaned closer to his screen. “Yeah. We are. On purpose. Because we care. Dumbass.”

Sam didn’t reply.

Dylan broke the tension with a lopsided smile. “Okay. We’ll back off. For now. But if you faint at practice again, I’m filing a complaint with the Soccer Gods. Or Dean. Whichever is scarier.”

Jake let out a long whistle. “Definitely Dean.”

“Not even close,” Connor said. “One’s got a rulebook. The other has eyebrows that kill.”

Sam cracked a smile. “You guys are idiots.”

“We know,” Jake said. “But we’re your idiots.”

Ten minutes later, the call wound down. Ryan dropped off first. Then Jake, muttering something about cereal and death. Connor signed off last with a “text me if you need literally anything,” before his screen blinked dark.

Sam was about to shut his laptop when his phone buzzed.

DYLAN: Are you actually good or just pretending to be good?

Sam stared at it.

SAM: I don’t know.

He deleted it.

SAM: Pretending’s easier.

Deleted it. Tried again.

SAM: No one would believe me anyway.

That one got deleted too. He turned his phone over, screen down, and lay back in the quiet.

The room hummed faintly. He could still feel the flicker behind his eyes.

____

Bobby noticed it the second Sam walked past him to step out onto the porch.

The hoodie.

Not just any hoodie, but Dean’s hoodie. The old gray one with the loose hem and the sleeves that rolled halfway over Sam’s hands. The one with a bleach stain near the cuff from that time Dean tried to clean the garage with “multipurpose cleaner” and got halfway through before realizing it was basically liquid sandpaper.

Sam used to steal it all the time when he was little. He would wear it like a security blanket, sleeves dragging, hood pulled low, especially after Minnesota. After the hospital. When the monitor wires came off and the nightmares didn’t.

But lately, he hadn’t needed it. Not until tonight, apparently.

Bobby didn’t move. He watched through the kitchen window as Sam eased himself down onto the top step, curling in like a question mark, arms locked around his knees.

The porch creaked under his weight. Not loudly. Just enough to say: I’m here, but I don’t want to talk about it.

Bobby got it.

He'd been watching Sam for days now, drifting again. Not like the shutdown after the heart scare. Not even like the silence after the demon.

This was different. Quieter. Like something was bending inward, and the kid didn’t even realize he was folding.

Bobby stood in the doorway a minute longer, hands around a warm mug of tea with a splash of something stronger. His knees ached from fixing the hose earlier. His back wasn’t thrilled with him either, but the cold didn’t bother him much. Not compared to the cold coming off the boy outside.

So he stepped onto the porch with a grunt and sat down beside Sam without a word.

He didn’t ask what was wrong; that hoodie said enough.

They sat in silence for a while, just the hum of distant traffic and a wind that kept trying to find a way through the cracks in the world.

Sam didn’t look over.

He had that far-off look Bobby hated. The one that meant the kid was in his head too deep to reach unless you went in after him.

But Bobby’d learned better than to charge in with a flashlight.

He had to wait at the edge. Leave a breadcrumb trail. Let the kid come back on his own.

Eventually, Bobby sipped his tea and spoke low. “Y’know… there’s a ghost story about a frost line that moves on its own.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Supposed to only happen in places where someone died with a secret. Cold creeps across the floor. Windows fog. Frost even if it’s warm out.”

Sam made a small sound, maybe disbelief. Maybe curiosity.

“That’s not real,” he said.

Bobby shrugged. “Everything’s real somewhere.”

A beat.

Then, just barely, Sam shifted and leaned closer. Not much, just enough for his shoulder to press against Bobby’s coat like it was an accident. Like he wasn’t asking for anything.

Bobby didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second. He just let the contact happen.

That hoodie, Bobby thought, means we’re back in the woods. Not lost, but close.

He could still picture it: seven-year-old Sam curled on the couch, heart monitor beeping slow and steady, hoodie sleeves wrapped around his fists like armor. Dean pacing the hallway like his feet would burn if he stopped moving.

It had taken months to ease Sam out of that hoodie.

And now here it was again. Back on his shoulders. Back on the porch. Back in the quiet.

They stayed like that until Bobby’s tea went lukewarm and the porch light buzzed itself to sleep.

When they finally got up and went inside, Sam left the hoodie draped over the arm of the couch like it didn’t mean anything.

But Bobby knew better.

That hoodie was a flare, and Sam was still out in the water.

____

Dean stood in the kitchen with one hand braced on the counter, eyes tracking the faint flicker under the door leading out to the garage. The light was on.

He’d heard the floor creak an hour ago, maybe more. Long enough ago that the leftovers in the fridge had gone cold again. Long enough ago that Bobby had given up pretending he wasn’t watching and headed to bed with a muttered, “Kid’s got that look again.”

Dean hadn’t asked what look. He knew.

The same one Sam used to get after Minnesota, during Callaghan: hunched in on himself like his ribs were trying to protect something soft inside. The one that made Dean check if the monitor was green, even when Sam swore he felt fine. The one that haunted the spaces between words.

Dean pushed open the door quietly.

Sam was sitting on the bench beside the worktable, curled forward, sketchbook open on his knees. His head was bowed, and his shoulders were tight. One hand was pressed to his temple like it hurt, the other was ghosting over the page.

Dean could just make out the lines from where he stood: a hallway, a light in the background, a door at the end.

Then the door to the garage clicked shut behind him.

Sam startled like he’d been shot. The sketchbook snapped closed with a whap , both of his arms curling around it like a shield. His posture shifted, spine straightening fast, like guilt had yanked him upright before he could think.

Dean froze before taking one slow step forward.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Sam didn’t look at him, didn’t relax either, grip tightening on the sketchbook.

“You okay?” Dean tried again.

Silence.

Dean’s voice dropped lower. “Sammy.”

Still nothing.

He took another step forward and nodded toward the sketchbook. “What were you working on?”

“Nothing,” Sam said. Too fast.

Dean tilted his head. “It didn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s not for you,” Sam snapped, eyes finally lifting.

Dean blinked.

That landed sharper than he expected. Not loud, but barbed. Defensive. Sam’s voice was low but tense, like a string pulled too tight.

“I didn’t mean-” Dean started.

“I know what you meant.” Sam stood up quickly, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. “I’m not hiding anything.”

Dean exhaled. “I didn’t say you were.”

Sam looked away.

The silence stretched like a wire.

Dean could feel it happening, could feel the air between them thickening, just like it used to in hospital rooms and motel nights and every time Sam went quiet in a way that wasn’t just teenage.

“You’ve been off,” Dean said softly. “You’re not sleeping, you’re spacing out during practice, you barely touched your dinner-”

“I’m fine.”

“You passed out during sprints.”

“I tripped.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Sam flinched.

Dean took a shaky breath. “You think I can’t see it? That you’re spinning out?”

“I’m not!” Sam’s voice cracked, raw and angry in a way that sounded more scared than anything. “I’m not spinning out. I’m not broken.”

Dean took a step back, like the force of it shoved him. “I didn’t say you were.”

“But that’s what you think.” Sam’s hands were shaking. “You always do. Every time something’s wrong, you look at me like I’m gonna shatter.”

Dean opened his mouth. Shut it again.

He didn’t know how to say because I’ve watched you shatter.

He didn’t know how to say because I’m scared to death I’ll miss it this time.

“I just want you to talk to me,” Dean managed. “Is that so much to ask?”

Sam looked down. Then, back up, eyes blazing. “Why do you always assume I can’t handle things?”

“Because I know you, Sammy. And I know when something’s wrong.”

A pause.

Then Dean spoke, quiet and heavy, “Why don’t you trust me?”

Dean regretted it the second it left his mouth.

Sam froze, the sketchbook trembling slightly in his hands.

Sam didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. He just said, voice low and thick, “Maybe I’m just tired of being your project.”

That hurt more than shouting ever could.

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Not out of anger, but out of helplessness. The same way they had when he was eighteen and holding Sam’s tiny body after John stormed out. The same way they had when Sam was in a hospital bed, blinking up at him with wires stuck to his chest.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Dean said quietly. “I’m trying to keep you.”

Sam didn’t respond. Dean took a shaky breath and stepped back.

“You know what hurts more than anything?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Sam didn’t look at him. “It’s not when you shut me out. It’s when you lie and think I won’t notice.”

And with that, Dean turned and left.

The garage door clicked behind him. No slam. Just that soft final sound that always meant he couldn’t bear to say more.

____

The sun wasn’t up yet, but Dean was already in the garage.

Bobby saw the glow from the cracked door first: the dim overhead bulb casting long, gold-edged shadows. Heard the familiar metal-on-metal clatter next. He didn’t need more than that.

He’d been hearing it for years.

Dean only fixed things that didn’t need fixing when something else was broken.

Bobby took a long sip of lukewarm coffee, muttered something about pigheaded Winchesters, and headed out the back door with his mug still in hand.

The garage was cold, even with the space heater half-heartedly buzzing in the corner. The Impala sat there like she always did - centered, silent, reliable.

Dean was crouched beside the front left wheel, socket wrench in hand, working a lug nut like it had wronged him personally.

His boots were unlaced. His flannel was buttoned crooked. And his eyes, when he finally glanced up, were red-rimmed .

Not from exhaustion alone.

Bobby knew grief when he saw it. And fear. The kind that clung under the skin even after you convinced everyone you were fine.

“Y’know,” Bobby said, not unkindly, “most folks wait ‘til the parts are at least squeakin’ before they crawl under a car.”

Dean didn’t smile. Not even one of those fake, crooked ones.

“Figured she could use a once-over,” he muttered, going back to work.

“You gave her one four days ago.”

Dean’s mouth flattened. “Then a twice-over.”

Bobby leaned against the workbench and let the silence spool out. Watched Dean’s fingers tighten on the wrench like it was the only thing grounding him.

Finally, he asked, “So. What’d the kid say?”

Dean didn’t look up, turning the same bolt one more time before setting the wrench down with deliberate care.

“Said I treat him like a project. Like I’m trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows.

Dean gave a tight, hollow laugh. “Didn’t know giving a damn came with a user manual.”

Bobby didn’t answer that. He took another sip of his coffee and let it warm his hands while the cold between them built.

Dean stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag he didn’t need. The lines under his eyes looked deeper than usual. Like the weight wasn’t just from one sleepless night, but from the accumulation of too many years keeping vigil over a kid who didn’t know how not to carry everything alone.

“He’s shutting me out again,” Dean said finally. “Same way he did when the visions started.”

Bobby’s chest twinged at that. 

“You want me to talk to him?” Bobby asked. “Might come easier from someone not named Winchester.”

Dean shook his head too fast. “Don’t.”

“He trusts me.”

“He trusted me, too,” Dean snapped, then winced. “I mean… he does. That’s not the problem.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow and waited.

Dean leaned back against the Impala and stared at the ceiling. “If you try to talk to him right now, he’ll probably just snap at you, too. And I don’t want him saying more things he’s gonna regret.”

Bobby studied him for a long second. “You think he regrets it?”

Dean didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands, grease under his nails.

“I think he meant it in the moment,” he finally said. “And I think he’s gonna feel like hell for it once his head clears.”

“Then let him feel like hell.”

Dean looked up, startled.

Bobby went on, voice low but steady. “Let him feel it. Let him stew. Doesn’t mean you stop being there. But pushing when he’s raw? You know how he is, that’ll only drive him deeper.”

Dean exhaled slowly. The wrench clinked against the concrete as he set it down for good this time.

“Kid’s been through too much to start thinking he’s the problem again,” Bobby added. “And so have you.”

Dean didn’t reply, but his jaw shifted, something giving way behind his eyes.

“I’ll back off,” Bobby said. “But if I see him starting to sink, really sink, I’m stepping in.”

Dean nodded once. Quiet. “Yeah. Okay.”

They stood there in the quiet of the garage, surrounded by tools that couldn’t fix what was actually broken.

And for now, neither of them tried to say anything else.

____

The coffee table in Connor’s living room was a battlefield of pizza boxes, crumpled napkins, and one overturned Gatorade bottle someone had heroically rescued before it could stain the playbook. The couch creaked under the weight of four tired boys: knees draped over armrests, socks mismatched, arguments unfolding half a breath before they could become real strategy.

Sam sat cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He was half-listening, nodding occasionally, but the diagrams in the open binder beside him blurred if he stared too long. His brain kept wandering, drifting backward, then sideways. Like it didn’t want to stay in the same room as his body.

“You’re both wrong,” Jake said, voice muffled by cheese and crust. “We run 4-3-3 and pull the backline wide. Frankie goes full tilt down the wing and we overload the midfield.”

Connor snorted. “Yeah, cool, until Frankie forgets he’s not a striker and eats turf on the cut.”

Ryan, calm as ever, just flipped another page in the printout. “We’re going to spend the whole season arguing about this, aren’t we?”

Connor nudged Sam’s ankle with his heel. “Captain. You wanna weigh in, or are you just here for moral support?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “You’ve said, like, four words since we started.”

Connor leaned over, mock-concerned. “You plotting something or just slow blinking at the void again?”

Sam managed a tired smile. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

Ryan’s brow creased just slightly. Not judging, just tracking.

Jake grinned, unfazed. “What’d your dad do, make you wax the car with a toothbrush again?”

Sam’s breath caught a little. And then, quietly: “We fought.”

The room didn’t freeze, but the energy shifted. It softened. Tightened.

Connor’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Bad?”

Sam exhaled, long and shaky. “We haven’t talked.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Jake sat up a little straighter. “Wait, like… at all?”

“Not really,” Sam admitted, pulling at the edge of his sleeve. “He’s been in the garage. I’ve been upstairs. We’ve kind of… been orbiting each other.”

“Damn,” Connor murmured. “That’s not like you guys.”

Sam nodded. “I know. We’ve had arguments before, sure, but not like this. Not where we don’t even look at each other.” He hesitated. “I don’t know if he’s even gonna come to the first game.”

Silence.

Not a bad one. Just still.

Ryan, steady as always, looked him dead in the eye. “Do you want him there?”

Sam didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah. I think I do.”

Connor gave a lopsided grin. “Then he’ll be there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dude,” Jake said, almost offended, “your dad would probably dropkick a ghost if it tried to steal your shin guards. He’ll come.”

Sam huffed a laugh, but it came out tight. “I dunno. He looked-” He stopped himself.

“What?” Ryan prompted gently.

“Hurt. Like I crossed a line.”

Jake tossed a crumpled napkin at him. “Then cross back. You’re not stuck.”

Sam caught the napkin and didn’t let go of it.

“I will,” he said finally. “Just not yet.”

The others didn’t push. Instead, they eased the conversation back into game talk: Connor threatening to revoke Sam’s clipboard if he didn’t rejoin the formation debate, Jake throwing out an aggressive 3-5-2 “just to cause chaos,” and Ryan quietly revising everyone’s plans into something that might work.

And Sam sat there, warm from the radiator, surrounded by noise and crumbs and teammates who didn’t need him to be okay to keep showing up.

It didn’t fix anything, but it helped.

____

It happened in the space between footsteps.

One second, Sam was walking down the main hall at school - shoved too close to the lockers, backpack biting into one shoulder, the chaos of in-between periods pressing around him in waves: lockers slamming, friends calling, the rustle of paper, the squeak of sneakers.

The next second-

Silence.

Absolute.

Sam froze mid-step.

The noise was gone, and so were the people.

He blinked.

The hallway around him wasn’t his school anymore.

The walls were stark white. The tile beneath his feet - also white, polished and cold-looking - seemed to stretch on forever in both directions. A faint flicker pulsed overhead where long, buzzing fluorescent lights blinked like they were breathing.

There were no posters on the walls. No classroom doors, just an endless corridor.

He turned slowly, his heart pounding now. No lockers. No windows.

Just blank.

White.

Buzzing.

Wrong.

Sam tried to take a step, but his legs didn’t feel real. Not heavy, just... not his.

Ahead of him, far down the corridor, a door stood just barely ajar.

He hadn’t seen it a moment ago, but now it was there.

It was old metal, paint chipped along the bottom. Industrial. A different kind of wrong.

The hallway dimmed slightly like the flickering lights couldn’t decide if they were going to hold.

Something creaked.

The door shifted open a little more now.

Still dark behind it.

Still waiting.

Sam didn’t move.

His pulse thundered behind his eyes. His hands had curled into fists at his sides without him noticing. The air buzzed, low and sharp, like a dying speaker caught in static.

And then-

“Sam.”

The voice was soft, but not familiar. It wasn’t anyone. Just… someone. Calling his name.

He spun around, breath snagging, and he stumbled. He was back in the real hallway.

The real school.

The noise crashed over him like a wave - chatter, footsteps, distant music from someone’s earbuds. He gasped, catching himself against the lockers. His knees felt unsteady.

He was sweating. The collar of his shirt clung to the back of his neck, and the cold metal of the locker bit into his palm as he leaned against it.

Someone bumped into him.

“Watch it, dude,” the kid muttered, already gone.

The hallway was full again, bright and crowded. The floor was the same scuffed linoleum he always walked on. But his shirt clung to his back with sweat, and the hairs on his arms wouldn’t lie flat.

Down the hall, Jake and Connor were goofing off by the water fountains, Jake tossing a ball of paper into Connor’s hood. Neither had noticed he was missing.

Part of him wanted to go to them.

Tell them. Ask if they’d seen anything. Felt anything. Heard-

But how would he even say it?

Hey, I got pulled into a hallway that doesn’t exist, and someone I don’t know said my name like they’ve always known it?

Yeah, that’d go over great.

Sam turned the other way. He walked fast and took the back stairwell two steps at a time.

He locked himself in a bathroom stall and sat on the closed toilet lid, hands clamped to the edge of the seat, breath stuttering. There was a buzz in the air, in his head, like static clinging to him. In him.

He didn’t know what that had meant, but it hadn’t been a dream.

And he didn’t know the voice that said his name.

____

The sky was that kind of heavy gray that didn’t commit to rain, but hung low enough to press on your skin.

Sam stood near midfield, one foot resting lightly on the ball, listening to the wind shuffle dry leaves along the fence line. His breath fogged in short bursts, steady and controlled, but his pulse didn’t match it. It was too fast. Like it was trying to outrun something invisible.

Coach Miller’s voice cut across the field.

“Last run-through. No coasting. Game pace. Let’s go!”

Cones were set. Teams were split. Sam moved automatically, calling rotations, pointing players into gaps, trailing the play just far enough to adjust where needed. He knew every angle, every lane. His body responded before he could think. That part was muscle memory by now.

But his mind was somewhere else.

The vision hadn’t come back, but the pressure hadn’t faded either.

That hum was behind his eyes - faint, metallic, like a warning shot without a siren. His temples ached, not sharp enough to stop him, but enough to remind him they were there. Enough to keep him on edge.  Every time he blinked, he half-expected to open his eyes and be back there. Alone, with that door at the end cracked open like it had been waiting for him all along.

He hadn’t told anyone.

Not Dad. Not Uncle Bobby. Not Ryan, Jake, or Connor.

Connor, who was watching him now from the top of the diamond, hands on his hips, waiting for the next shift. Sam nodded once, late, and Connor jogged into position, eyebrows furrowed just a little too tight to be casual.

They ran the drill clean. Better than clean, honestly. Everyone was sharp. Everyone was synced. But Sam still felt it, the sense that something wasn’t quite right.

Like the air was a second too slow. Like the wind knew something he didn’t.

Then came the whistle, sharp and sudden.

Sam flinched.

It was barely noticeable - just a twitch in his shoulders, a half-step backward before he caught himself - but Connor saw it. Sam could feel his gaze flick over before he even turned.

“You on Earth?” Connor called, jogging over as the others broke for water.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Connor didn’t answer right away. He grabbed his water bottle and leaned against the goalpost beside him.

“You’ve been off,” he said finally. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

Sam didn’t respond. He bent to retie his cleat even though it didn’t need fixing.

Connor watched him for a beat. Then added, quieter, “You flinched like you were expecting a shot.”

Sam’s jaw flexed. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Connor said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

The next drill started. Coach shouted something about the speed of transition. The team reassembled.

Sam stepped into the formation like it meant nothing, but the air still felt wrong. Like static. Like pressure building behind the walls. Like something was coming, and he’d feel it before anyone else.

He just didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

Not yet.

____

Sam moved barefoot through the dark house like a ghost, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, steps practiced to avoid every board that groaned. He didn’t turn on a light. He didn’t need to.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Not really.

Just… down.

The living room was dark, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlamp leaking through the blinds. The couch sat like a shadowed mountain. The quilt folded over the back looked too far away to bother with.

Rumsfeld stirred when Sam padded in. Not startled, just aware. His big head lifted slowly from where he lay curled near the window, paws crossed like a sentry on break.

“Hey, buddy,” Sam whispered, voice already frayed at the edges.

He sank to the floor without ceremony, back against the couch, knees pulled in close. Rumsfeld stood, stretched, and padded over with a soft chuff. The old shepherd circled once before settling next to him, side pressed firm against Sam’s.

For a second, Sam said nothing. Just pressed his hands together tightly and stared at the slant of shadows across the carpet.

Then his voice came, barely audible. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

His voice cracked halfway through it. He blinked hard. Swallowed harder.

“I thought it was done,” he said, eyes fixed on nothing. “After Callaghan, after the hospital, after everything. I thought, if I just stayed normal, stayed steady, it would all fade.”

Rumsfeld didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“But it’s not gone,” Sam whispered. “It’s quieter, but it’s still there. Like my head’s waiting for something. Like my body knows something’s coming before I do.”

The tears didn’t fall right away. They sat in his eyes, heavy and hot, blurring the edges of the room until he wasn’t sure if it was the light that was shaking or just his hands.

“I’ve been pretending it’s fine. I’ve been pretending I’m fine.”

Rumsfeld laid his head in Sam’s lap, weight solid and grounding. His fur was warm beneath Sam’s hand - coarse, familiar, steady.

“And I think I messed things up with Dad.”

The words caught in his throat like gravel. He didn’t even realize he was crying until one hot tear slid down his cheek and dropped onto his knee.

“He hasn’t said anything since I snapped at him. Not really. He just… he won’t look at me.”

More tears now. Not loud, not shaking. Just quiet, unstoppable.

“And I miss him,” Sam whispered. “I miss him and he’s right there.”

He curled in on himself a little, hand fisting in the leg of his sweatpants, like maybe if he could make himself small enough, the ache in his chest would go away.

Rumsfeld let out a long, slow exhale and shifted closer, nudging his head up until it rested beneath Sam’s arm. No questions. No pressure.

Just there.

“I don’t know if he’s gonna come tomorrow,” Sam murmured. “And if he doesn’t, I’m not sure I’ll be able to play like it doesn’t matter.”

He pressed his forehead to Rumsfeld’s fur and let himself breathe there. Just breathe. Slow. Shaky. Honest for the first time in days.

Rumsfeld didn’t leave.

And that, somehow, made it a little easier to stay.

____

The stairs creaked more than usual under Dean’s weight.

He paused halfway down, like maybe the house was warning him not to go any further. But the kitchen was pulling him with the promise of coffee, or at least motion. Something to break the restless silence that had sunk into his skin and hadn't let go.

He didn’t know what time it was exactly. Just that the sky outside the front windows had started bleeding into pale gray, the kind of quiet color that made everything feel a little less real.

He turned toward the kitchen and stopped.

Sam was asleep on the living room floor.

Dean’s breath caught mid-step.

At first, all he saw was the curve of the kid’s back, hoodie rumpled, legs pulled in like he was trying to make himself small. One arm was flung over Rumsfeld’s neck, fingers curled loosely in the dog’s thick fur. The shepherd didn’t so much as twitch. Just blinked at Dean, eyes heavy but calm. Guarding. 

The light from the window cut across the carpet in soft bars. Sam’s face was half in shadow. The other half was pale, dried tear tracks silvering down one cheek.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right, either.

It’s so strange not talking to him.

That was the thought that hit first.

Not the tears. Not the floor. Not the cold that probably seeped into Sam’s spine through the hardwood. Just this… weird, hollow space where their usual rhythm had gone silent.

They didn’t fight like this.

Not in the early years, when it had just been the two of them in a series of borrowed rooms, learning each other day by day. Back then, there hadn’t been room to fight. Just survival. Diaper changes in gas station bathrooms. Chicken nuggets rationed out of drive-thru bags. Nightlights made from salt lamps. Sam had cried sometimes, of course he had, but Dean never raised his voice. He couldn’t, not when Sam had looked at him like he was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And maybe that was still true.

But now Sam was taller. Quieter. Holding things tighter. And Dean had no idea how to pull the pieces loose without making it worse.

He used to know how to fix everything. A Band-Aid. A grilled cheese. A cartoon and a blanket, and one hand gently rubbing Sam’s back until the sobs faded. He used to know what to say. What to do.

Now Sam was fifteen. Smart. Brave. Hurting.

And Dean had no idea how to reach him.

He looked down at his hands. Calloused, still smeared faintly with motor oil from a half-finished job in the garage. His fists clenched without meaning to.

You’re the grown-up, he thought bitterly. You’re the dad. So act like it.

But he’d been trying. He had tried. He’d knocked on Sam’s door the day after the fight. Twice. Once with hot chocolate. Once with nothing. Both times, he’d stood there too long and left without saying a word.

He didn’t want to push Sam further away. He didn’t want to hear another sharp, painful sentence fired in self-defense.

But this silence?

This was worse.

He studied his kid, curled up around the dog like he’d drifted there out of instinct. Like his body had carried him to the only spot in the house where his walls could drop.

Dean’s chest ached.

He’s still your kid, he thought. Even when he’s mad. Even when you’re fumbling this. He’s still yours.

He looked exhausted. All curled in like that, hoodie bunched around his wrists, knuckles pale. Rumsfeld hadn’t left his side. Of course, he hadn’t. The dog always knew when something was off. Always stood guard when Sam couldn’t sleep.

Dean realized then that Sam hadn’t come down to sleep.

He’d come down to fall apart. Quietly, alone, where no one could hear him.

That knowledge made something deep in Dean crack. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a hairline fracture in the part of him that had always sworn he’d never let Sam feel alone in this world again.

He swallowed hard and reached slowly for the quilt draped over the back of the couch. He laid it gently across Sam’s frame, hands careful, like smoothing down a storm.

He stood there for a long time after that, just watching. Breathing. Letting the moment settle in his bones.

Then, finally, he let out a breath.

“I’ll talk to you,” he whispered, barely audible. “After the game.”

Because he would.

No more waiting for the right moment. No more excuses. Sam didn’t need perfection. He just needed to know Dean was still here. Still in his corner. Still his, even when things cracked and bent and went silent for a while.

He took one last look.

Then turned and headed toward the kitchen. The sun was beginning to rise, and his kid was still here.

____

The locker room was loud in the way that only nervous energy could make it.

Zippers rasped open. Cleats thudded against tile. Jerseys rustled as they were pulled overhead, some right side out, some inside out. Someone blasted a thirty-second loop of a hype song from their phone before Ryan snapped at them to turn it down.

Sam sat on the end of the second bench, one leg bent, foot propped on his thigh as he tightened his laces for the third time.

Too tight.

He loosened them, retied them. Still too tight.

His stomach twisted in on itself, a low coil of adrenaline and static. The locker room buzzed like it was too close to a lightning storm: voices bouncing, laughter overlapping, gear being passed down the row.

He wasn’t even sure if he’d eaten lunch. He couldn’t remember breakfast either.

The elastic strap of his heart monitor itched faintly under his compression shirt. It was one of the newer models. Smaller, thinner, tucked discreetly just under the ribs. But even now, when it barely registered against his skin, he could feel it.

A soft vibration, nothing alarming. Just a reminder: still beating. Still there.

He glanced down at his monitor. The readings were steady. There was a slight spike in resting rate, but that tracked. His chest felt tight, buzzing, like the whole inside of him was being held in a closed fist.

Don’t tank before it starts, he told himself. Just breathe.

But it was hard not to think about it.

The flickering lights.

The vision.

The phantom twist of something that hadn’t happened yet.

And Dad. The silence that still sat between them was like broken glass. Whole days without a real word from his dad, just motions around each other: plates passed, doors opened and closed, muttered goodnights with too much space in them.

He’s probably not even coming, Sam thought, biting the inside of his cheek.

It hit harder than he wanted it to.

He ran a hand through his hair and dug his phone out of his bag. His thumb hovered for a second over his texts with Dad, unopened since Thursday.

Then it buzzed. 

It was the group chat, the one that changed names once every few weeks, but was currently titled DYLAN’S DISASTER CHILDREN.

DYLAN: I want blood on the cleats.

Sam blinked. Then he laughed out loud. Not a huge sound: just a short, startled breath of a laugh that cracked through the fog in his brain like a lit match.

Connor looked up from where he was pretending to stretch. “We killin’ somebody already?”

Sam tilted the phone so he could see.

More messages rolled in.

JAKE: That’s so violent for a Wednesday.

RYAN: It’s Monday.

JAKE: Sam, blink twice if you need saving.

DYLAN: I will FaceTime the huddle. Don’t test me.

Sam huffed another laugh and shook his head. His fingers paused mid-lace.

“Dylan’s threatening war crimes,” he said.

Jake, across the bench, raised an eyebrow. “What else is new?”

Connor leaned over Sam’s shoulder, reading upside down. “Dylan still types like a man having a midlife crisis in a frat house.”

Sam smiled. Not all the way, but enough.

The thread kept pinging, half-memes and dramatic threats, and one out-of-pocket Photoshop edit of Coach Miller wearing a gladiator helmet.

Sam didn’t respond right away.

Just looked at it. At them.

At the steady, absurd, relentless proof that he mattered to people who weren’t just his dad or his uncle or someone he owed everything to. These guys weren’t watching him to see if he was okay. They were just watching because they cared.

He let the phone fall to the bench beside him, screen still glowing.

The nerves didn’t vanish. The vision from earlier still echoed somewhere in the back of his skull, like an old bruise. But the noise in his chest eased. 

The team was gathering by the door when Coach Miller walked in, clipboard under one arm, whistle already around his neck like punctuation. The boys stilled instinctively; some out of respect, some out of habit. The din cut itself in half.

Coach didn’t say much. He never did before a game.

“Start smart,” he said. “Keep your heads. Cover each other.”

Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two white bands, a single black word stitched on each of them.

He tossed one toward Ryan, who caught it without looking. He held the other out to Sam.

“Captain,” he said simply.

It shouldn’t have hit like it did. But when Sam reached for it, his fingers hesitated. Just a half-second stall, like the fabric might shock him.

He took it anyway and wrapped it just above his left bicep. It was tight, snug. It clung like it meant something.

The buzz in his head didn’t fade. If anything, it swelled, like the moment had cracked open a pressure valve behind his eyes.

He blinked. The room felt a little off-axis. Not spinning, not quite, but tilted. Like he was trying to stand level on a floor that wouldn’t hold still.

He ran his thumb briefly across the edge of the band. It was real. Anchored. Unmistakable.

And his.

He’d seen that band on Dylan’s arm last year. Watched how people moved when he moved, trusted what he said before he even said it. He never thought it’d be his turn. Not this soon. Not with his brain fraying at the edges and his chest still buzzing like a radio trying to catch a signal no one else could hear.

Sam exhaled through his nose, sharp and steady.

Across the room, Jake was pulling his hoodie off in dramatic slow motion and mumbling something about “emotional armbands” to a rookie who looked both terrified and delighted. Ryan rolled his eyes and shoved him toward the tunnel.

Connor lingered. He gave Sam a look. Not concerned exactly, but weighted. Like he saw something behind the composure.

“Looks good on you,” he said again, lower this time. Then added, “You ready?”

Sam nodded once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not quite.

The tunnel loomed ahead, narrow and washed in a yellowish light that made the field beyond glow like something distant and holy. The noise from the stands crept in now. Low at first, then rising. Footsteps echoed from the other team’s side. Whistles chirped. Cleats clicked.

The lights overhead buzzed. One flickered.

A jolt fired down Sam’s spine.

He didn’t flinch - he wouldn’t flinch - but he felt it. That twist behind his eyes. That phantom pressure. The one that had been building all week like weather trapped under his skin.

The vision hadn’t come back since the hallway, but the residue hadn’t left either.

It hovered. Quiet but sure. A knowing hum in his chest. Like a match waiting for the strike.

His hand hovered near his ribs. Not over the heart monitor exactly, but close. Just feeling. Still steady. No vibrations. No alarms.

Not now, he told himself. Not during this.

He didn’t know if Dad was out there in the bleachers.

He hadn’t checked. Couldn’t bear to.

The idea of looking and not seeing him felt worse than not knowing at all.

So he kept his eyes forward. He flexed his fingers once. Let the sounds of the field swell.

And stepped into the tunnel, the white band snug against his arm, the weight of it equal parts burden and shield.

Captain.

Whatever was coming - on the field or off it - he would meet it head-on.

Even if the static never stopped.

Chapter Text

The wind came in sharp off the field, slicing low under the bleachers and dragging cold into the seams of Dean’s coat. He barely felt it.

The aluminum beneath him was freezing, stiff with the early February bite that hadn’t given up yet. Kids were packed into the student section across the field in sweatshirts and face paint, yelling like it wasn’t forty degrees with wind chill. Parents dotted the rows nearby, some with blankets, others hunched into coats and thermoses.

Dean sat with his elbows braced on his knees, spine tight, jaw locked. Beside him, Bobby sipped slowly from a battered metal thermos and didn’t say much.

They already knew Sam was captain. He’d told them weeks ago, voice tight with disbelief. Sam had smiled - wide and stunned and full of this rare, shining thing that only came out a few times a year.

That was before the fight.

Before Sam stopped talking.

Before Dean found himself counting how many days they could go brushing past each other without really looking.

He hadn’t been sure he should come. He had stood in the kitchen for ten full minutes that afternoon with the keys in his hand, staring at the fridge like it had an answer taped to it. Bobby had come down, taken one look at his face, and said, “Well? We goin’?”

And now here they were.

The tunnel shadows rippled at the end of the field, and Sam stepped into the light.

Dean’s chest gave a full, raw twist.

There he was. Shoulders squared. Jersey crisp. Socks pulled high. Cleats clicking steady. The white captain’s band wrapped high on his arm like it belonged there, like it meant something.

Dean couldn’t move.

His eyes tracked every line of Sam’s face, every flicker of tension in his jaw, every too-practiced breath.

God, he looked older.

Not taller - though he was, somehow, again - but older. Weathered. There was weight in the way he carried himself, like the air was heavier around him than anyone else on that field. Like he’d been holding his breath for days.

And then he stopped walking, just for a second. Sam’s head lifted, slow, scanning the crowd like he was looking for something he didn’t believe he’d find.

Dean’s stomach clenched.

Then their eyes met.

Dean couldn’t smile. Couldn’t wave. Could barely breathe. Because in that split second, everything they hadn’t said in days burned hot between them.

Sam’s eyes went wide, not in surprise, but in something older. Something truer. His mouth opened slightly. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And Dean saw it. Saw the flush in his cheeks, the flicker of emotion he couldn’t name, the sharp way Sam swallowed like his throat had gone tight.

Dean’s hand twitched in his lap.

He wanted to stand up. Wanted to run down the bleachers and pull his kid into a hug right there and say, I’m sorry. I’m here. I didn’t mean to mess it up.

But he didn’t move. Neither of them did.

And then Sam blinked - one, hard blink like it hurt - and turned back toward the field, spine locking straight again.

Bobby exhaled slowly beside him. “He saw you.”

Dean nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

His voice came out hoarse. He hadn’t spoken since they got there.

Bobby adjusted his cap, eyes still forward. “Good. He needed to.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just sat there, eyes wet against the wind, heart aching in a way he couldn’t name. Like seeing Sam had made something worse and better at the same time. Like the look they’d just shared had scraped something raw, but also maybe stitched something back together.

Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He just knew that Sam had seen him and hadn’t looked away.

____

The field lights buzzed overhead like angry insects, casting long shadows and biting into the turf with their too-sharp brightness. The crowd noise was rising - cheers, whistles, the squeal of someone dropping a trumpet in the pep band section - and it all landed against Sam’s skull like a jackhammer muffled under water.

He stood at the edge of the huddle, heart kicking too fast against the fabric of his jersey. His chest felt tight, not in a way that screamed emergency, but in a way that reminded him, you’re not okay.

The captain’s band clung to his arm like a brand: white, stark, visible from the bleachers and snug enough to make him aware of every twitch of his bicep. Every beat of his pulse.

He’d barely felt the cold walking out, but now the wind cut through the fabric of his sleeves like it had teeth. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline.

He should’ve slept last night. 

The vision from the hallway was still there, lodged behind his eyes like a splinter he couldn’t pull free. Not replaying exactly, but echoing. Faint. Uneasy. Like standing too close to a fence that hums with power.

Something was coming. He could feel it, and he hated that he knew what that meant now.

“Captain,” Ryan said, dragging him back to the moment. “Kick us off?”

Sam blinked and realized the circle had formed around him. Connor and Jake on one side, Ryan across, the other players half-joking, half-watching him.

He nodded and stepped in. He swallowed. His mouth was dry.

“This is it,” he said, voice rough.

Someone snorted. Someone else elbowed their neighbor. Sam pressed forward.

“No more drills. No more walk-throughs. Just the game. And we know how to do this.”

He paused, felt the eyes on him.

“We’ve got the movement, we’ve got the field, and we’ve got each other. That’s enough.”

It wasn’t a speech. It didn’t need to be. But he hoped, God, he hoped, it was enough to hide the tremor underneath.

Jake grinned. “That sounded alarmingly wholesome.”

“Shut up,” Ryan said, smirking.

Connor added, “He means ‘thank you, Captain Dad.’”

There were laughs. It helped. The noise grounded him, just a little. The team broke on three, clapping their hands together in sharp rhythm. It echoed like a war drum.

Sam started to turn, but Connor caught his arm. Not hard, but enough to pause him.

“Still with me?” he asked under his breath.

Sam didn’t answer right away. He wanted to say yes. That was the default. The expected.

But something about Connor’s face - calm, steady, not pushing - tugged the truth out of him before he could swallow it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

Connor studied him for a second. Then bumped his shoulder with a small nod. “Later,” he said. “Let’s win first.”

Sam nodded, but his stomach twisted tighter. The buzz in his head hadn’t left. It moved with him now. Pressed into his ears, into the back of his skull, into the hollows behind his ribs. The vision hadn’t returned, but it didn’t need to.

Because his body remembered.

The way the hallway warped. The way the air had hummed. The way something unseen had tilted the world just for him.

He didn’t know what it meant. And the worst part - the part that knotted low in his gut as he jogged into position - was that he didn’t think he could tell anyone.

Not Dad. Not Uncle Bobby. Not the team.

Not yet.

He flexed his fingers once. Touched the captain’s band with his thumb. Let it center him. Let it anchor him.

He had a job to do, and it started now.

____

The game started fast. Too fast.

The kind of fast that didn’t let Sam settle. The kind of fast that felt like running downhill too hard and realizing, halfway down, that his feet weren’t quite keeping up with his weight.

Cold bit at his cheeks, breath clouding in short bursts as he darted into position, cleats digging into the turf. His laces felt too tight, like they were strangling the blood out of his ankles, but he didn’t dare stop to fix them.

The stadium lights painted everything in harsh angles, too bright, too sharp. They buzzed overhead like angry neon wasps, and somehow, the sound didn’t stay above him. It crawled inside. Under his skin. Between his ribs. Like it had followed him out of his room and down onto the field.

He called for the first pass within seconds.

“Middle, middle!”

The ball skidded across the turf like it had somewhere to be. Sam took it cleanly with the inside of his foot and pivoted fast, maybe too fast. His next pass sailed just a breath early. Crisp, but misaligned. Jake had to lunge to save it from rolling out of bounds, one cleat dragging a trench through the sideline dirt.

Sam winced. Get it together.

The formation was sound. The rotations were clicking. He knew the pattern: triangle press, wing support, back to Ryan in the net if they needed to reset. He could see it as clearly as breathing.

But his timing was off. Just enough to make everything wrong.

It was like running a known route with the wind in the wrong direction. Like hearing a familiar song one beat ahead of the melody.

He moved anyway.

Snapped out calls like lifelines.

“Push left!”

“Back line, now!”

“Connor, space on your right!”

The words came clean and practiced, but they scraped coming out. His throat already felt raw. Like he wasn’t shouting to lead the team so much as to drown out the buzz in his chest.

Like if he didn’t keep moving, something inside him would catch fire.

A whistle blew. A throw-in.

Ryan jogged over with the ball, his gaze sharp beneath the glare of the lights. He paused before tossing it in.

“You holding up?” he asked low.

Sam nodded. Too quickly. “Fine. Focus.”

Ryan didn’t press. He gave a brief, skeptical nod and flung the ball into play.

Sam gritted his teeth and chased the next pass.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re-

The other team, Lakeside, didn’t play elegant soccer. They didn’t need to.

They played physically. Mean. The kind of team that scraped instead of sliced, and they’d zeroed in on him early.

One shove mid-sprint knocked Sam just enough off-balance to scramble his stride. Another player clipped his heel on a turn and muttered, “You always this slow, Captain?” before disappearing into the crowd of bodies.

Then came the chirps.

“Hey, Captain, your monitor is chirping!”

Sam barely had time to brace before a hard shoulder caught him across the chest, sending him stumbling back two steps.

The ref didn’t even blink.

Coach Miller’s voice rang across the field, sharp and livid. “That’s contact, ref! CALL it!”

The man in stripes barely looked up, he just waved a hand. Keep playing.

Sam’s jaw locked.

He felt his heartbeat echo behind his ribs like it was trying to break out. His vision tunneled for half a second - not from panic, not quite - but from anger. From the static that hadn’t left since the lights first buzzed above him in the warmup.

Then came the corner.

Connor earned it off a deflection. The ball dribbled wide, and Sam jogged into the box to set up, signaling with one arm, adrenaline drumming through every vein.

He scanned the field.

Watched the wind ripple the corner flag.

Waited.

And then-

Buzz.

Not from the lights, but from him.

A pulse hit the base of his skull like a short circuit. No pictures. No sound. No voice. Just the jolt, like something inside him reached up and flipped the wrong switch.

His vision swam.

He blinked hard. Too hard.

He missed the jump.

The ball flew over his head, perfect placement, and he didn’t even move. It bounced off a Lakeside defender and rolled uselessly toward midfield.

Sam swore under his breath and turned to reset, jaw tight enough to crack.

He wasn’t alone. The opposing center mid jogged past and tugged lightly on Sam’s jersey.

“Captain thing for show?” the kid said, smirking.

Sam yanked his shirt free and didn’t answer.

But the silence must’ve said enough because Ryan shouted from across the field, voice loud and unmistakably pissed. “Back the fuck off my captain!”

The ref blew his whistle and, of course, warned Ryan and not the guy who grabbed him.

Sam didn’t react. He didn’t let it show how his ribs hurt. How he knew his monitor had beeped yellow for a split second under his jersey. He tugged his sleeves down over his wrists, ignoring the chill crawling up his arms.

Still green. Still fine. Still fine.

They rotated again, and then it hit.

One bad pass. Just a fraction off. He swung left, meant to reset the tempo, but his body lagged behind his brain. His feet tangled just enough to trip his rhythm. The lane opened.

Lakeside didn’t wait, they broke fast and clean. Sam tried to chase it down, but he was a step behind. Connor slid in, low and beautiful, foot to turf. Ball stripped.

Just like that, threat neutralized.

Sam pushed forward to catch up, lungs burning.

Connor didn’t yell. Just jogged beside him, calm as ever, and said, “You’ve gotta call that switch.”

Sam nodded, barely able to breathe.

His voice didn’t work yet.

I know, he thought, shame curdling in his stomach. I know. I just couldn’t.

____

The locker room was warm in that suffocating way: too many bodies, too much gear, nerves sweating through layers of polyester and padded socks. The air was thick with the tang of sweat, damp turf, and adrenaline.

Sam sat on the end of the second bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed low like he was reading the floor.

He wasn’t. He was staring past it. Through it. At the flickering static behind his eyes that still hadn’t fully cleared.

His monitor cord itched under his jersey. He reached up and adjusted it absently, fingers brushing the edge of the sticky electrode through the fabric. The small bump of the device sat warm and steady on his chest, its light still hidden but, he hoped, green.

He didn’t check it. He didn’t want to.

Coach Miller stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, clipboard tucked beneath one elbow. His speech was short. No pep, no drama. Just the kind of halftime command that came with decades of knowing when to push and when to trust.

“Stay smart,” he said. “Finish strong. They’re playing rough, so make them chase. Make them trip over their own feet. And someone tell Lakeside their corner kicks suck.”

A weak ripple of laughter moved through the room. Jake barked one louder than necessary, earning a few eye-rolls.

Ryan didn’t laugh. He was watching Sam.

Sam could feel his gaze. Steady. Measuring. Not with judgment, just concern.

Jake slumped onto the bench beside him and muttered under his breath, “Dylan’s probably foaming at the mouth. I swear, if he FaceTimes in again I’m throwing the phone in a urinal.”

Sam managed a dry sound. Half a huff of air, maybe a laugh if you squinted.

He pulled his phone out anyway.

No texts. No new messages.

Just the background glow of the lock screen, a picture of him and Dad from the summer. Their feet up on the Impala dashboard, sunglasses on, matching root beer slushies clutched like trophies.

His chest tightened.

Nothing.

The silence from his dad hit harder than he meant to let it. He locked the screen, shoved the phone deep into his bag, and stood.

“Bathroom,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Nobody stopped him.

The hallway outside the locker room was dim and echoey, chilled by the late winter air and the kind of silence that made every step sound like it didn’t belong.

Sam walked until the voices faded. Until the fluorescent buzzing overhead was louder than the team behind him. Until the only thing left was the sound of his own cleats echoing against the concrete.

He stopped just past the old trophy case, right where the wall dipped inward by the supply closet. Out of view. Out of reach.

He leaned forward, bracing both palms on a row of lockers.

Let his forehead rest against the cold metal. And breathed.

In. Out.

The inhale caught halfway down his throat.

The buzz in his head hadn’t stopped. It wasn’t full-blown static, not like last time, but it was worse in its own way. A background hum. A pressure building behind his eyes, his ribs, his spine. The kind of pressure that made everything feel two degrees off: color, sound, balance. Even his own skin.

His hand drifted to his chest, fingertips grazing the heart monitor’s edge under his jersey. Still running. Still blinking. Still green, he hoped.

You’re fine, he told himself. You’re not broken.

But the silence from Dad, the vision, the stutter-steps, the missed timing, the cheap shots from Lakeside, the weight of the armband, it all sat on him like soaked canvas. Heavy. Slow. Cold. And somehow still burning.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Not now. Just not now.”

His voice cracked on the last word. His hand curled into a fist before he even knew he was doing it.

And then-

He punched the locker door.

Metal rang out like a bell, the sound sharp and final.

Pain lanced up through his knuckles, white-hot and fast, blooming in the back of his hand before settling into a throb.

“Shit,” he hissed, stumbling back a step.

He cradled his right hand in his left, fingers trembling.

A scrape ran across the middle knuckle, already purpling at the edge. Skin peeled. Throbbing. It wasn’t broken, but it would bruise.

The light above him flickered. Once, then twice, then held steady.

Sam stared at it like it had moved. Like it had seen him.

His chest rose and fell too fast. The throb in his hand blurred with the pulse in his neck. He felt like the air had gotten thicker like it was pushing back.

He didn’t move for a long second. He stood there, hand aching, face flushed, the armband snug against his sleeve like a question he couldn’t answer.

Then, slowly, he stepped back, wiping his good hand down his face.

And whispered, quieter this time: “Pull it together.”

“Dude,” Connor’s voice rang out from behind him. “Are you hiding out here or trying to haunt the JV hallway?”

Sam didn’t answer right away.

He kept his eyes on the flickering light above, willing it to stay steady.

Connor came closer. The sound of his cleats clicked unevenly on the concrete. “Coach is almost done going over the second half.”

Sam nodded.

“You’re bleeding.”

Sam flinched and looked down. Blood had welled in a line across his middle knuckle, already drying dark red where the skin had split. The bruise was deeper now too, already rising beneath the surface like a ripple under glass.

He dropped his hand to his side and tried to shake it out casually. “Caught the edge of a locker.”

Connor gave him a look.

“That’s a crap excuse,” he said.

Sam exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah, well. It’s been a crap week.”

Connor stepped in front of him then, arms crossed, not blocking the hallway exactly, just anchoring it. “Hey.”

Sam met his eyes, barely.

“You don’t have to say it,” Connor said quietly. “But you should stop trying to carry it by yourself.”

Sam swallowed. The knot in his throat had gotten worse since the locker room. It wasn’t just Dad’s silence or the pressure in his head. Or the way he’d stumbled in the first half.

It was all of it. Layered. Compacted.

“I’m fine,” he said. It sounded mechanical, even to him.

Connor just raised an eyebrow. “Sure. And my truck starts on the first try in January.”

Sam cracked a smile. Barely.

Connor stepped a little closer and bumped his shoulder lightly. “Wrap the hand. Ice it after the game. If Coach sees that, he’ll bench you for trying to punch a filing cabinet into submission.”

Sam sighed. “It wasn’t a cabinet.”

“Yeah, well,” Connor said, voice softer now, “whatever it was, it’s not bigger than the rest of us. You don’t have to take every hit alone.”

Sam didn’t respond right away. He just looked past Connor, toward the tunnel where the field lights glowed faint at the end.

Then, quietly, like it surprised even him: “Thanks.”

Connor nodded once. “Let’s go win something ugly.”

The team had reassembled by the tunnel, jittery with second-half nerves. Cleats scuffed the rubber flooring. Jerseys were retucked, sleeves adjusted. Ryan bounced the ball lightly under one hand, focus locked in. Jake cracked his neck like it owed him money.

Sam hung back a half-step from the others.

Connor gave him a look that said keep it together without saying anything at all.

Coach Miller stepped in front of them, blocking the mouth of the tunnel with that low-simmer kind of presence he always had before a whistle. Calm. Hard-edged. Like steel right before the strike.

He gave them the usual nod, looked down the line-

Then stopped.

“Winchester,” he said.

Sam blinked. “Yeah?”

Coach’s eyes dropped to his hand. Sam had wiped the blood away in the hallway, but the early bloom of bruising had crept up under the white athletic tape he’d hastily slapped on.

Coach didn’t say anything right away. Just looked.

Then, flatly: “You punch a locker or a wall?”

Sam hesitated. “Locker.”

Coach gave a short exhale through his nose, not quite a sigh. “You wrap it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He stepped forward. Just enough to drop his voice. “Don’t make it worse unless you’re saving a goal. Understood?”

Sam nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

Coach held his gaze another beat. Then he stepped back and clapped once, loud and sharp. “Let’s finish it. Head in. Head up.”

The boys shouted in scattered unison. “Let’s go!”

Sam followed them into the tunnel.

Still buzzing. Still bruised.

But this time, with someone at his back.

____

The whistle shrieked sharply in the cold.

Sam moved on instinct: cleats biting into turf, lungs burning, arms pumping just enough to keep balance without over-correcting. The second half opened like a sprint. No grace period. No easing in. Just velocity.

He welcomed it.

The pain in his taped hand throbbed with every motion, reminding him of the locker door and the snap of impact. But it grounded him. Focused him. Gave him something tangible to press against besides the static still humming inside his skull.

He’d barely slept. He hadn’t eaten much. But he could move.

So he did.

“Shift back!” he called. “Left wing, go now!”

“Jake, drop!”

His voice cracked on the third order, throat rubbed raw from wind and grit. But the shape of the game held.

Coach had pulled them into a tighter 4-4-2, and Sam dropped back into central mid like muscle memory. Ryan shouted from goal, anchoring the defense. Jake snapped at a rookie for lagging the press. Connor pressed forward and circled back when needed.

Sam held the line.

The rhythm of the game crept into his blood. Feet, voice, eyes. Each pass built on the last. Each movement clipped and measured. The world shrank down to vectors and space and timing.

Until the field light flickered.

Just once. A stutter.

He caught it out of the corner of his eye. The old light above the far bleachers, west side, flickering like it had in the hallway. Like it hadn’t stopped.

And in that moment, his chest tightened, not from exertion, but from memory. Because the flare wasn’t just light. It was absence.

The same sick lurch he’d felt in the hallway. That sense of being pulled away from himself. Of watching the world from just outside of it. Of not being there.

The image came back hard and fast, the locker light flickering. The panic. The disconnect. That terrifying moment of knowing, if something happened, he wouldn’t be there to stop it.

His breath stuttered, and so did his legs. Just one step. Just enough.

The ball zipped past him to the wrong side. He hadn’t called the switch. Hadn’t moved. He barely registered the shout behind him until Connor came flying in from the left, low and clean, intercepting the ball and snapping it upfield again.

“Back press!” Jake yelled.

But Connor glanced sideways as he passed Sam - quick, quiet.

You can’t lose it, he thought. Not now. Not again.

He sucked in a breath. Focused on the burn in his hand. Let it anchor him.

Then he ran.

Because if he stopped, if he let himself really feel what just happened, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to start again.

They were ten minutes into the half when Lakeside pushed harder.

It started subtle. A shoulder that lingered too long in a run. A clipped ankle in the midfield. A shove just outside the ref’s line of sight.

Sam felt it immediately. They weren’t going for the ball. They were going for him.

He caught a hip-check during a pivot and nearly lost his footing. Another time, he got sandwiched between two defenders, elbow to ribs on one side, a muttered “Not so sharp now, Captain” on the other.

He gritted his teeth and kept going. 

The buzz in his head hadn’t gone away. It shifted now: duller, flatter. Not sharp like before. Just weight. Like his own thoughts were dragging behind him in mud.

But something changed. Instead of trying to run from it, Sam leaned in.

He pressed the shape of the field into his bones. Let the pain in his hand steady him. Let the friction anchor him. He barked orders with a voice that felt scorched but solid.

“Push press, left wing! Back to Ryan if you don’t see it!”

Freeman upped the tempo again. One of their strikers clipped him on a dead ball. Another shoved a little too hard during a throw-in.

The ref gave a lazy shrug.

Coach Miller was already halfway out of the coaching box, yelling. “Ref! That’s contact! Are we watching the same game?!”

The ref blew his whistle, but only to restart play.

Sam kept going. Because if he stopped, if he let the static win, he wouldn’t be captain anymore. He’d just be a kid with a monitor under his jersey and a head full of flares no one could see.

The ball skidded wide. Sam chased it down near the sideline and got there half a second ahead of his mark.

The Lakeside defender jabbed his cleat into Sam’s ankle as they collided. Sam stumbled, but stayed up. He reset the ball with a quick touch, forced the switch, and didn’t show it. Didn’t flinch.

Until he heard it: “What’s the matter, Captain? Heard your real dad couldn’t hack it either.”

Sam froze. Not for long, just half a second. But the words hit somewhere deep, just beneath his ribs. Just under everything he’d built back up.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

But someone else did.

Connor.

It wasn’t words at first, just the sound of a body moving too fast. Cleats scraping, shoulder bracing.

Then Connor was there in the face of the Lakeside player. “You wanna try that again?”

The other kid smirked. “Relax, I’m just talking-”

“You don’t talk about him,” Connor snapped. “You don’t touch him. You don’t look at him unless you want your teeth in the grass.”

Ryan was already halfway to them. Jake too. The sideline erupted: Coach Miller shouting, the crowd murmuring, but Sam barely heard it.

He was still standing there, pulse screaming in his throat, the words looping in his head.

Your real dad couldn’t hack it.

Then-

“HEY!”

The voice cracked the field in half.

Sam's head snapped up like a wire had pulled it.

Dad, up in the bleachers, coat half-zipped and jaw set like stone, he was on his feet now, one hand gripping the railing like he might jump it. “You run your mouth again, and I swear to God, ref or not, I’m coming down there!”

It was too loud. Too sharp. Too Dad.

The ref turned blinking, stunned.

Sam just stared.

That voice sliced through the static in his brain like heat through frost. Not the angry part. Not the threat, but the fact of it.

Dad was here, and not because he had to be. Not to check his monitor. Not to hover or worry or fix. He was here because he wanted to be. Because when someone tried to gut Sam with a sentence, Dad still came swinging.

Sam felt the noise in his chest break. Not fall apart, but crack open just enough to let light in.

He stepped forward and planted his hand on Connor’s chest.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low. “But I got it.”

Connor stared at him for a second, breathing hard. Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

They reset.

And for the first time all game, Sam didn’t flinch when the ball came back his way.

The clock ticked down like a bomb.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

Sam’s chest ached. Not in the dangerous way, no flashing light on the monitor yet, but in the way that told him he was nearing the edge of what his body could give.

His legs burned. His fingers had gone numb at the tips. His taped hand throbbed with every movement, like it wanted to remind him he’d punched something and gotten away with it.

The stadium roared around him: clapping, stomping, screaming. The floodlights felt too bright. The sky too wide. The ground too narrow.

But Sam held the line.

“Mark left!” he shouted hoarsely. “Connor, drop in! Jake, watch 10!”

No one hesitated. They moved when he spoke. Trusted it. Trusted him.

The ball rolled into midfield. Lakeside was setting up for a final push, one more desperate drive, hoping to draw a foul or a corner or a miracle.

Sam tracked the motion automatically.

Except something didn’t line up.

The Lakeside striker on the right was pulling off wide, but the left side mid wasn’t adjusting. Too much space. The rotation wasn’t staggered on purpose.

Sam’s breath caught. Time slowed and instinct flared sharp and clear like a match in the dark.

They were about to dump the ball to the edge, where their fastest forward was already turning.

Nobody saw it except him.

Sam cut across the field like he’d been fired from a cannon, ignoring the pull in his ribs, the scream of every muscle. The pass came - clean, low, deadly.

And Sam was there.

Right foot. Controlled touch.

Mid-stride pivot.

He didn’t think. Didn’t even aim.

He just kicked.

The ball arced up the sideline, cleaner than it had any right to be, landing at Connor’s feet just past midfield. He bolted with it, roaring past the center line. Ryan bellowed something from the goal that no one could hear over the crowd.

And the net rippled two beats later when Connor buried the shot off a deflection.

The stadium exploded: whistles, screams, stomping. A voice over the PA that didn’t matter. Bodies crashing together near the goal as the bench erupted and Coach threw his clipboard in the air like a victory flag.

Sam just stood there, still in the middle of the field. Breath catching. Legs shaking. Heart thudding so loud it drowned everything out.

Connor sprinted toward him, grinning like a lunatic. “Winchester, what the hell was that?!”

Jake tackled him into a one-armed hug before he could answer. Ryan pounded him on the back.

But Sam barely processed it.

His pulse spiked again. The monitor under his jersey buzzed green still, but fast. He couldn’t hear the crowd. Could barely feel the field.

Everything he’d been holding back - the visions, the silence, the fight with Dad, the pressure to be fine - pressed in like a wave that hadn't broken yet.

He held it off with one hand on his knee, bent forward slightly, grinning like he wasn’t about to fall apart.

But he didn’t fall, not yet.

The restart was a blur, thirty seconds, maybe.

Just enough time for Lakeside to try something reckless: an over-the-top lob and a desperate sprint. Sam tracked it without moving. Ryan read it clean, charged out of the box, and punched it clear like he’d been waiting for it all game.

The ball skidded past midfield.

And the whistle blew, the sound splitting through the field like a thunderclap, high and shrill and absolute.

Everything went white-noise around Sam.

Arms went up. The bench emptied. Players collided mid - stride in a messy, sprawling, joy - soaked tangle of shouting and shoving and sweat.

Somewhere to his left, Coach Miller let out a sharp, wordless bark of triumph. Jake whooped like a man unhinged. Connor dropped to one knee and slapped the turf, face split in a wild grin.

Sam didn’t move, but he was upright. Barely.

His heart jackhammered in his chest too fast. Not dangerous, not yet, but close. The monitor buzzed again, tucked against his ribs, green light holding steady, but just barely.

He breathed through his mouth, jaw clenched, vision tunneling at the edges.

The cold air scraped through his throat and didn’t reach his lungs the right way. His legs threatened to give. Not all the way, just a buckle in the knees, a sudden weight that had nowhere to go.

He locked them and stayed standing.

You don’t fall. Not now.

The static in his head hadn’t flared again, but the pressure was still there: behind his eyes, behind his ribs, in the drumbeat of his own pulse, pounding like it wanted out. It hadn’t let up. Not since the hallway. Not since the vision. Not since everything started tilting and never quite leveled out.

Connor reached him first.

“Sam?” he said, grabbing his arm, just enough pressure to ground. “Hey. You alright?”

Sam blinked and nodded too fast. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Just winded.”

Ryan came up on his other side. “You sure? You’re kinda… you look like you saw a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” Sam lifted a hand. “Just gimme a sec.”

The looks on their faces said they didn’t buy it, but they backed off. Connor lingered, silent, standing guard without asking permission.

He closed his eyes, just for one beat. Then opened them again and swallowed hard.

Jake thudded him on the back, gentler than usual. “Hey, Captain. You’re not allowed to die in the first game.”

Sam huffed a breath of a laugh. It shook, but it passed. “Not planning on it.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re-”

Sam cut him off, hand on his shoulder. “I’m good.”

It wasn’t a lie. He was still standing and, maybe, that was enough.

He looked toward the stands and froze. His dad was still there, standing at the edge of the fence, hands white-knuckled on the top rail like he’d been gripping it for dear life since kickoff. Uncle Bobby stood just behind him, expression tight and unreadable.

Dad’s jaw was set. His eyes locked on Sam like the world was a sniper’s scope and Sam was the only thing left to protect.

Sam didn’t move, didn’t wave, didn’t go to him. He just looked.

Long enough for their eyes to meet across the distance. Long enough for Sam’s ribs to go tight in a way that had nothing to do with oxygen and everything to do with silence. With the things they hadn’t said.

Dad didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away, either.

And neither did Sam, until he had to. He turned, shoulders stiff and legs aching, and he walked off the field.

Not toward the fence, not toward his dad, but toward the tunnel. He didn’t look back.

He ducked under the concrete archway, the roar fading to something tighter, closer-

The locker room hit him like a wave.

“There he is!”

“CAPTAIN, BABY!”

Jake was standing on the bench, towel wrapped around his neck like a championship belt. Ryan rolled his eyes, and Connor raised both fists like called it.

The rest of the team was everywhere - half-dressed, half-yelling, all motion and sweat and adrenaline. Someone banged on a locker like a drum. Frankie skidded across the floor in his socks, shouting something about Sam being “the silent weapon of midfield justice.” One of the rookies dropped a water bottle and tripped over it. Laughter erupted.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and flickery, but Sam barely noticed. He blinked at his teammates - his friends - and something inside him buckled just a little.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed this part.

The welcome. The noise. The we saw what you did without having to say we know what you’re carrying.

He didn’t smile, not fully, but something in his face eased.

“I leave for thirty seconds,” he croaked, voice frayed from cold air and yelling all night, “and you forget how to act.”

The groans were immediate.

“Shut up, Winchester-”

“He practiced that one, I swear-”

“Oh, you love us,” Jake said, leaping off the bench and wrapping him in a one-armed hug that jostled every bruise on Sam’s ribs.

“Let the man breathe,” Ryan added, tugging Jake off him with a shake of his head.

But his eyes stayed locked on Sam, measuring him like a scale. Sam saw it, the calculation. The check-in. The worry he knew Ryan wouldn’t say out loud.

So he nodded. Not big, just enough. He made his way to the bench slowly, each step looser than the last. When he sat down and untied one cleat, his hands found the hem of his jersey automatically, fingers slipping beneath to tap the monitor.

Green. Still green. Still fine.

Connor dropped down next to him and leaned back like they were just two guys cooling off after a win. His shoulder bumped into Sam’s, deliberate but not forceful.

“Told you you could do it,” Connor muttered.

Sam didn’t answer right away. His throat was thick, and his eyes were doing that prickling thing he hated. So he looked down, at his shoelaces, at his shaking fingers. Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You did.”

Jake wandered by again, towel now perched on his head like a crown. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, “next time you decide to intercept a cannonball pass and sprint like a psychopath, I expect you to pass it to me.”

Sam huffed a laugh, head still bowed. “Talk to Connor.”

“I scored the goal,” Connor said, not looking up.

“Yeah,” Jake replied. “But I would have celebrated it with way more drama.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows to knees, the jokes swirling around him like static. Noise. Warmth. Something to anchor to.

He didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know what was still buzzing behind his ribs, or what the visions would turn into, or what was waiting for him with his dad.

But this? This chaos? This ridiculous, sweaty, loud mess of people who had his back without needing to understand all the reasons why?

This, he could hold onto.

____

The house was dark when Sam let himself in.

The screen door creaked like it always did - soft, familiar, no need to tiptoe. Uncle Bobby had left the porch light on, same as ever. The same battered boots were by the door, the same smell of coffee and motor oil hanging faint in the air.

But Sam didn’t go upstairs.

The front room was still. No TV, no kitchen light. There was just the quiet tick of the wall clock and the low hum of the fridge like it was keeping time for ghosts.

He stood there in the doorway, cleats still in his hand, hoodie sleeves half-pulled down over his knuckles, and thought about leaving. About turning around, slipping back outside, walking down to the old bench behind the shed and just sitting with the night for a while. Letting it swallow him whole.

But his body was too tired. His ribs ached. His calves twitched every time he stopped moving for too long, like they were trying to remind him he’d survived something.

He should’ve gone upstairs. Should’ve showered, crawled into bed, and buried himself under the weight of it all.

Instead, his feet turned toward the back hallway.

The garage light was on.

Bare, yellow, soft through the cracked door. Not the bright overhead shop lights, but just the old bulb Dad always flipped on when he didn’t want to wake Uncle Bobby. Or Sam. Or maybe when he just didn’t want to be alone.

Sam hesitated in the doorway.

He could see the shape of Dad’s back through the haze of the light: bent slightly over the Impala’s hood, elbows braced wide. Tools out, but untouched. A rag clutched in one hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

For a long time, Sam just stood there.

He could leave. Say nothing. Go to bed and pretend like he hadn’t seen the light, pretend like the fight never cracked open that awful place in his chest. Like Dad hadn’t looked at him with that combination of panic and hurt and helpless love, and like Sam hadn’t shoved it all away with words that still burned in his throat.

But now, everything had changed and nothing had.

He’d played a full game. He’d captained the team. He’d stood on a field with static in his head and fire in his lungs and still somehow held himself together.

And Dad had been there. Waiting at the fence. Watching like he always did, like he couldn’t not.

Sam didn’t know how to undo what he’d said. He wasn’t even sure he should try. But he knew one thing with a kind of quiet certainty he didn’t get very often:

He missed his dad.

Even after everything. Even after the pressure, the hovering, the way his fear had started to wrap around Sam’s throat like vines he couldn’t cut through.

He still wanted him. He still loved him.

And that had to mean something.

Sam stepped forward slowly, his socked feet silent against the concrete. The smell of oil and steel clung to the air. A socket wrench sat sideways on the bench like someone had set it down mid-thought.

Dad didn’t turn around. But he said, voice low and rough: “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Sam stopped a few feet away, cleats still dangling from one hand. “The boys dropped me off.”

A pause.

Then Dad nodded, like he was trying to act casual. “Figured they would.”

Sam looked at the car. At the faint gleam of chrome under the soft light. At the way Dad’s knuckles were white around the edge of the hood.

He took another step. And another.

“I saw you,” he said, quieter now. “At the fence.”

Dad’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

Sam swallowed. His throat felt raw.

“You didn’t come down.”

“I didn’t want to crowd you.”

Something in Sam cracked a little at that.

Because it was true. That’s exactly what Dad would’ve said after the fight. Like he thought giving space was safer than staying close. Like Sam might break again if he got too near.

“I didn’t want space,” Sam said.

His voice was steadier now, but still soft. Like if he said it too loud, the walls might close in again.

Dad finally looked at him.

The garage light caught the shadows under his eyes. The tired lines in his face. The grief there, still raw, still unspoken.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I thought I ruined it. That I broke something we don’t know how to fix.”

It wasn’t everything, not all at once, but it was just enough.

Dad let out a breath. It shook a little on the way out.

“You didn’t break anything, Sammy,” he said, not moving. “I did. I pushed too hard when you needed time. I should’ve… I should’ve backed off sooner.”

Sam’s eyes stung.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he whispered. “Not all of it.”

Dad nodded. “Maybe not. But you meant some of it.”

Another pause. The silence settled between them like dust.

“And I needed to hear it.”

They didn’t move. There was no hug, no big moment. Only breath. Just the sound of the house behind them and the world not ending after all.

Then Dad shifted just enough to meet Sam’s gaze fully.

“You’re not a project,” he said. “You’re my kid. My kid.”

His voice caught, just slightly. “After everything we’ve been through - what we ran from, what we made it through - I don’t know how to just… stop worrying. I don’t know how to see you hurting and not try to fix it. I’m not wired like that.”

His hand lifted faintly, then dropped again. “You’re everything, Sammy.”

Sam’s chest ached. But it wasn’t the kind of ache that meant danger. It was the kind that meant home.

“I know,” he said, voice barely more than air. “I know, Dad.”

The light buzzed overhead.

Outside, a wind kicked up across the yard.

Inside, Sam stood close enough to touch the car, but not the man next to it.

He didn’t need to, not yet. But something in him settled. For the first time in days, the static in his head was quiet.

And across the silence, he felt it:

Dad wasn’t waiting to be let in. He had never left.

____

Bobby moved slowly in the morning light, trying not to wake the rest of the house as he shuffled into the kitchen. His knee twinged when he bent to feed Rumsfeld. The dog gave him a look like it was his fault breakfast wasn’t already in the bowl.

He muttered an apology and rubbed his eye, reaching for the coffee tin. It was muscle memory at this point. Coffee. Silence. Maybe the newspaper if Dean hadn’t beaten him to it.

But when he turned toward the machine, it was already running. That’s when he noticed the shape by the counter.

“Sam?”

The boy didn’t jump. He blinked slowly and turned his head, like it took a second for the name to land in the right part of his brain.

Bobby frowned.

Sam looked like hell.

He was in pajama pants and a hoodie. Old and frayed, one of Dean’s, judging by the sleeves almost swallowing his hands. His posture was stiff, like he’d been sleeping wrong or not sleeping at all. Dark smudges dragged beneath his eyes, and when he moved, it was careful. Like everything hurt just a little more than it should’ve.

Bobby kept his tone light. “You look like someone wrung you out and forgot to hang you up.”

Sam tried to smile. It didn’t quite land. “Just tired.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “I bet.” He opened the cabinet and reached for a second mug. “The game was a hell of a thing.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wasn’t gonna miss it,” Bobby said. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Need anything?”

Sam’s shoulders tensed. His hand twitched around the coffee pot. “I’m fine.”

It came out a little too fast. Too automatic.

Bobby watched him refill his cup like it took all his focus.

“You sure?” he asked, not as a worried adult, not even as the gruff old man in the background, but as someone who’d raised him too. “I mean it, Sam. You’re movin’ like you got hit by a train and slept on concrete. You didn’t just leave it all on the field last night, you near left yourself behind.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He shrugged, eyes still fixed on the inside of his mug.

“I’m okay,” he said. “It was a lot. First game, that’s all. I’ll bounce back.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bobby didn’t push it, didn’t call him on the lie. The kid looked like he was running on stubborn fumes.

So he let it go. For the moment.

They stood in silence for a while, two shapes against the pale light from the window, steam curling from their mugs.

Eventually, Sam mumbled something about needing to shower before school and disappeared upstairs without another word.

Bobby watched him go. Listened to his steps fade on the stairs. Then turned toward the living room, where he knew Dean would be coming down soon.

He didn’t waste time sugarcoating when Dean walked in, still pulling on a flannel.

“Kid’s about to snap like a brittle bone,” Bobby said without preamble, “if he don’t start sharin’ some of that weight.”

Dean stilled mid-step.

“He said he’s fine,” Bobby added. “And maybe he even believes that. But you and me both know what he looks like when he’s drowning and not yelling for help.”

Dean didn’t say anything, but Bobby saw the way his jaw clenched. Saw the way his hand flexed once by his side.

The coffee pot hissed quietly between them.

Neither of them moved for a while.

And above them, the house held its breath.

____

The frost hadn’t lifted yet.

Sam stood at the edge of the driveway, hoodie drawn tight over his ears, watching his breath puff out in uneven curls. The sidewalk glittered faintly under the low winter sun, the kind of cold that didn’t punch. It crept up sleeves, into joints. Settled.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Backpack strap digging into the same shoulder that had been aching since the second practice of the season. His ribs twinged when he breathed too deep, like they were trying to remember how to hurt again.

The Jeep rolled up with a quiet crunch of tires over sanded asphalt. Same beat-up blue. Same scuffed bumper. Same low thrum of music vibrating faintly through the door.

Connor was in the passenger seat, seat reclined just far enough to be obnoxious. He raised two fingers in a lazy salute without turning around. Ryan leaned across and popped the back door open.

Sam climbed in without a word.

It was warm inside, fogged glass and artificial heat blasting from the vents. The air smelled like turf sweat and cinnamon gum and the dregs of yesterday’s protein shake. The leather seats had that familiar winter stiffness, and one corner of the back row had been claimed by someone’s cleats. Connor’s, probably.

Sam wedged his feet between bags and dropped into the corner.

“Morning, sunshine,” Connor called over his shoulder. “You missed Jake’s dramatic retelling of Coach Miller’s whistle meltdown on the phone last night.”

“Whistle got stuck,” Ryan added. “He blew it for so long I thought time was breaking.”

“Jake started screaming like it was a fire drill. Ryan didn’t even flinch.”

“I thought it was performance art.”

Sam gave the smallest twitch of a smile, but didn’t speak. The tightness in his chest hadn’t budged since he woke up, if he’d really slept at all. He’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, static buzzing under his skin. Even now, his ribs felt like they were humming.

But the weight between him and Dad - that awful stretch of silence - felt lighter now. Not fixed, but something had shifted when he talked to him in the garage last night.

“Did you eat?” Ryan asked, casual. Too casual.

Sam shrugged. “Sort of.”

Connor twisted around just enough to shove a cup toward him. The lid had a faint ring of steam still curling off the vent. “Here. You look like you’re about to dissolve.”

Sam blinked at it, caught off guard.

He took the coffee anyway. It was warm, one sugar and a splash of cream. His usual.

“Thanks,” he murmured, fingers tightening around the sleeve.

They didn’t say anything about it, didn't poke. They just kept going like everything was fine.

“Jake’s planning to fake a shoulder injury during drills so he doesn’t have to run today,” Connor said. “Told him to at least sprain the right side this time.”

“Bold of him to assume Coach forgot last week,” Ryan muttered, eyes on the road.

“Bold of him to assume he can act,” Connor added, deadpan.

Sam sipped the coffee. It burned a little on the way down, but he welcomed it. The heat settled in his chest like a flare. Temporary warmth, but grounding.

The hum in his head hadn’t left. It felt like it was waiting for something.

Connor twisted again. “You alive back there, Cap?”

Sam looked up and met his eyes. “Yeah. I had a slow start this morning.”

“Must’ve been the altitude,” Connor said. “Winning’s exhausting.”

Ryan chuckled, flicking on his turn signal. “That header was pure luck.”

“Calculated,” Sam said without thinking.

It came out quieter than he meant, but clear. Connor turned fully in his seat, eyebrows up.

Ryan didn’t miss a beat. “There he is.”

That was all. Just a small comment, tossed gently into the space between them like a lifeline knotted in the middle. Not a demand. Not a test. Just acknowledgment. Presence.

Sam let the silence stretch again. He looked out the window. The sky was still gray. Still dull, but the frost was starting to melt now. He took another sip and leaned his forehead lightly against the glass.

Maybe today wouldn’t be easy.

But maybe he didn’t have to do all of it alone.

____

The library was mostly empty, save for the quiet hum of the air vents and the occasional squeak of a rolling cart. Ryan was half-asleep in a chair with his hoodie over his face. Jake sat cross-legged on the carpet beside the nearest bookshelf, tossing a balled-up gum wrapper between his hands. Connor leaned over the table, knuckles pressed into the wood like he could will it to give him answers.

Dylan’s voice crackled through Ryan’s phone speaker, tinny but insistent. “I’m telling you, he’s not okay. I heard it in his voice.”

It was their free period, one of those upperclassman perks Sam didn’t have yet, which meant it was the one time they could talk without him walking in halfway through.

“Yeah,” Connor muttered. “Welcome to the club.”

“He laughed when I told him about the tragic date I had this weekend,” Dylan continued, “but it felt off. Too loud. Like he was trying to make us think he was fine.”

Jake snorted. “That’s his entire personality this season so far. ‘Everything’s great,’ said the raccoon inside a trash fire.”

Ryan pulled the hoodie down just far enough to speak. “He hasn’t talked about the game at all. Not even when Coach ran the highlights in the film session.”

“He barely even smiled during that counterplay clip,” Connor said. “That was a career highlight and he acted like it didn’t even happen.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Y’all think it’s the fight with his dad?” Dylan asked, softer now.

Connor exchanged a glance with Jake. “That’s part of it.”

“Yeah, but it’s more,” Ryan added, shifting upright. “He’s been off since before that. Quiet in a different way. Have you ever seen someone try so hard to act normal it just makes it worse?”

Connor hesitated. Then, voice lower than before, he added, “He punched the locker. Right before the second half.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“Hard,” Connor said. “He wouldn’t say much about it, but I saw the bruises. He was bleeding a little.”

Ryan swore under his breath. “That’s not nothing.”

“It’s like he’s holding something too heavy and he thinks if he lets go of even an inch of it, the whole thing’ll fall,” Dylan said after a beat.

Jake nodded. “He checks that monitor like it’s got secrets. Like if it flashes yellow, it’ll prove he’s broken.”

“We gotta give him space,” Connor said, jaw flexing. “But not too much. He starts spiraling, we reel him back.”

“We’ve got his back,” Dylan said.

The bell was about to ring. Sam would be walking out of computer science soon. None of them moved.

Then Jake looked up from where he was fidgeting with the hum wrapped and said, “We play dumb. Keep joking. Keep showing up. No big speeches.”

“Yet,” Dylan added, a dry edge to his voice.

Ryan cracked a smile “There he is.”

Connor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he pressed two fingers to the edge of the phone. “You got one more second?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said. His voice quieted. “Why?”

“You tell him you love him lately?” Connor asked, soft but direct.

A beat.

“Every damn time I hang up,” Dylan said, voice warm now. “Not stopping anytime soon.”

Jake reached for the phone to end the call, then hesitated with a smirk. “Hey, Dylan?”

“Yeah?” Dylan asked, wary.

Jake grinned. “You’re such a sap.”

“Eat rocks,” Dylan shot back.

The line clicked off.

____

Sam walked out of practice with his bag over one shoulder and his hoodie half-zipped, the sun already starting to dip behind the bleachers.

His head still felt a little off. The sprints had made his chest ache more than usual. His monitor hadn’t gone off, but he’d checked it twice anyway, just to be sure. Still green. Still fine.

So he’d pushed through.

He’d called plays. Directed spacing. Told one of the new guys to tie his laces before he tripped. From the outside, he’d looked steady, but everything inside him was just slightly out of sync.

Connor and Jake flanked him as they left the field, half-arguing about whether Coach Miller’s new drills were genius or torture. Ryan trailed behind, kicking gravel and offering occasional grunts of agreement.

The plan was the same as always, drop-off rotation. Sam figured he’d squeeze into the backseat, endure whatever war-crime playlist Jake had queued up, and ride home with the windows down and his hair a mess.

But then he saw it.

The Impala.

Parked in the far corner of the lot, black as ever, chrome catching the last sharp glint of daylight. Sam slowed. His bag strap tightened unconsciously in his grip.

“You good?” Connor asked, noticing.

Sam blinked. “Yeah. That’s my ride.”

Jake followed his line of sight and let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s a surprise cameo if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Tell him hi for us,” Ryan said, dry but not unkind, already climbing into Jake’s car.

Sam nodded, waved a vague goodbye, and peeled off from the group.

Dad was leaning against the roof of the car like he’d been there a while: arms crossed, boot resting casually on the wheel well. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes never left Sam as he approached.

“Hey,” Dad called out. 

Sam slowed to a stop. “Did I forget something?”

Dad shook his head. “Nah. I figured we could take a detour.”

Sam blinked. “A detour?”

“Burger detour,” he said. “Get in.”

Ten minutes later, they were in a booth at Mabel’s Diner, tucked into the back corner where the blinds filtered the light and the waitress didn’t bother them beyond dropping off menus and water. The place smelled like old coffee and griddle grease. Comfort food. Familiar.

Sam didn’t say much.

His fries sat cold. The milkshake, half-melted, left slow trails down the glass. He stirred it absently with the straw but didn’t take a sip.

Dad ate like he always did, quick and methodical, but his eyes kept drifting back. Not hovering. Just... watching.

Sam picked at the napkin. His knuckles still ached. So did everything else.

He didn’t even know what the score had been in the scrimmage today. Practice had blurred. The static in his head had made everything feel just one layer removed.

Finally, after a long sip of coffee, Dad set the cup down and said, “You don’t have to tell me everything, Sammy. But I need to know if you’re okay.”

Sam’s throat tightened. He stared at his milkshake.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, voice quiet. “About the garage. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. I am too,” Dad said, no hesitation. “But saying sorry’s not the same as telling me what’s eating you.”

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

He drank from the straw instead. Cold, sweet, and distracting. His heart thumped a little too loud in his ears. Like it always did when something brushed too close.

Dad didn’t press. He just nodded slowly. Called the waitress over with a two-finger gesture and asked for pie. Two slices. To-go.

When they got the check, he slid the white paper bag across the table. A plastic fork tucked into the top flap.

“Just in case you change your mind,” he said.

Sam didn’t say anything. But he didn’t let go of the bag the whole ride home.

____

The nightmare didn’t start with screaming.

It started with silence.

That same awful stillness from the courthouse. The air choked with dust and salt and something that had smelled like burned wire. His dad’s body crumpled just past the busted trap line. His chest hadn’t moved.

Sam’s heart thundered in his ears like a war drum, but in the dream, his feet wouldn’t move. He couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Everything was wrong. The blood pooled slower in dreams, which only made it worse, like time was mocking him. Giving him more space to see it happen again.

The moment he woke, he didn’t know if he’d made a sound.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made him want to peel his skin off just to hear something.

His heart was going fast. Painfully fast. He pressed his palm to his chest out of instinct, like he could slow it down by force. The monitor wasn’t strapped on, he didn’t wear it to bed anymore, but he almost wished it was. He hated not knowing. Hated the not-knowing almost as much as the knowing.

His whole body trembled.

“Not real,” he whispered to the dark. “It wasn’t real.”

But it had been real at one point, and stress made it hard to tell the difference. He knew that. Missouri has warned him once. It could hijack the same parts of his brain that triggered his visions. Could tangle everything together until nightmares felt like warnings.

He sat curled in the dark for a while. Staring at the window. Trying to count breaths.

It didn’t help.

Eventually, he moved. Quietly. Socks over cold floorboards. He ducked around the hallway creak out of habit, shoulders hunched like someone might stop him.

Dad’s door was open a few inches. Not wide, but enough to feel like an invitation. Or a lifeline.

Sam didn’t think. He just stepped inside.

Dad was out cold, sprawled on his side in a t-shirt so faded the band logo had become a ghost of itself. One arm was under the pillow. The other lay across the blanket, palm up like he’d reached for something before falling asleep. His mouth was slack. His brow unfurrowed. A rare moment of complete stillness.

For a long second, Sam just stood there.

Fifteen felt like a stone in his throat. He shouldn’t need this. He shouldn’t still want this.

But he did.

He always did.

He didn’t crawl into bed fast. He didn’t curl up like he was seven. But he moved quietly and carefully, lowering himself onto the other side of the mattress. He was facing away, but close enough that he could feel the dip in the covers. Feel the weight of not being alone.

He tried to stay still, to take up as little space as possible. But his breath hitched.

That was all it took.

Dad stirred. He didn’t speak, but he reached over and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam blinked fast, but the tears came anyway. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a steady, quiet unraveling he didn’t have the strength to stop.

“Sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking on the second syllable. “I didn’t mean to-”

Dad moved closer with a slow shift, his arm curling around Sam’s shoulders. He pulled him in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then - without fanfare, without drama - he pressed a kiss to Sam’s hair. Right at the crown, where it still curled a little too stubborn to ever lay flat. The place he used to press kisses back when Sam was small.

Sam’s ribs cracked open. Not physically, not all the way, but something inside him caved in a good way.

He buried his face in the blanket and let his Dad hold him. His Dad - his Dad - who didn’t ask why he was crying, or why he was here, or what the nightmare was about.

He just stayed. And for the first time in what felt like days, the buzz in Sam’s head faded.

Not gone. Not fixed. But eased.

The courthouse was just a memory again. Callaghan couldn’t touch him here. His ribs hurt, but from breathing. His throat burned, but from coming back to himself.

He was safe.

He was home.

____

The cafeteria was too bright.

Sam sat at the end of the table with Connor, Jake, and Ryan, his tray untouched, hood half-up, eyes on the peeling edge of his water bottle label like it might give him something useful to say.

He hadn’t meant to be weird. He’d even promised himself he’d be fine today: laugh at something dumb, ask about film review, make a joke. Normal stuff.

But his chest still felt like glass under pressure. Too thin in some places, too heavy in others.

Connor noticed first. “You somewhere else right now?”

Sam shook his head before he could think better of it.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You always lie like that?”

Jake didn’t even bother with a joke. He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. “Seriously. What’s going on?”

Sam let out a slow breath. Then: “I had a nightmare.”

The mood at the table changed instantly. The casual noise dropped into a sharper kind of quiet. Sam didn’t look up.

“It was about the courthouse,” he said. “Last year.”

Sam knew they all knew of it. The version the news gave, the version his dad signed off on. John showed up at their house. Took Sam. Hurt him. Dad showed up. Got hurt, too. The cops arrived. Everyone survived. Barely.

But Sam had never talked about the in-between.

“Everyone thinks I blacked out before they found me,” he said quietly. “That I don’t remember much.” He paused. Peeled the label a little further. “I do, though.”

Ryan stilled. Connor leaned back, like the tension in Sam’s voice hit him physically.

“I remember the blood,” Sam continued. “It was all over the marble floor. My shoulder wouldn’t move right.”

Jake didn’t say a word.

“I remember crawling. My- my hand kept slipping in the blood. I didn’t know whose it was. I remember calling for my dad and thinking he was already gone.”

His voice caught there, and for a second, no one breathed.

“I saw him,” he said. “All the way across the room. On the floor. Face down. Not moving.”

He blinked hard. His vision wavered, just for a second. The air felt thick. “I couldn’t hear anything. I didn’t even know if I was screaming. I just knew I had to get to him. I thought he was dead.”

He looked up finally, straight at Connor.

“I still do, sometimes,” he added, voice barely audible. “Even when I know he’s right there.”

Connor’s jaw flexed. Jake rubbed a hand over his mouth. Ryan didn’t even blink.

“But I got there in real life,” Sam said. “I made it to him and he wasn’t gone. He moved. He- he pulled me in.”

He swallowed hard.

“That’s the part the dream leaves out.” He dropped his eyes to the table again. “I wake up before that part. Every time.”

After a moment, Jake gently nudged Sam’s tray toward him, eyes softer than his voice. “Okay. That’s officially the worst thing anyone’s said at this table.”

Ryan nodded slowly, tearing the corner off his granola bar. “Yeah. Agreed. That was bleak, man.”

Connor didn’t say anything right away. He reached for the spare carton of chocolate milk and slid it across the table like a peace offering. “Drink,” he said. “No arguments.”

Sam gave a weak half-smile and glanced down at the tray. “You guys don’t have to-”

“We know,” Connor cut in, quiet but firm. “We want to.”

Jake leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, smirking. “Also, no offense, but the bags under your eyes are doing more heavy lifting than our back line, so we already figured you weren’t sleeping great.”

Sam flushed instantly. “Shut up.”

Ryan cracked a grin as he took another bite. “He’s not wrong. You looked like you lost a fight with your pillow and your hoodie at the same time.”

Sam exhaled, half an eye-roll. “Okay, message received. I look like crap.”

Connor didn’t joke. His voice stayed steady. “Next time the dream shows up, maybe tell him.”

There was a pause.

Sam’s thumb traced the edge of the milk carton. “I did,” he admitted after a beat. “Sort of. Last night.”

That softened something in all of them.

Jake stopped tapping his foot. Ryan set his granola bar down. Connor leaned back just slightly, like Sam had passed some invisible checkpoint they’d all been watching for.

Sam took the chocolate milk. He didn’t drink it. He just held it, cold and solid in his hands, grounding. The weight in his chest lightened a fraction.

It wasn’t the whole story, but it was the part he could say. And for right now, it helped.

____

The cafeteria had emptied around them, lockers clanging in the distance, someone shouting down by the main stairwell, but none of them moved.

Sam was gone, slipped off with a mumbled “see you guys” and that soft half-smile he used when he didn’t want anyone to worry. His hoodie was pulled up too far, almost swallowing his face. He hadn’t looked back.

Connor hadn’t realized how much space Sam took up in a room until he left one and the air didn’t feel right anymore.

Jake let out a low breath and put his elbows on the table, running both hands through his hair like he needed to ground himself. “I didn’t think he’d actually tell us.”

Ryan crossed his arms, gaze still fixed on the hallway where Sam had disappeared. “He didn’t tell us everything.”

“No,” Connor said. “But he told us enough.”

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Jake spoke again, softer this time. “He crawled to him. On the floor. Thinking Dean was already dead. Jesus.”

Ryan shook his head slowly, like he could shake the image loose.

Connor didn’t realize how tight his hands had curled into fists until he looked down. “No kid should have a memory like that.”

“He’s not a kid,” Ryan said, voice rough. “Not anymore.”

Connor’s jaw clenched. “He should’ve been.”

They all nodded at that.

A group of freshmen JV players passed by on their way to class, loud and jostling each other, oblivious to the weight that hung in the air between the three of them. One of them was wearing cleats. Another had a soccer bag slung over one shoulder, too big for his frame.

Jake tilted his head, watching them go. “You think that’s why he’s like… the way he is? With the younger guys? Why he’s always calm with them, never snaps, even when they mess up drills?”

Connor exhaled slowly. “Because he remembers what it’s like to be scared and small and have no one keeping you steady.”

“He’s always steady,” Ryan said.

“Except when he’s not,” Connor replied quietly.

None of them said anything for a moment.

Then Jake, quietly: “We keep him steady now, right?”

Connor nodded. “We already are.”

Another silence, softer this time.

Ryan checked the clock above the water fountain. “We should head to class.”

Jake grabbed his bag off the floor and slung it over one shoulder. “We’re walking him out after last period to practice.”

“Obviously,” Connor said. “One of us meets him at his locker. The other two stay by the doors.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You gonna explain that?”

“Nope,” Connor said. “Just gonna do it.”

Jake smirked. “He’s gonna call us overprotective.”

“He’s gonna pretend he hates it,” Ryan added, cracking a smile.

“But he won’t,” Connor said.

They all knew that was true. And as they started down the hall, side by side, something in the way they moved had shifted like their footsteps were marching in time with something unspoken.

Not just teammates anymore. Not even just friends. They were his line.

____

The kitchen was too quiet for how bad it smelled.

Burnt toast, again. Slightly rubbery eggs. Something charred stuck to the bottom of the frying pan that probably used to be sausage. But Dad hadn’t said a word about any of it, and Sam wasn’t about to, either.

He sat at the edge of the kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, heart monitor clipped to his waistband under the hem. The LED had blinked green when he turned it on, but he’d still checked it again five minutes later. Just in case.

He wasn’t jittery, not really. Just aware. Aware of the game. Aware of the way the kitchen clock ticked a little too loud. Aware of the way his dad kept moving: wiping down an already-clean counter, fiddling with the coffee filter, rinsing the same mug twice.

Hovering, Sam thought, even though his dad was technically on the other side of the room.

The eggs hissed in the pan.

Outside, the sky was still the gray-blue of early morning, like it hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

Sam bent to tie his shoes. He didn’t need to, but he wanted his hands to be doing something. His fingers moved slow and deliberate. He could feel his dad’s eyes on him, even though he didn’t look up.

“You don’t have to come,” Sam said, after a minute. His voice was soft and measured like he was checking for tension in the air.

Dad didn’t respond right away. He scraped the eggs into a plate that neither of them would probably eat.

“I know,” he said finally, but it came out a little too fast.

Sam swallowed.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was careful. Like both of them were stepping around something fragile they hadn’t named yet.

Sam tied the other shoe looser this time. His heart felt weird. Tight, but not in the way that meant he was in danger. More like it was folded in on itself. Braced.

“You don’t have to sit by the fence, either,” he said. “You can just… I dunno. Be somewhere else. In the stands. Or not come at all, if it’s-”

“Do you want me to not be there?” Dad asked, quiet but direct.

Sam looked up, startled. His dad wasn’t angry, just steady. Eyes darker than the sky outside, and softer than Sam expected.

“No,” Sam said immediately, voice catching. “No, I want- I just don’t want you to feel like you have to watch me all the time. Like I’m gonna break.”

Dad’s jaw ticked. He set the plate down and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest like he was holding himself in place.

“Sammy,” he said. “You think I go to these games because I’m worried you’re gonna break?”

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t have one.

Dad let out a breath through his nose. “I go because you’re mine. Because I’m proud of you. Because watching you lead that team is one of the best damn things I’ve ever seen. And yeah, I worry. But I’d worry more if I wasn’t there.”

Something in Sam’s chest cracked open.

He dropped his eyes to his shoes again, picked at the lace knot. “I’m still sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Dad didn’t answer right away. Then he pushed off the counter, walked over, and crouched beside the table so they were eye-level, just like when Sam was a little kid and Dad needed him to hear something important.

“You already said sorry,” Dead said gently. “And I meant it when I said I know you didn’t mean it.”

Sam looked down, throat tight.

Dad’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “But that doesn’t mean you’re okay. You don’t snap like that for no reason, Sammy. Not at me. Not unless something’s chewing at you deep.”

Sam’s fingers curled tighter in the laces of his shoes. He didn’t know how to answer that. He wanted to. Part of him did, at least. But the other part - the tired part, the overwhelmed part - just wanted to get to school, win the game, and survive the rest of the week.

So instead, he gave the only truth he could.

“I’m just tired,” he said, voice thin. “That’s all.”

Dad studied him for a second longer, like he didn’t buy it but wasn’t gonna call him out.

“All right,” he said finally. “But just so you know, you don’t have to be okay for me to stay in your corner.”

That landed hard. Sam blinked, his chest pulling tight in a way that wasn’t medical.

“I know,” he said, barely above a whisper.

And he did. He just didn’t know how to use it yet.

____

The floodlights crackled overhead, buzzing like insects in a jar. Too bright. Too low. Sam blinked against the glare, already half-aware of the pressure in his skull before the whistle blew.

Something about this game felt wrong.

Not the weather. It was clear, a crisp cold with a little bite. Not the field. It was flat and turf-slick. Not even the warm-up. His passes had been sharp enough, his footing clean.

But the moment kickoff sounded, he felt it: eyes.

Not just the usual baseline buzz of spectators or teammates scanning for a signal. This was narrower. Sharper. It tracked him.

They knew who he was.

Woodlawn’s midfielders marked him fast, tight, and smart. They weren’t illegal moves, not aggressive enough to call, but they were specific. One forward hung back deeper than usual, not for ball recovery, but to hover in Sam’s channel like a trap waiting to snap.

He brushed it off. 

Focus. Rotate. Keep the tempo up.

“Push center!” he called, voice clipped.

One of his defenders, Justin, angled the ball through with a low drive. Sam darted in with a clean touch, except the Woodlawn winger stepped in just enough to crowd his stride.

Sam stumbled, barely, and caught himself before the fall. The ball skittered away toward the sideline.

“Mid!” Connor barked. “Reset! You good?”

Sam forced a nod. “Fine.”

But he wasn’t.

Because already, the static was back. Low at first, like white noise caught in a radio dial. A prickling behind his ears, just under the surface. His heart didn’t pound, but it hummed. A nervous, electrical twitch in his ribs that felt like waiting for something to explode.

He pressed his thumb to the edge of the heart monitor through his jersey. Still green.

Five minutes later, another play. Another pass. Another whisper of static. The Woodlawn defender this time gave him a friendly “accidental” shoulder-check: tight to the ribs, enough to shift his center of gravity mid-sprint. Sam had to double-step to regain footing.

“Nice monitor,” the kid muttered in passing. “Custom feature or just for drama?”

Sam’s vision flared white at the edges. Not a full flare, but like the hallway. Like the start of something.

Don’t engage. Don’t respond. Do the job.

The game churned forward. He anchored midfield, rotated support, called press formations. Played clean. Calculated. But his limbs didn’t feel synced to his mind. Like everything was one step behind. The buzz hadn’t faded. If anything, it crept louder, hollow and uneven. Like the field was breathing underneath him.

By halftime, they were tied 2 - 2.

Coach’s talk was short and tactical. Adjustments. Defensive shape. Woodlawn liked to pull wide and dump center. Jake muttered something about their striker being all elbows. No one mentioned the targeting.

Sam didn’t sit. He leaned against a locker, arms crossed, hand pressed to his ribs where the monitor tucked tight against his sternum.

It wasn’t hurting, but it was loud. Not audibly, but viscerally. Like a hum under his skin. The whole world had shifted half a degree sideways and was waiting for him to fall off.

“Eat something,” Ryan said, tossing him half a protein bar.

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could eat if he tried.

The second half was worse.

The Woodlawn captain started calling his movements. Loud enough to signal, soft enough to avoid notice.

“Watch eleven. Left shoulder.”  “Pressure. Stick with the monitor.” “Cut him off the switch. He hesitates.”

They weren’t covering him. They were dissecting him. Not his skills - him.

Sam played harder. Faster. He stopped asking for help. Started directing traffic like a machine.

“Left side, press! Connor, cut back, now!”

His voice cracked twice. He didn’t care.

The static spiked every time he pivoted wrong. Every time someone got too close. It wasn’t just a noise anymore. It gnawed at the back of his skull, crawled under his ribs. He wanted to tear the monitor off and scream. Instead, he adjusted his stance. Focused his breathing. Gritted down.

Then came the turnover.

They’d rotated too wide. Sam stepped in too late. A Woodlawn winger slipped behind him with perfect timing, took the feed, and slammed it past Ryan’s gloves.

3 - 2.

It was the final minutes. The whistle blew not long after.

And just like that, the field snapped into silence.

____

The locker room was too warm. Too loud. Too full.

Jake threw his cleats at the bench and cursed the turf like it had personally betrayed him. Ryan sat down hard, muttering about coverage miscalls and someone missing a back-post runner. A couple of the other guys - Fredrick, maybe Eli - hovered near the lockers, talking in low voices and occasionally glancing over. 

No one said anything directly to Sam, but he felt it. Not blame. It was worse: pity.

He peeled off his jersey, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the monitor cord. It wasn’t frayed, but it was damp with sweat and tension. He hadn’t checked it since the first half. Didn’t want to.

He dropped onto the bench, elbows on knees, heart pounding in a weird, off-rhythm thud that made him feel dizzy just sitting still. The static was still there, like the world hadn’t let him leave the field yet.

“Hey,” Connor said eventually, dropping beside him. “They were targeting you.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“I’m serious,” Connor added. “Coach saw it too. They had two guys on you the whole game. It wasn’t-”

“I let it happen.” Sam’s voice was low, tight. “They read me.”

Connor frowned. “That’s not-”

“I was predictable.” He stood up suddenly. His vision spun, and the pressure behind his eyes pulsed once like a drumbeat underwater. He grabbed his bag and muttered, “Tell Coach I’ll send my report later.”

“Sam-”

But he was already gone, slipping out of the locker room before anyone else could see how badly his hands were shaking.

That night, the house was silent.

Uncle Bobby had already gone to bed - he’d left a light on in the kitchen and a folded blanket on the couch, just in case - but the rest of the house was dim. 

His dad was waiting up. He sat on the edge of the armchair, one foot tapping quietly against the floor, a book in his lap he clearly hadn’t been reading. The look on his face was tight, held back, like he’d been sitting with too many words and didn’t know which one to start with.

Sam stepped into the living room and hovered in the doorway, bag still on his shoulder.

“You good?” Dad asked, voice low.

Sam shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” Dad’s eyes flicked up, catching his for just a second. “That one hurt.”

Sam looked down at the floor. “We should’ve won.”

“I know,” Dad said softly. “But you still played your heart out.”

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice.

After a moment, Dad shifted forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Sometimes it’s not about what you could’ve done better. Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way. Doesn’t mean it was on you.”

There was a pause. A beat where Sam thought maybe he should sit down. Say something back.

Instead, he mumbled, “I’ve got homework,” and turned toward the stairs.

“Alright,” Dad said, not pushing. “Get some sleep if you can, okay?”

Sam nodded, but didn’t look back. He shut himself in his room before his dad could say anything else. Before he could say something that might break him. Before Sam had to lie again.

He turned off the lights in his room, pulled up the tape of the game, and watched it.

Then again.

Then again.

He didn’t sleep. Didn’t speak.

He wrote notes in the margins of his old playbook, red circles around every place he’d hesitated. Every pass he’d turned down. Every time someone touched him and he flinched. Every time the static got louder and he couldn’t push through it fast enough.

At 3:42 AM, he stood in front of the mirror and pressed one palm flat to the center of his chest. The monitor blinked faintly under the fabric.

Still green.

But the thing was, Sam didn’t know if he could say the same.

____

Connor hadn’t seen Sam since he left the locker room abruptly after the game.

None of them had. That part wasn’t weird; it was Sunday. Everyone tended to lie low after the games that fell on weekends. No practice, no meetings, no reason to hang out unless someone called it. But the group chat had been active: Ryan dropping homework questions, Jake making bad jokes, Dylan checking in from his campus.

Sam, though? No check-ins. No sketchbook photos. No “same” captions. Not even a read receipt.

And that was what felt off.

After the game, Sam had disappeared fast, his hands shaking as he grabbed his bag and slipped out of the locker room before anyone could stop him. 

Connor had felt something settle in his chest then. Something heavy and quiet.

Now, it was late Sunday evening. Everyone had gone about their routines, but Connor couldn’t stop thinking about the way Sam hadn’t looked at anyone yesterday. How he played like a ghost in the second half. How his voice cracked when he called formations. How he kept touching his chest like the jersey was too tight and he couldn’t figure out how to breathe around it.

Connor didn’t text, didn’t give Sam the chance to ignore it. He just opened FaceTime and hit “call.” 

Jake picked up first. His screen was tilted sideways, his cheek smushed into his pillow. He squinted at the camera. “Please tell me this is about anything but running hill sprints tomorrow.”

Ryan joined a second later. Hoodie up, wrapped in a weighted blanket, back against his wall. “It’s not sprints,” he said, voice low. “It’s Sam.”

Connor nodded.

Jake sat up straighter. “He’s not answering any of you either?”

“Nothing,” Connor said. “Since the game.”

They didn’t say it, but they all thought the same thing: that’s not normal. Sam was quiet, sure, but he didn’t vanish. Not like this. Not after wins or losses. Especially not when he was the one running the midfield until the final whistle.

Then a fourth screen lit up.

Sam.

It wasn’t dark in his room, but the lighting was low. His desk lamp, off to the side, was on, warm but faint. He was curled up on his bed, sleeves pulled over his hands, drawstrings uneven like he hadn’t realized he was tugging at them. His posture was tight and protective: legs drawn up, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his knees.

His eyes flicked up toward the screen. Then down. His monitor blinked green where it peeked out at the hem of his hoodie, steady and bright in the dim room.

He didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” Connor said gently.

Sam blinked once and didn’t answer.

Jake leaned a little closer to the screen. “Guess we all kind of disappeared, huh? You didn’t miss much. Coach sent a brunch photo of his eggs and called it ‘fuel.’”

Ryan gave a faint smile. “I considered responding. Decided silence was safer.”

Sam’s lips twitched.

Connor watched him carefully. That half-smile faded fast, and his face went neutral again. Not blank, but just guarded.

Then Dylan joined.

The fifth screen blinked in, steady and familiar. His dorm room was behind him.

The second Dylan saw Sam, his whole face shifted.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Sam didn’t move. He just lifted his eyes and looked straight at the screen for half a second.

Dylan nodded. “There you are.”

Sam looked down again and pulled his sleeves tighter over his hands.

Jake filled the silence with something easy. “I rewatched part of the game. Pretty sure Woodlawn’s striker is a cyborg who was built in a lab. At minimum, he’s a full-time assassin.”

Connor snorted. “That guy hip-checked me so hard I left my body.”

Ryan added, “You did. I watched your soul leave and hover over the field like, ‘nah, I’m out.’”

Dylan smiled, but his eyes never left Sam’s screen. Sam still hadn’t said anything.

Connor leaned in slightly. “You haven’t responded to anyone since the game, Sam. You’re different tonight.”

Sam’s voice finally came, soft and hollow. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t sound angry or irritated. He just sounded tired in the way that meant something deeper. The kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep.

Dylan didn’t push. “You don’t have to say more. We just wanted to sit with you.”

Sam nodded once, still not looking at the screen.

“I should’ve handled it better,” he said after a pause. “I saw it coming, and I still let them cut me off. I hesitated.”

“Because you were being double-teamed every play,” Jake said. “They were calling your movements out like a playbook.”

“You still held the midfield,” Ryan added. “They never broke through the spine. That’s because of you.”

Sam didn’t respond. He tucked his chin onto his knees and stayed there. Connor noticed the edge of his sketchpad on the desk behind him. It was closed, pen on top.

“I’m just tired,” Sam mumbled eventually. “Tired of feeling like a target.”

No one spoke for a second.

Then Dylan’s voice came through, steady and unshaken. “You feel like a target because you’re the one they can’t ignore.”

Sam blinked hard. 

Jake sat back. “You don’t have to say anything else. Just stay on the call.”

Sam nodded again, slower this time, less automatic. He didn’t speak again, but he didn’t leave either.

The conversation shifted to lighter things. Homework. Dylan’s busted dorm heater. Ryan threatened to fake being sick if Coach made them run sprint drills. Jake’s theory that he could kick a football farther than he could run.

Sam didn’t laugh.

But once - when Jake claimed he could tackle Dylan “with the power of protein alone” - Sam cracked half a smile.

Connor saw it and didn't mention it, but he leaned back and let the silence stretch soft around them. And when Sam’s screen dimmed slightly, the lamp switched off, camera still connected, Connor felt the tension in his chest ease for the first time since yesterday.

____

By the time the others showed up to practice on Monday, Sam had already been on the field for twenty minutes.

He’d run his own warmup: ground passes, touch drills, ten-yard pivots. Over and over until the rhythm drowned out the static. He’d timed his breathing to each motion. Four-count inhale. Pivot. Two-count exhale. Pass.

The static hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled, hovering somewhere behind his ribs like a weight he could balance if he didn’t move wrong.

He liked the silence. It was clean.

“Sam!” Jake called, bouncing up like he always did, loose-limbed and too loud. “You want left drill first or right? We can-”

“Split it,” Sam said, eyes still on the cones. “You and Ryan are on the right side. Connor's with me. Split the rest of the team in half.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound sharp, but he didn’t soften it either.

Jake hesitated. “Okay. Cool. Ryan just thought-”

“Stick to spacing,” Sam added, already turning away. “Don’t call switches. I’ll handle it.”

He didn’t wait to see their reactions. He didn’t have space for it. The minute he started letting other people adjust for him, the timing fell apart. That couldn’t happen again.

He moved into formation.

The drills started. Short passes. One-touch feeds. Rotational pressure.

Every step, every call, every move came without pause. His body reacted before his brain could question. That was the point. There was no hesitation. No room for it.

He didn’t joke. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t acknowledge the brush of Jake’s shoulder after a clean exchange or the quick grin Connor shot him after a near-goal setup.

That was noise. Noise broke the rhythm.

Mid-drill, he noticed his laces were too loose. He dropped without a word, retied them to tension, and stood again in one fluid motion. It was a second lost, but it was better than tripping. 

“You’re a little quiet today,” Connor said low between drills, close enough not to be overheard.

“I just need reps,” Sam muttered, already setting the next drill. The air tasted like rubber and frost. His pulse was steady but fast.

“Right, but-”

“I’m good,” Sam cut in.

Connor nodded. He didn’t press.

The break came and went without Sam noticing. Coach blew the whistle for scrimmage rotations, and Sam was already halfway to the center.

He didn’t wait to be placed. Didn’t ask who was covering what. He scanned the spacing, made a snap decision, and barked out the formation like he was reading off orders.

“Connor, shadow left. Jake, drop three.”

Then came play.

First rush: intercepted pass, immediate recovery. Sam didn’t flinch, just pivoted and fed the line.

Second run: angled a lofted feed that Connor buried, then turned without celebration.

Third: called a mark two seconds before the shift even formed.

Each time, the others looked to him for affirmation, for a smile, for something.

He gave them nothing.

The static had receded, but only because he was keeping it at bay by sheer force. Movement was control. Stillness invited the hum back in. He couldn’t afford stillness.

The only moment he faltered, barely, was when Ryan offered him a water bottle on the sideline. Sam shook his head without looking.

His hand was already on the cord at his side, thumb brushing over the tight wrap under his compression shirt. The tape was secure. The green light steady.

Still green. Still green. Still green.

He didn’t check his reflection in the locker mirror afterward. He didn’t pull his hoodie back on. His skin felt too thin, like noise could get in if he wasn’t careful. Like, if anyone touched him, he’d split.

The others walked ahead. Sam trailed back, then took the long way around the bleachers before heading to the showers.

No one called his name. No one stopped him.

And maybe that meant it was working.

____

The locker room was quieter than usual.

No music. No arguments over aux cords. Just the slow, dragging rhythm of cleats hitting tile, gear bags unzipping, and the occasional clang of a locker slamming shut a little too hard.

Connor sat on the bench in front of his locker, away from any of the other boys on the team. One of his socks was still half-on, and he was staring down at nothing.

Jake flopped beside him, towel around his shoulders, face pink from wind and exertion. “That was… intense.”

Ryan let out a humorless huff as he yanked his practice jersey off over his head. “You mean terrifying.”

Connor didn’t look up. “He didn’t smile. Not once.”

“I thought I missed it,” Jake said. “Figured it was just me not paying attention.”

“Nah.” Ryan kicked his cleats into the corner. “He didn’t even look at us. It was like playing with a ghost.”

“He was good, though,” Connor murmured.

“Too good,” Ryan replied, sitting down slowly. “Like textbook perfect. But you felt it, right? He wasn’t there. Not really.”

Jake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s never barked at us like that before. Not even at state.”

“He didn’t even call me by name,” Ryan said. “Just ‘keeper.’ Like we’re chess pieces.”

The silence stretched between them.

Someone opened a Gatorade. Someone else dropped their shin guards too hard and winced. No one said anything for a while.

Then Jake asked, voice low: “Should we say something?”

Connor finally looked up. “To who?”

Ryan shrugged. “Dylan, maybe. Or Coach. Or Dean.”

Jake hesitated. “I mean… maybe it was just a bad day?”

Ryan gave him a look. “It’s been a few.”

Connor nodded slowly. “He’s fraying.”

That word stuck. None of them repeated it, but no one argued.

They finished changing in silence.

By the time they walked outside, the air had gone cold and blue-gray with evening. Sam was already gone.

No one mentioned it. They just stood there a beat too long in the parking lot, breath fogging in the fading light, each of them trying to shake the feeling they were missing something big.

____

Coach Miller had worked them into the dirt by the end of the week. They were too tired to pretend otherwise.

Saturday drills, pressure sets, scrimmage in wind that bit right through their sweatshirts. By the time they’d made it to Connor’s house, no one had the energy for more than pizza and soft curses. Now the room had gone still, low-lit and breath-warm, the only sounds the hum of a paused TV menu and the tinny speaker of Dylan on FaceTime, propped against a water bottle.

Jake was out cold in the pillow corner. Connor was lying flat on the floor with one sock halfway off.

Sam had passed out on the couch without even pretending to fight it. His hoodie sleeves were tucked around his hands, his curls still damp from the shower, monitor blinking steadily beneath the fabric. He hadn’t said much all night. He hadn’t eaten much, either.

Ryan watched him from the other end of the couch. The way he curled up smaller in his sleep when he thought no one was looking.

On the phone screen, Dylan asked, “Where is he?”

Ryan nodded towards the couch. “Out cold.”

Dylan looked at him for a second through the screen. “That fast?”

“Didn’t even finish his second slice.”

Dylan’s smile was small and sad. “Yeah. Okay.”

Connor muttered from the floor, “We’re letting him sleep. He needs it.”

Ryan nodded, barely registering the words. His eyes were still on Sam. On his closed eyes, the crease in his brow even in sleep, the way his fingers twitched slightly like something was caught underneath his dreams.

“He’s been fading,” Ryan said. “Like, not in a dramatic way. Just... quieter. Emptier.”

Dylan didn’t answer right away, but Ryan saw it in his silence. That instinctive, older-brother ache Dylan carried without asking for it. That urge to fix something he couldn’t touch.

The moment stretched.

Then Sam twitched.

Ryan looked up fast.

Sam made a small sound in his throat, barely audible. But then-

“No… please…”

Ryan sat forward.

Sam’s breath hitched. “I wanna go home…”

Connor sat up slowly, wide-eyed.

Ryan was already moving. He dropped to the floor next to the couch, his voice quiet but certain. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re with us.”

Sam shifted again, face pinched, lost somewhere in his head.

“Daddy, please… it’s cold… my heart hurts…”

The words cracked something wide open. The air left Ryan’s lungs.

Jake stirred from the corner. “What the hell…?”

Connor got up without a word and disappeared down the hall, returning with a fuzzy blue blanket and spreading it carefully over Sam’s legs.

The monitor still blinked green. Fast, but steady.

Ryan reached forward and, without thinking, gently tugged the edge of Sam’s hoodie sleeve down over his hand, the way Sam always did when he was anxious or cold. The small gesture made Sam’s fingers relax. His shoulders unclenched, just a little.

“You’re warm now,” Ryan whispered. “You’re not alone. We’ve got you.”

He didn’t know if Sam heard him, but the tension in his body eased. The monitor slowed.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of breath and held ground.

From the speaker, Dylan’s voice cracked. “Jesus.”

Connor picked up the phone and turned it so Dylan could see the couch: Sam still curled, a blanket now tucked around him, brow smoothing out. The monitor light blinked softly through it all.

“He’s okay,” Connor said quietly.

Dylan didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was raw. “I guess I lost my title as the Sam-whisperer.”

Ryan looked up and gave him a tired, fond half-smile. “Nah, you’re just remote now. Bad reception, but he still hears you.”

Dylan laughed once, a fragile sound that broke on the edges. “God, I miss him.”

Connor sat down again, voice gentler than usual. “He misses you, too.”

There was a beat. Then Jake, voice groggy but clear, said quietly from the corner, “That dream... that was probably from when he was little, right? When he got taken?”

Ryan nodded slowly, still watching Sam’s face. “Yeah.”

Dylan exhaled sharply, like the memory hit hard even from miles away. “He was out there all night. Getting dragged through the woods in his pajamas.”

Connor rubbed a hand over his face. “No wonder he called for his dad.”

“And said his heart hurt,” Ryan added. “That wasn’t a metaphor. It... it actually did back then.”

Jake pulled the blanket up to his chin. “Jesus.”

After a long moment, Ryan said, “He told us about another one. Like, a week or two ago.”

Dylan looked up fast. “Another nightmare?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. About the courthouse.”

Connor winced. “He said-” He stopped. Swallowed. “He said, ‘I remember the blood.’”

Jake sat up straighter, more awake now.

Ryan continued, voice quiet but steady. “He said it was all over the marble floor. That his shoulder wouldn’t move right. He remembered crawling. His hand kept slipping in it, and he didn’t know if it was his blood or Dean’s. Said he was calling for him and thought he was already gone.”

Dylan jerked back from the camera like it physically hit him.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out at first.

Then: “God. Fuck-” He swiped a hand down his face, suddenly too sharp, too exposed. His breath came quickly, unsteady. “He said that? To you?”

Connor nodded slowly.

“He didn’t tell me,” Dylan said, voice rising in disbelief. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Dyl-” Ryan started.

But Dylan cut in, hoarse and unraveling, “None of us were even around back then. We didn’t know him yet.” He pressed his fist hard against his mouth, eyes burning. “And he still told you.”

Ryan met his eyes through the screen, steady but soft. “He’s not choosing us over you, Dyl. It just… came out near us.”

Dylan’s breath caught. He looked away for a second before nodding slowly, like he was trying to believe it.

Dylan’s voice was barely audible now. “Tell him I stayed on the call, okay? Even if he doesn’t remember. Even if he never tells me that stuff again.”

Ryan looked at Sam. He reached for the phone, stood up quietly, and crossed the room. He set it down on the couch arm, just a few inches from where Sam’s head rested on the pillow.

“There,” he said, adjusting the angle. “Now you’re closer.”

The phone stayed lit, Dylan’s quiet breathing still coming through the speaker.

Jake leaned back, blinking slowly. “Did he say anything else?”

Ryan shook his head. Connor folded the edge of the blanket a little tighter around Sam’s legs.

The room fell quiet again.

There was the glow of the screen. The slow rise and fall of Sam’s chest. The rhythmic, blinking green.

None of them turned on the lights. No one played another movie. They just stayed, anchored in silence, each one holding a corner of the night like it might fall apart if they let go.

And Dylan - hundreds of miles away, but closer than he knew - whispered something into the dark that none of them repeated.

But Sam didn’t stir again.

____

The field at East Ridge was narrower than theirs. It was older turf, patchy near the goal boxes, and sloped just enough that Sam had felt it on the first sprint down the left flank. The away crowd was smaller too, but louder somehow. Packed tight in creaking bleachers that echoed everything: every jeer, every cheer, every scrape of cleats on synthetic grass.

Sam tuned it out. He had to.

“Left side, rotate!” he barked, voice already raw from the first fifteen minutes.

His legs were moving fine. His lungs were working, mostly. His passes were clean. Maybe too clean. Precise to the point of surgical, like he was cutting the game apart rather than flowing with it.

But he still felt off.

The rhythm that used to settle in his chest like a second pulse - steady, grounded, real - was fractured now. Still there, but distant, like someone had turned the volume down just low enough to make him question if he was even hearing it.

He covered ground. Called switches. Pulled back to defend. Every movement he made was sharp and efficient.

But they weren't natural. And the more he noticed it, the worse it got.

At one point, Connor passed him a short ball in midfield, and Sam’s foot caught it late, barely a half-second hesitation, but enough that he had to scramble to control it. He played it off, redirected it to Jake on the wing with a flick of his heel, but the tightness in his chest flared up again.

Not now. Not now.

He gritted his teeth and pushed on.

By the time the whistle blew for halftime, the scoreboard read 0 - 0, and Sam felt like he’d run three games back-to-back.

They filed into the locker room, sweat-soaked and winded. Coach was already barking instructions, but it all blurred. 

Sam didn’t sit. He went straight to the sink at the far wall and turned it on cold. He let it run too long, then splashed the water on his face. Once, twice, a third time, until it was dripping down his neck and soaking into the collar of his jersey.

The cold bit, but not enough.

He looked up.

The mirror above the sink was scratched and dull, like time had worn the reflection down to something half-true.

Sam stared at himself.

His hair stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed with effort. Dark circles were still visible under his eyes, made worse by the fluorescent lights.

But it was the weight behind his eyes that caught him.

All the things he wasn’t saying. The visions that flickered in and out. The storm he kept swallowing. The way his body kept buzzing with something he couldn’t name. The way the static hadn’t flared again, but hovered just behind the veil.

He didn’t look like a captain. He didn’t look like the kid who’d crawled into bed with his dad or the one who’d held the field long enough to win the first game.

He looked like someone barely holding it together.

A voice cut through the noise, just behind him.

“Sam?”

Sam flinched, only slightly, but enough. He hadn’t heard Ryan approach.

“You’ve been standing there a minute,” Ryan added, tone low but not pushing.

Sam glanced at the sink, at the water still trickling from the faucet. His reflection stared back from the mirror above it: drawn, pale, and older than it should’ve looked. He wiped his face with a paper towel, rough against overheated skin, and forced the air back into his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said, hoarse but steady. “I just needed a second.”

He turned off the tap and rolled his shoulders once before reaching under his jersey to check the heart monitor tucked against his ribs.

Still green. Still fine.

He blinked hard and stepped away from the sink.

Ryan didn’t say anything. He gave him a look that Sam couldn’t read before nodding toward the others.

Sam walked back into the buzz of the locker room, into the noise and heat and light, like nothing had cracked. Like he hadn’t felt the edge creeping up behind his spine. Like he wasn’t still holding it back.

In the second half of the game, the field felt smaller. Tighter. The slope didn’t matter anymore, not with adrenaline surging through his limbs and something sharper than will keeping him upright. 

He moved like he was on rails.

He passed clean, pressed high, and shouted rotations like he didn’t feel the tremor in his left hand or the pounding in his ribs. The monitor under his jersey buzzed now and then, a soft reminder that he was skirting too close, but it stayed green. Always green. So he kept going.

One assist came ten minutes in, a blind cross from the right flank to Jake, who volleyed it in clean. The bench erupted. Coach shouted something across the field, but Sam barely registered it.

He just turned and jogged back to midfield.

The second assist was a set piece.

A corner kick, Ryan signaling from the back. Sam called the setup, lined up the defense, then sent the ball curling into the box like he’d measured the air pressure himself. Justin rose above the line and cracked it into the top left.

2 - 0.

The crowd roared. Connor fist-pumped. Someone grabbed Sam by the shoulders and shook him like a snow globe.

Sam smiled. He didn’t let them see how badly he wanted to sit down.

By the last ten minutes, East Ridge was flagging. The whole backline looked like they’d run through a blizzard, and Sam saw the gap before anyone else did: just to the right of center, midfield overcommitting.

He didn’t think, he just went. One touch to clear. Second to control. Third to push through a slipping defender, and then the space opened up like a held breath releasing.

He drove twenty yards. Then thirty. Then just him and the keeper. He didn’t blast it, just slotted it low and left: technical, ruthless, clean.

The net shook.

3 - 0.

His name echoed across the field, but it didn’t quite register. Not the way it usually did.

He bent over at the waist, hands on his thighs. One breath. Two.

Then he stood up again and let the others crash into him. Let the weight of the team fill the space around him with noise and heat and joy.

But his legs ached. His hand still throbbed from where he’d bruised it. His chest felt wrapped in something too tight. But he just kept standing, because the whistle hadn’t blown yet.

After the game, the locker room was loud. Not like before the game, when it had been all nervous energy and tension crackling like sparks. This was louder in the way joy could be loud: cleats scuffing, towels snapping, half-shouted retellings of goals, tackles, saves.

Sam sat on the bench like he was underwater, his jersey clinging to his back.

Someone thumped him on the shoulder. Jake, maybe.

“Captain’s on fire today!”

“You a wizard or something?”

Sam tried to laugh. It came out like a breath.

He tugged up his jersey and checked the monitor. The light blinked green. Still blinking. His fingers trembled faintly. He felt it, even if no one else did.

Connor dropped beside him. “You played like a machine.”

Sam tried for a joke. “Guess I’ll reboot later.” 

Jake tossed a towel at him. “Coach is gonna run drills off that tape, man. I’m not carrying your half-dead ass again.”

That got a few laughs.

Ryan passed. “Drink something.”

Sam nodded.

One by one, the room emptied, but Sam stayed. Still in full gear, monitor wire loose under his jersey.

The door shut behind the last players, two juniors slipping out to the bus.

He stood in the center of the room, lungs still greedy for air, and finally peeled off his jersey with shaking fingers.

The static had followed him inside. It wasn’t noise, but closer to being watched from the inside out.

The locker across from him looked wrong. It bent inward, like the shadows inside it had curled around something they weren’t supposed to hold.

Then it was gone.

He shut his eyes and counted to four.

A towel dropped somewhere behind him. He jumped.

He laughed under his breath, too fast and too hollow, and sat down hard on the bench, rubbing his chest lightly.

He was supposed to be okay.

Footsteps echoed outside, heading to the bus.

Sam stayed still and waited for the static to fade.

____

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came after midnight, when even the fridge seemed to hum softer, like it knew the hour.

Sam sat hunched at the kitchen table, the glow of his laptop casting faint shadows across his textbook and notes. He’d been staring at the same sentence in his chemistry packet for ten minutes. Something about covalent bonding. He’d read it twice. Maybe three times. None of it stuck.

His pen rested between his fingers, unmoving.

He was still wearing his warm-up jacket, sleeves pulled over his knuckles, heart monitor strap faintly itching beneath the fabric. His eyes burned, muscles stiff and tight from the game hours earlier, but the ache behind his ribs wasn’t physical.

He was too tired to sleep. Too wired to stop.

Another line. Another sentence. Another half-scribbled answer.

He pushed the laptop closed without a word, barely noticing the sound it made. He left everything on the table: his open notebook, half-empty water glass, and textbook still flipped to the wrong page.

His legs carried him toward the living room without really asking for permission. Just moving. Just away.

Rumsfeld was there, curled up in his usual spot by the couch, one ear twitching lazily at the sound of Sam’s steps.

Sam reached the edge of the rug and didn’t bother pretending he meant to sit down.

His knees gave, just a little, then enough. He sank onto the floor hard, like the weight of everything finally caught up all at once.

One arm braced against the carpet. The other curled around his stomach.

His chest was tight again, like it couldn’t hold both air and feeling at the same time. The buzz behind his eyes had faded from sharp to low hum, but it was still there. Still waiting.

Rumsfeld lifted his head. Sam swallowed once and reached out, fingers tangling into the thick fur at the dog’s neck.

“I’m okay,” he said, voice barely audible. “I'm just tired.”

The dog didn’t nudge him again. Didn’t whine. He just leaned in. A quiet presence. Solid. Warm.

Sam turned his face into Rumsfeld’s shoulder, breath catching in a way that might’ve been a sob if he’d let it. But he didn’t. He just stayed like that, bent and silent and still.

There was no crowd here. No scoreboard. No pretending.

Only the ache of staying strong too long and the slow, steady rhythm of the dog breathing beside him.

And for the first time that night, Sam let himself be still.

____

Dean padded down the stairs, mug in hand, half-full of cold coffee he’d forgotten to drink earlier. He wasn’t sure what woke him. Maybe just instinct, maybe the same twitchy silence that had kept him on edge ever since the season had started. Since the fight in the garage.

The kitchen light was still on.

Dean sighed and pushed the door open with his shoulder, expecting to find a laptop open, maybe the TV buzzing with faint static. What he found instead was the table cluttered with open notebooks, a glass of water gone flat, and Sam’s backpack half-zipped on the floor.

The laptop had been closed, but the chair was pushed back like he’d left in a hurry.

Dean’s stomach tightened.

He moved quietly through the kitchen and into the living room - and there he was.

Sam.

Curled on the floor next to Rumsfeld, hoodie sleeves half-covered over clenched hands, cheek pressed into the dog’s fur. His legs were bent awkwardly, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep but hadn’t made it to the couch either. Just… collapsed.

Dean’s heart twisted.

Again, he thought. That makes the second time I’ve found Sam sleeping with the dog.

He crouched slowly, mug set aside on the table.

“Sammy,” he said gently, brushing his fingers along the back of Sam’s head. “C’mon, kiddo. This ain’t where you sleep.”

Sam stirred, breath hitching like he’d surfaced from deep water. “M’okay,” he mumbled. “Gimme-gimme five minutes.”

“You’ve been down here longer than five.” Dean’s voice stayed soft. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Sam blinked up at him, eyes puffy and slow, like the weight of sleep still hadn’t let go. “Homework,” he croaked. “I didn’t finish. Chemistry packet-”

“Forget the packet,” Dean said, sliding an arm under Sam’s shoulders. “You’re done for tonight, alright? It’ll keep.”

“But-”

“Ah-ah.” Dean stood with a grunt, hauling his kid up to stand. Sam sagged sideways for a second before straightening, barely.

“You’re running on fumes,” Dean said, adjusting the jacket on Sam’s back like it could protect him from the whole world. “If I let you keep going, you’ll fall asleep face-first in your atomic notes.”

Sam gave a huff that was almost a laugh. Dean kept a hand on his back the whole walk to the stairs, steering him gently.

“Feet up, c’mon. That’s it.”

By the time they reached the bedroom, Sam was already yawning, limbs clumsy with exhaustion. He didn’t even protest when Dean nudged him toward the bed, just dropped onto it with a grunt and let Dean tug the covers up.

Dean sat on the edge for a moment, watching him. Watching the way Sam’s face softened once his head hit the pillow, the way his hands curled instinctively near his chest like they used to when he was small.

“You gotta stop falling asleep in weird places, Sammy,” Dean muttered, brushing a hand through Sam’s hair. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

Sam blinked up at him, already halfway gone. “You were up too.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean smiled faintly. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

He tugged the blanket a little tighter around Sam’s shoulders. “Get some sleep, bug. You earned it.”

Sam mumbled something incoherent.

Dean leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head without thinking.

“Love you,” he whispered. “My sweet boy.”

Sam’s breath evened out in response.

And Dean sat there a little longer, just long enough to be sure, before the light clicked off and the room fell quiet again.

____

The Ford Dean was working on was jacked up, the oil pan pulled, and the filter half unscrewed. Dean was on a creeper below it, socket wrench in hand, hands already slick with grease. The radio buzzed in the corner, classic rock on low volume, but neither of them had been listening.

Bobby wiped his hands on a rag and leaned over the engine block of the truck behind them. “You’re gettin’ sloppy, kid. You missed half the gasket grime on that manifold.”

Dean didn’t look up. “I’m not sloppy,” he said. “Just distracted.”

“Yeah,” Bobby muttered. “That’s what worries me.”

They worked in silence for a bit. A deep, quiet rhythm: wrench, scrape, toss the part, move to the next. The kind of quiet that could fill hours if you weren’t careful.

Finally, Bobby set down his tools and nudged Dean’s boot. “All right. Spit it out.”

Dean sighed and dropped his head back against the creeper. “He’s not okay, Bobby.”

“Sam?”

Dean gave a humorless snort. “You see anyone else around here with a heart monitor and a hero complex?”

Bobby didn’t answer. Dean slid out from under the Ford, wiped his hands on his jeans, and stood, rolling his shoulder.

“He’s quiet,” Dean said. “Too quiet. Like he’s trying to fold himself smaller so nobody notices he’s cracking.”

Bobby frowned. “You talk to him?”

“I’ve tried,” Dean snapped. He exhaled sharply and caught himself. “I’ve tried,” he repeated, quieter. “I took him out to that diner. He apologized for the fight but wouldn’t say anything else. Just kept looking like he was somewhere else.”

He picked up a wrench and set it back down, then picked it up again.

He stepped back and leaned against the wall, fingers flexing around it. “Last night I found him asleep on the floor again. Curled up next to the dog like he’d just run out of places to be. He said he was tired. Said he was fine.”

Bobby’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak.

Dean rubbed his temple. “He’s not fine, Bobby. I know that look. Hell, I wore that look for most of my twenties, and that was before someone tried to rip my damn spine out on a courthouse floor.”

He turned and tossed the wrench down. It clattered hard against the concrete.

Bobby didn’t flinch. Just said, “You asked him?”

“I’ve tried,” Dean muttered again. “He dodges. Apologizes for things that don’t matter and won’t even look me in the eye when it’s about the stuff that does.”

“He’s scared.”

Dean’s voice cracked. “Yeah. And he used to tell me when he was scared. Back when he was little, back when it was just me and him and whatever motel room we could afford. He’d crawl into bed next to me like it was nothing. Talk about everything. Monsters. Bad dreams. Homework. Hunts.”

Dean looked at the doorway, empty now, but he could feel the silence beyond it.

“I don’t want to lose that,” he said. “Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “So what’re you gonna do?”

Dean looked down at his grease-streaked hands. “Wait. Be there. Not push too hard.” He paused. “But, damn it Bobby, what if he breaks before he says anything?”

Bobby walked over and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“He’s yours,” Bobby said. “And he knows it. That’s gonna matter more than you think when whatever he’s carrying finally cracks.”

Dean nodded once. Just once.

Then rolled under the car again, tools shaking faintly in his hand.

____

The group chat had been buzzing all afternoon.

Ryan had sent a string of ideas for new pregame rituals, some inside jokes, some just chaotic. Connor dropped a voice note that cut off halfway through him yelling at Jake for punting a ball into a recycling bin. Jake followed up with a blurry selfie and the caption: “anyone else emotionally spiraling or just me and this spaghetti” with no context, no explanation.

Sam stared at the notifications.

32 unread.

He didn’t open them.

Not because he didn’t care. He did. That was the problem.

He typed out a reply anyway. Something safe. Something normal.

SAM: Busy with homework. Hilarious though.

It sounded right. Friendly. Neutral. 

He hit send, turned the phone over, and shoved it under his pillow.

The house was quiet. Dad was in the garage. Uncle Bobby was out running errands. Rumsfeld had curled up by the stairs. No one was nearby, and Sam was glad.

His head felt like it was wrapped in gauze - thick, muffled, heavy. The static behind his eyes wasn’t a spike anymore; it was a dull, constant hum, like a warning system running low on battery.

His body didn’t feel tired, not exactly. It felt… uncoordinated. Like his limbs weren’t syncing right with his thoughts. Like any sudden movement would throw him off-axis.

The monitor blinked green.

Still green.

The phone buzzed again.

DYLAN CALLING

Sam hesitated. His stomach twisted.

He wiped his hands on his hoodie and answered, his voice low. “Hey.”

Dylan’s voice was warm and steady. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam forced a smile he hoped carried over the line. “What’s up? Are you avoiding studying?”

“Nah. Just figured you were due for a guilt call.”

Sam chuckled, but it sounded hollow. “I’m good. Just a lot going on.”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Just tired.”

“Mmhmm.” Dylan didn’t press, not yet. “You sound like you haven’t slept.”

“I’ve slept,” Sam lied, shifting onto his side, curling slightly toward the wall. “But I've got a lot of stuff to finish. School’s been a lot lately.”

Dylan paused. “How’s practice?”

Sam hesitated. “Fine. Cold.”

“That’s not what Coach said. He texted me. Said you’ve been pushing hard.”

“He exaggerates.”

“He said you ran drills solo for thirty minutes after the lights were off.”

Sam swallowed. “Yeah, well. I had energy to burn.”

Another silence. Then Dylan said, voice softer, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam said too fast. “I’m good, just focused. You know how I get.”

He rolled onto his back, watching the ceiling blur and sharpen. The silence on Dylan’s end stretched. 

Sam added, lighter, “Don’t worry. I’ve got it handled.”

“I always worry,” Dylan said. “But okay. I won’t press.”

Sam exhaled slowly. Relief and guilt warred in his chest.

“But you text me tomorrow,” Dylan added. “Even if it’s a joke. Or a picture of the dog. Just something.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

A pause.

Then Dylan’s voice, quiet but firm: “I love you, Sammy. You know that, right?”

Sam’s throat went tight. He pressed his hand to his chest without thinking.

He smiled, just a little. “I know.”

“You don’t have to be perfect to stay loved, you get that?”

Sam stared at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I get it.”

“Okay.” Dylan’s voice was soft now. “Go rest. For real this time.”

“I will.”

They didn’t say goodbye.

After the call ended, Sam lay there with the phone still pressed to his chest, his eyes burning. He didn’t cry, but he didn’t move either.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know if he’d text tomorrow. He wanted to. He meant to.

But the static was loud.

____

The hallway stretched too long today.

Too quiet. Too empty. The overhead lights flickered as he passed, and every flicker was too loud. Too sharp. Like electricity through water.

Sam adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulder, ignored the tightness in his chest, and counted steps to the bathroom.

Seven doors past the water fountain. Same as always. Same as the morning he’d-

He blinked. He tried not to see it, but it was there again.

The hallway, warped and echoing, the way it had looked just before everything fell apart. Not the real one, the one in the vision. The one that always ended with someone’s voice yelling his name through a wall he couldn’t get through.

His fingers twitched at his side.

Not real. Not now. It's just static. It's just-

The walls narrowed in his vision. His knees threatened to fold. He shoved into the bathroom hard enough to rattle the door, palms flat on the sink, before he even knew he was moving.

The mirror warped. He looked up and didn’t recognize himself.

The lights buzzed overhead.

His heartbeat stuttered and leapt. Too hard. Too uneven.

The static roared now, up his spine, behind his eyes, under his skin.

His breath hitched. Again.

And again.

He turned and stumbled into a stall, yanking the door shut behind him, not bothering with the lock. He crumpled onto the seat, hoodie sleeve clenched in his teeth to muffle the sound building in his throat.

Breathe. Breathe, you idiot.

But the hallway kept flashing behind his eyes.

That white static. That moment. The empty feeling. The not being able to move-

His whole body trembled.

His stomach twisted. His ribs felt like they were laced with wires pulling tight, tighter-

A voice came from outside the door: “Sam?”

It wasn't a memory. It wasn't the unrecognizable one screaming his name. 

It was now.

Real.

Connor.

He must’ve come looking. Or followed. Sam didn’t know.

Footsteps sounded. Then a slow knock on the stall. “Hey. It’s me.”

Sam pressed his forearm over his eyes. His chest was caving in. His hands were numb.

The stall door creaked. He’d never locked it.

Connor stood there. 

“Hey,” he said softly.

Sam couldn’t answer. He could barely lift his head.

Connor didn’t ask what was wrong. Didn’t throw words at a problem he didn’t understand. Instead, he stepped halfway into the stall and crouched beside him. Close enough to feel, but not crowding.

“Okay,” Connor murmured. “You’re gonna breathe with me, alright?”

He didn’t touch him, just mirrored Sam’s posture. Both of them folded, both of them grounded. He breathed in, then out, the motion exaggerated.

Sam tried to follow.

In. Out.

It hurt. It felt like dragging his lungs through glass.

But he did it again.

Connor breathed with him, counting out loud under his breath. “Two in… three out… two in…”

Sam’s heartbeat still thrummed unevenly, but the edge was softening. The static didn’t vanish, but it moved back a step.

After a few minutes, his hands stopped shaking. The hallway in his head faded.

Sam dragged a hand down his face, the sleeve damp against his skin. “Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

Connor shook his head immediately. “Don’t do that.”

Sam blinked hard. His throat hurt.

Connor sat back slightly but didn’t stand. “You think you’re the only one who ever gets overwhelmed? You’re not. But we don’t fix it alone, man. You know that.”

Sam pulled his knees in tighter, curled his arms around them, and let himself be still for the first time all day. Connor stayed right there on the floor with him.

When the bell rang for the next period, neither of them moved.

____

Sam was playing perfectly at practice that afternoon.

Too perfectly.

Every pass snapped like clockwork. Every cut was surgical. His tempo was relentless. He wasn’t hesitating, wasn’t slipping, wasn’t making a single mistake.

And that was the problem.

Connor watched him from across the pitch, gut tightening more with every clean rotation. Sam didn’t shout. Didn’t smirk after a goal. Didn’t roll his eyes at Jake’s showboating or fire back when Connor barked his name during a shift.

He was there, but not. Sharp around the edges. Hollow at the center. It was a performance, not participation.

At a water break, Ryan leaned close and muttered, “Something’s off.”

Jake didn’t even speak. He stared after Sam like he wasn’t sure who he was watching anymore.

Connor didn’t answer either of them. He just kept his gaze on Sam and shook his head once, mouthing later.

After practice, they fell into their routine. They waited by the locker room. Sam emerged zipped into his hoodie, sleeves low over his hands.

He didn’t speak during the drive, and neither did anyone else.

Curled in the back seat, he pressed against the window like he could disappear into the blur outside. No phone. No movement. No reaction.

Connor kept glancing in the rearview. Not because it was that serious - except it was. Jake started to say something, but stopped after the first word. Ryan turned halfway in his seat, thought better of it, and faced forward again.

The only sound was tires on the road and the quiet creak of suspension over dips. Sam didn’t flinch. He just stared straight ahead, too still. It was the most unsettling thing Connor had seen all week, and that included the bathroom stall and the panic shaking.

When they pulled into the gravel drive, the porch light flicked on.

Dean appeared a few seconds later, wiping his hands on a rag, brow already furrowed. He met them at the car before Sam even unbuckled.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said softly, crouching slightly by the open door.

Sam didn’t look up.

Dean reached out, rested his hand gently against Sam’s cheek, and brushed his thumb under one eye. “You with me?”

Sam nodded. His face didn’t change.

Dean hesitated, clearly reading something in Sam’s expression, but stepped back anyway. “Go on. Shower before you crash, yeah?”

Sam nodded again and slid out, closing the door behind him like he didn’t exist.

Connor watched as Sam stepped toward the house, shoulders hunched. Dean fell into step beside him without a word, one hand resting lightly on Sam’s back. The porch light flickered once above them as the front door opened, and then both disappeared inside.

Jake exhaled hard. “You guys saw that, right?”

Ryan nodded slowly. “He didn’t even react.”

Jake’s voice cracked a little. “He was gone. He wasn't even in there.”

Connor pulled out his phone.

“Don’t wait,” Jake said lowly.

Connor didn’t. He already had Dylan’s name tapped before the sentence was finished.

Two rings.

Then: “Connor?”

Connor swallowed. “Hey. We just dropped Sam off.”

“Is he okay?” Dylan asked immediately.

Connor looked out the window. “No. He’s… he’s not.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Start from the top,” Dylan said.

Connor inhaled slowly. “I found him at school today in the bathroom. He was having a panic attack, full-on. Shaking, couldn’t breathe. He was hiding in a stall, biting down on his hoodie sleeve to stay quiet.”

Jake stiffened. Ryan froze.

Dylan let out a sharp breath. “Jesus. Did anyone else see?”

“No,” Connor said. “Just me. I got him calmed down eventually. He said he was fine.”

“He always says he’s fine,” Dylan muttered.

Connor rubbed his hands down his knees. “Then he went to practice and played like a machine. Perfect. No mistakes. No emotions.”

“Not like Sam,” Ryan said. “Like a robot.”

Connor nodded. “The whole drive home he didn’t talk. When we got to his place, Dean came out. Put a hand on Sam’s cheek, gentle, like really trying, and Sam just nodded. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t blink.”

“He didn’t say anything?” Dylan asked.

“Nothing,” Connor said. “He walked inside like he was on autopilot.”

There was more silence. Connor could imagine Dylan pacing, phone pressed to his ear, rubbing his forehead the way he always did when he was trying not to panic.

Jake shifted in the seat. “Do we tell his dad?”

Connor hesitated.

“No,” Ryan said softly. “Not yet.”

“He’d want to know,” Jake protested. “I want to tell him.”

“I do too,” Connor admitted. “But Sam would see it as betrayal, not help.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “He would.”

Connor let his phone rest on the dash, the speaker still live. “Can you try calling him tonight?”

“I will,” Dylan said. “If he picks up, I’ll try to talk him down. If he doesn’t…”

“Then we go to Dean,” Connor said. “Together. No more waiting.”

“I won’t let it slide,” Dylan promised. “He’s my little brother. I’m not losing him to whatever this is.”

“Thanks,” Ryan whispered. “We don’t know what else to do.”

“I just didn’t want to carry it alone,” Connor said finally. “Not this.”

“You’re not,” Dylan said. “We’ve got him. However we have to.”

Connor nodded, even though no one could see him. “Okay.”

The call ended, but none of them moved.

____

Sam sat hunched at the edge of his bed, hoodie still on, the sleeves twisted into ropes in his fists. His cleats were still half-laced. The heart monitor blinked green beneath the fabric. Steady and meaningless.

His phone lit up again.

DYLAN CALLING

He’d been watching it flash all evening. Missed calls. A few texts. Then more calls.

Eight. Maybe nine. Sam had stopped counting after six.

He stared at the screen like it belonged to someone else. His reflection in the glass looked gray. Wrong.

Still, he picked up this time. Mostly because if he didn’t, Dylan would tell his dad. He couldn’t have that.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Finally,” Dylan said, breath catching with a brittle edge. “You’ve got me calling like eight times, Sammy. I was two minutes from blowing up your dad’s phone.”

Sam blinked slowly. “Sorry. I just needed a minute.”

“Are you okay?” Dylan’s voice was still tight, but gentler now. Softer around the edges, the way it got when he was scared.

Sam curled his fingers into the blanket beside him. “Yeah. I’m just tired.”

There was silence on the line.

“Connor said you had a panic attack,” Dylan said at last. “At school.”

Sam flinched. He pressed his fingers to his temple like that might slow the low static rising behind his eyes. “It wasn’t bad. I got through it. It was a rough morning, but I'm okay now.”

“Rough like, can’t breathe in a bathroom stall, rough?”

“It passed,” Sam said quickly, voice steady but dull. “I was fine for practice.”

Dylan didn’t answer. Sam could picture him pacing his dorm, rubbing the back of his neck, jaw tight. He always did that when he was trying not to yell. Or cry.

“You played like a machine,” Dylan said eventually. “That’s what Ryan said.”

“Means I did my job,” Sam muttered.

“No,” Dylan replied, firmer now. “It means you weren’t playing like you. You didn’t talk to anyone. You didn’t even look at your dad.”

Sam swallowed and looked away from the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“He’s worried.”

“I know.”

Dylan was quiet. Waiting. Weighing.

Then: “Do I need to call him?”

Sam sat forward. “No. Please don’t.”

“Sam.”

“I swear,” Sam said, soft but firm. “I’m okay. I just need to sleep. That’s all. I’m just… tired.”

It wasn’t even a lie. He was tired. Bone-deep, buzzing-under-his-skin tired. And if he could keep everyone just far enough away, maybe he could hold the rest of himself together.

Dylan exhaled on the other end of the line. “Okay. But if you go dark again-”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Because I’ll call your dad in five seconds next time.”

“Got it.”

Another silence stretched.

Then Dylan’s voice dropped, warm and tired. “Love you, little brother. Always.”

Sam’s breath hitched, but he didn’t let it show in his voice. “Love you too.”

They hung up. The room went quiet again. Sam leaned back into the wall, blinking slowly at nothing. The green light blinked steadily. Unbothered.

He closed his eyes. The static didn’t stop.

But at least Dylan wouldn’t tell his dad.

____

The clouds rolled in by the second quarter.

It was supposed to hold. Coach Miller had checked the forecast twice before warmups: scattered rain, late. Nothing serious.

But home-field advantage didn’t mean much when the sky had other plans.

Now, the air buzzed like a live wire. The stands were packed but uneasy, quieter than usual. Fans were watching the storm crawl in from the edges, uncertain whether to cheer or bolt for cover. Umbrellas snapped open like startled birds. Ponchos rustled like warning signs. His dad couldn’t make it, a last-minute parts run for a job he’d apologized for at least three times, but Uncle Bobby was here in the top row. His coat was zipped to the throat, and he was braced like he expected the sky to crack open.

But Sam couldn’t look for him now.

The air had shifted. Not just the wind, but something deeper.

He could feel it in his teeth.

He shook it off. Focus. He ran midfield hard, barking instructions, boots thudding the turf, heart keeping pace.

Lightning split the sky in a brilliant, blinding arc above the east bleachers. The thunder followed instantly, too close.

The ref’s whistle blew sharply through the noise. “Off the field! That’s a delay!”

Groans rose all around him. Connor swore under his breath. Players slowed into a jog, cleats scraping through wet grass as they peeled toward the benches and the open door to the tunnel.

Sam moved last.

He wasn’t trying to stall; he just couldn’t get his legs to cooperate. The charge in the air made his skin itch. His arms. His neck. His back teeth. Every step felt heavier than it should’ve been, like gravity had doubled just for him.

And then, when he was in midfield-

A tiny flicker lit up under his right cleat as it struck the ground.

Blue. Quick. Gone in an instant.

But it happened.

Sam flinched so hard he nearly tripped. He looked down again, and there was nothing there. No burn mark, no melted rubber, just turf and thunder and the wind keening like it knew something he didn’t.

He picked up his pace and followed the rest of the team inside.

The locker room was already humid with breath and rain-damp jerseys. Water dripped from cleats. Someone kicked open the vented door at the far end for airflow, and thunder boomed again, muffled by the walls.

Sam dropped onto the corner bench, heartbeat too loud, fingers trembling. The static was inside him now, humming through his veins like a warning no one else could hear.

He bent forward, elbows on knees, and tried to breathe around it.

The monitor against his ribs buzzed faintly. Still green. Still fine.

Maybe.

Jake’s voice broke through the locker room noise, cutting through the low hum of cleats scraping tile and gear bags unzipping.

“Dude.”

Sam looked up slowly.

Jake stood over him, brow furrowed, eyes locked on his face. “You’re- uh- you’re bleeding.”

“What?” Sam asked, voice too flat, too detached to match the words.

“Your nose, dude,” Jake said, pointing with a twitch of his hand like he wasn’t sure Sam even felt it.

Sam reached up instinctively, fingertips brushing beneath his nostrils. They came back red.

“Oh,” he said, too quietly, like the blood belonged to someone else.

Jake blinked at him. “Oh? That’s all you’ve got?”

Across the room, Connor twisted on his heel at the shift in tone. “What’s going on?” he asked, already moving toward them.

Sam grabbed the closest towel from the bench beside him and pressed it under his nose, wincing just a little. “Pressure change,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.”

Jake crossed his arms, still staring at him. “Nothing’s bleeding on your face.”

Sam forced a weak smile, the towel still clutched under his nose. “It looks dramatic, but I feel fine.”

He didn’t feel fine.

He felt weird. Off-kilter. Like something in him had flickered just like the lightning and hadn’t gone out.

Connor didn’t sit, but he hovered a step too close. Ryan came over with a water bottle already uncapped. 

Sam took it. Nodded. Tried not to shake.

He didn’t check the monitor again. He didn’t want to know if it was still green. Didn’t want to know if it wasn’t.

The thunder rolled louder.

And the pressure behind his eyes hadn’t eased.

____

The sky had cracked wide open during the delay. The thunder rolled north and took the worst of the storm with it, but the air still felt carved from static. Buzzing and sharp, every breath like breathing through cotton. The turf gleamed under floodlights. Wet. Hungry.

The second half resumed. Sam barely heard the whistle.

He moved.

There wasn’t time for hesitation. No time to feel the ache in his hand or the heaviness clinging to his ribs. His body knew what to do even if his brain had started operating five seconds ahead, or five seconds behind, he couldn’t tell anymore.

He called plays like they were code. Like keeping the rhythm would keep everything else from spilling over.

“Outside! Now!”

“Connor! Drop low, reset!”

“Midfield press, tight line!”

The words rasped in his throat, feeling like gravel. But they kept coming, and so did the ball.

It helped, at first. That ruthless clarity that came when he didn’t stop moving. Each touch on the ball sharpened the blur in his head. Each pass, each sprint, every sting of turf under cleats, it built a wall against whatever was still buzzing just behind his eyes.

He didn’t think about the locker room. Or the spark that leapt from his cleat when no one was looking. Or the way Coach’s eyes had narrowed, like he was starting to put something together. Or the way his hand had trembled when he pressed his fingers to his nose and they came away red.

He thought about the field.

About not falling.

He thought: If I just keep going, no one else has to worry. No one else has to carry this. Not Dad. Not Uncle Bobby. Not the boys. Not the team.

He thought: They deserve a captain, not a burden.

Their opponent came back hard.

They ran like a team with something to prove: hard contact, fast counters, too many elbows to pretend were accidental. But Sam kept pace. He barked orders, reset the line, and dropped deeper when Ryan needed backup. Passed clean. Read plays before they happened.

He even laughed once when Connor shoulder-checked a kid twice his size and walked away with the ball. That was the high point, but he never hit cruise control, because it never stopped feeling off .

His limbs were listening, but not syncing. His heart was steady, but his thoughts kept jerking sideways, like something in his brain was spinning too fast and throwing sparks. He didn’t say anything because once he said it out loud, it became real.

So he kept going until the last minutes.

He was pressing midfield, tracking the switch when his vision blurred again, just a little. A skip. A flicker.

He blinked hard, just one step out of sync. And the Riverside mid cut the other way. Sam turned too slowly. He heard cleats behind him.

Ryan’s voice came, booming and urgent. “Ref! Hey, we need a stoppage!”

What? Why?

The whistle blew sharp and sudden. The ref jogged over. “Eleven, you’re bleeding.”

Sam frowned and lifted his hand without even knowing why. His fingers came back red. His jersey was smeared across the chest. It wasn’t soaked, but enough to notice. Enough to stop a game.

He hadn’t even felt it.

A pulse of panic jumped in his throat.

No hit. No contact. No warning.

Not again.

Ryan was at his side, face tight. “You’re out, Sam.”

“I’m-” Sam started. But the words weren’t there. His tongue felt thick. His head was full of cotton. He didn’t even finish the sentence.

Coach was shouting something about subs.

Jake jogged over, pressed a towel he snagged off the sideline into Sam’s hand. “Here. Sit down. Now.”

Sam didn’t argue. He let them lead him to the sideline.

The world didn’t tilt, it just drained, like all the noise and speed had leaked out, leaving only the ache behind.

His legs barely bent when he sat. His chest heaved, but not in the right rhythm. The buzzing was back. Not loud, but steady.

He pressed the towel to his nose.

The monitor light on his side was still green. Still good. But for the first time, Sam wasn’t sure how much longer that light could be trusted.

____

The living room was dim, lit only by the golden spill from the kitchen and the muted flicker of the TV.

Bobby set the water glass down on the coffee table with a quiet clink.

Sam didn’t look up. He was curled tight under the old plaid blanket, the one he’d dragged from the hall closet the second they got home. A half-melted cold pack rested across his eyes, held in place by one arm slung across his forehead. The other arm lay limp across his chest, heart monitor tucked beneath his hoodie, blinking soft green.

Too soft, Bobby thought. Too slow for a kid who should be amped after a 2 - 0 win.

Instead, Sam hadn’t said a word since the car ride.

“You want food?” Bobby asked, already knowing the answer. He kept his voice low, gruff but not sharp. “We got leftover roast. Couple biscuits.”

Sam shook his head faintly.

Bobby nodded like he hadn’t expected anything else. He dropped into the armchair across from him with a soft grunt. The old thing creaked under his weight.

The kid looked exhausted. Not just tired, but burned through. Like something had used him up and left the shell behind, muscles still twitching with the echo.

“You don’t have to say it’s fine,” Bobby said after a long pause. “We’ve seen ‘fine’ before. This ain’t it.”

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. But he didn’t argue, either. That was something.

Bobby leaned back, one eye on the monitor light, the other on the way Sam’s fingers curled reflexively when the TV switched scenes too loudly. Not asleep.

Eventually, the old dog wandered in and thumped down beside the couch. Sam reached out automatically, his hand finding fur without even looking. Rumsfeld huffed and stayed.

The front door opened a few minutes later with the distinctive creak Dean still hadn’t fixed, followed by the uneven thump of his boots on the entryway tile.

Dean’s voice came from the hallway, tight and clipped. “Bobby? Sam?”

“In here.”

Dean appeared in the doorway, rain still beaded on his shoulders and wind-pinked at the tips of his ears. He stopped cold the second he saw Sam on the couch.

“Shit,” Dean whispered.

Sam didn’t stir.

Dean moved in like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His eyes landed on the cold pack first, then the monitor light, and then the small crumple of a blood-stained paper towel on the side table. Bobby saw the moment he spotted it. The way Dean’s whole body went taut, like someone had just yanked a line tight.

“Is that from-” Dean gestured roughly, voice lower now. “From today?”

“Locker room,” Bobby said. “Then again, just before the final whistle.”

Dean swore under his breath. He moved to crouch beside the couch, one knee creaking like the floorboards.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Bobby shrugged. “Didn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d want a panic parade over in front of his team. I got him home. Sat him down. Been keeping an eye.”

Dean raked a hand through his damp hair and looked at Sam again. The blanket was pulled halfway up to his chin now. His chest rose in shallow, even movements.

“Nosebleed?” 

“Yep. He didn’t get hit or anything; it just started. He didn’t even notice till Ryan shouted.”

Dean grimaced like he had been there and was remembering. He reached out like he was going to touch Sam’s forehead, then thought better of it. His fingers curled into a fist instead, resting lightly against the blanket. “I should’ve pulled him before it got this far.”

“He wouldn’t have let you,” Bobby said. “You know that.”

Dean stared at the line of tension still coiled in Sam’s jaw.

“He’s been pushing,” he said eventually. “I thought maybe after the last game, after the diner… I don’t know. I thought maybe we were turning a corner.”

Bobby huffed. “Kid’s walking through a storm, Dean. Just ‘cause he smiles once doesn’t mean the clouds cleared.”

Dean’s face twisted like he wanted to argue. But then Sam shifted under the blanket, exhaling a soft, unconscious sigh, and Dean’s whole body softened. He reached up again, slower this time, and brushed a thumb gently across the edge of Sam’s brow, right above the line of the cold pack. Barely a touch. 

“I hate this part,” he murmured.

“Which part’s that?”

“The part where I can’t do anything but sit here and hope he doesn’t crack open.”

Bobby didn’t say anything. Dean stayed there on the floor, hand resting just above Sam’s knee now, grounding both of them.

Sam shifted again, brows twitching, a murmur half-lost against the blanket. “Dad…?”

Dean leaned in immediately. “Yeah, bug. Right here.”

Sam didn’t open his eyes. But his hand moved, just a few inches, and found Dean’s wrist.

Dean caught it and held it steady.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re home. You’re good. I’ve got you.”

And even though Sam didn’t speak again, the tension in his shoulders melted just enough for Bobby to finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

____

CONNOR: he was bleeding again.

RYAN: yeah, not from contact either. I was watching. it started on its own.

JAKE: he said he was fine but that was some A+ Winchester lying

DYLAN: Wait, again?? Like during the game??

CONNOR: last five minutes. ref pulled him.

DYLAN: Jesus. You sure it wasn’t a hit?

RYAN: I’m sure. his nose just started going and he didn’t even notice until I pointed it out

JAKE: he looked half out of it in the locker room after the game. didn’t even untie his cleats for ten minutes.

DYLAN: You want me to text him?

Connor sat hunched over his desk, elbows braced against his knees, the phone’s glow reflecting off the lenses of the glasses he only wore at home when no one was around. His cleats from earlier were still by the door, crusted with mud. His jersey was draped over the back of his chair. He hadn’t even changed.

He reread the thread three times before replying.

CONNOR: not yet, let’s give it a night

There was a pause.

And then, right on cue:

JAKE: call it the Brotherhood of the Bleeding Nose

RYAN: please never say that again

DYLAN: I’m putting it on a T-shirt.

CONNOR: I swear to God.

Connor didn’t smile, but he didn’t shut the chat down either. If humor was all they had to fill the gap, then fine, they’d use it. They’d use anything to keep the walls from closing in around their captain.

The screen dimmed, fading into black. He didn’t move to plug the phone in or brush his teeth. He just sat there.

The image of Sam tugging off his blood-streaked jersey while pretending he was fine wouldn’t leave his head. Nor would the look in his eyes: distant, off-balance, like he was barely tethered to the moment.

Connor had seen Sam take hits before. He’d seen him bounce back from ankle rolls and shin bruises and that one time he’d nearly concussed himself diving for a save at practice. But this?

This was different. This wasn’t pain you could ice.

He let his fingers rest on the edge of the phone again, waiting for a text that never came.

____

They were supposed to be doing homework.

The living room table was a mess of notebooks, uncapped pens, Connor’s half-finished math worksheet, and the history textbook Sam had dog-eared into oblivion. Jake had three tabs open on his laptop but hadn’t touched any of them. The music playing was some chill indie playlist that faded perfectly into the background.

It looked normal. It even felt normal, on the surface.

But Ryan had played enough games to know when something was off.

And Sam? Sam was off.

He sat at the far end of the couch with his hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands and a blank sheet of lined paper in front of him. Pen in hand. Eyes on the middle distance. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Connor cracked a joke about Jake’s handwriting, something about cryptic cave drawings, and Ryan laughed automatically. But even as he did, his eyes flicked back to Sam.

Still unmoving. Still hunched. Still small.

That alone might not have been enough to sound the alarm, but then Sam shifted, just slightly, reaching up to rub his neck.

And Ryan saw it.

A sliver of black under the collar of Sam’s sweatshirt. Thin, taut, pressing hard against his skin. The chest strap. The full heart monitor rig.

Ryan’s brows pulled together.

He watched more carefully now, noting the way Sam kept his elbows in, the way his shoulders never fully relaxed. The way the monitor’s outline, normally hidden beneath his shirt or swapped out for the lighter waistband clip, was stark and rigid beneath his sweatshirt.

He waited a beat, then stood and walked toward the kitchen, calling back casually, “Anyone want water?”

Jake grunted. “Sure.”

Connor shook his head. Sam didn’t answer.

Ryan opened the fridge, grabbed three bottles, and returned. He handed one to Jake and one to Sam, holding it out just long enough that Sam had to look up.

“Thanks,” Sam said softly. His voice was dry, his eyes glassy.

Ryan caught it again then, the faint red line creeping up his side, like the strap had been tightened too far. Too long.

He didn’t say anything yet.

Instead, he sat down beside him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off Sam. Close enough to sense the tension in his frame.

They worked like that for a while. Or pretended to.

Until Connor finally looked up and said, “Hey, Sam… why’re you wearing the strap?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Connor nodded toward his chest. “The monitor. You usually just clip it after practice, right?”

Jake looked up, eyes sharpening. “Yeah. You hate the strap.”

“I don’t hate it,” Sam muttered.

Ryan watched the way his fingers gripped the water bottle too tightly. 

“Is it bothering you?” Ryan asked gently. “We can grab your spare clip if it’s bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a line. He shifted like he might stand up, then stopped. His eyes flicked toward the hallway.  

Toward the bathroom, Ryan realized. An out.

Ryan spoke quietly. “It’s too tight, man.”

Sam didn’t deny it. He didn’t move either.

After a long pause, his voice came low, like it was sneaking out without permission. “If it’s tight, I don’t forget it’s there.”

The words fell heavy. Jake sat back, visibly sobered.

Connor leaned forward, voice soft. “You're scared something’s gonna happen again?”

Sam took a shallow breath and didn’t let it out for a long time.

Ryan shifted beside him, not crowding him. But he was near enough that if Sam tipped, he wouldn’t fall far.

_____

RYAN: he wore the strap the whole time

not just the clip

tight enough it left a mark

CONNOR: like game-day tight

and he never even loosened it when we got home

JAKE: he said “it helps him remember it’s there”

which like. what does that even mean

DYAN: Shit

Okay

DYLAN: Was he jumpy?

RYAN: quiet

tense

he barely moved

JAKE: barely blinked

CONNOR: and he didn’t eat dinner. not much anyway

DYLAN: He always switches to the waistband clip after practice

He said the strap makes him feel like he can’t breathe

RYAN: he didn’t say that tonight

but it looked like that’s exactly what was happening

JAKE: he held the water bottle like it was keeping him upright

and then when Connor asked about it

he just said

“If it’s tight, I don’t forget it’s there.”

DYLAN: Fuck

Okay

Thank you for telling me

Keep an eye on him tomorrow

No pressure, just stay close

I’ll try to FaceTime him after lunch tomorrow

CONNOR: should we tell Dean?

DYLAN: Not yet

He’ll feel it if it gets worse

And if Sam wants to talk, he’ll go to him

For now, we stay near and notice

RYAN: we got him

JAKE: always

____

Lunch was usually loud.

Loud in the way only a table of half-feral teenage soccer players could be: overlapping jokes, stupid dares, arguments about whose fault a missed goal had really been. There was always someone mid-chew trying to yell, someone flicking crumbs, someone playing DJ with a phone speaker on low.

Today was loud, too. In theory.

Jake was cracking jokes again, something about the vending machine eating his dollar and exacting revenge. Connor had leaned across the table to reenact the moment like it was a war story. Ryan was trying to get ahead on calc homework in the corner while vaguely threatening to start flicking pencils if anyone touched his food.

Sam sat between them.

Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Shoulders hunched, as if gravity had picked him specifically. His tray was untouched: sandwich still sealed in its wrapper, apple quartered neatly but unmoved. He hadn’t even opened his water bottle.

He wasn’t sulking. Wasn’t hostile. He just wasn’t there.

Ryan had caught it first, when Sam had joined them without saying a word, hoodie up despite the warm cafeteria. Jake had tried to ruffle his hair, and Sam had barely blinked. Connor had lobbed a gummy worm at him, and it hit without protest. Sam just kept staring at the table like something might eventually rearrange itself into sense.

Jake was in the middle of an impression of Coach Miller (some half-shouted, fully incorrect version of “hustle and compress!”) when Sam’s phone buzzed.

They all heard it.

Sam flinched slightly and looked down.

DYLAN CALLING

Ryan felt his spine go still.

Sam stared at the screen like he wasn’t sure it was real. He didn’t smile, didn’t joke. He just stared.

Then he swiped to answer.

The camera lit up, and there Dylan was. He was on a sidewalk somewhere, earbuds in. His smile spread immediately when he saw the screen.

“Hey, little brother.”

“Hey,” Sam said. He was quiet, barely audible over the cafeteria noise.

Dylan blinked. Then smiled a little more softly. “Lunch crew’s assembled, huh?”

Jake leaned into the frame, grinning. “We haven’t murdered each other yet.”

Connor added, “Sam’s been real chatty today. Vibrating with words.”

Ryan cracked a grin on reflex, but his eyes never left Sam’s face. It was the lack of reaction that unnerved him. The way Sam didn’t even twitch at the teasing, like it was a show he’d forgotten how to be part of.

Dylan’s tone changed immediately. Still warm, but steadier. Calmer.

“And how’s Cap himself?”

Sam adjusted his phone slightly so Dylan could see the table, but didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look directly into the camera.

Ryan’s stomach dropped.

“Sam?” Dylan asked again, this time just for him. “You there?”

Sam blinked. Nodded faintly.

“Thumbs up if you’re okay,” Dylan said, voice soft but sure.

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Sam lifted one hand and made a vague motion. Not a thumbs-up. Just a raise and a drop, like his body remembered the motion, but his brain couldn’t finish it.

Dylan didn’t say anything right away.

“Thanks for picking up,” he said after a moment. “I’ll try later, okay? Just us.”

Sam nodded once, but didn’t lift his eyes. The call ended.

For a long moment, the table was completely silent.

Then Ryan picked up one of Sam’s apple slices and set it in front of him. “You should eat, Sam.”

Sam didn’t respond, but he took the slice. He held it between his fingers like it weighed more than it should. Then, quietly, he took a bite.

Connor rubbed the back of his neck and whispered to Ryan so Sam couldn’t hear, “I’m texting Dylan after school.”

“Already did,” Ryan said.

Jake didn’t speak. He just slid his unopened water bottle across the table toward Sam’s tray.

No one smiled, but no one left. And Sam, for all his quiet, for all his distance, didn’t walk away either.

____

The game hadn’t even started yet, and Sam already felt like he was running out of time.

The locker room was loud: spikes of laughter, cleats dragging across tile, someone blasting a playlist too close to the showers. The usual pre-game chaos. Familiar. Comforting.

Too much.

Sam sat on the edge of the bench, hands tucked into the sleeves of his warm-up hoodie, eyes on the floor. His head ached in that low, squeezing way it did sometimes. It was just behind his eyes, like something was trying to press out through his skull. His breath came too shallow, but no one would notice. Not in all this noise.

The static had been buzzing faintly since lunch, low and constant. A background hum. It always started that way, just a whisper under his skin, like a warning he couldn’t quite translate.

He blinked hard, and the second he did, it hit.

A flash. Too fast. Too sharp.

Ryan, still laughing, still mid-step. A towel slung around his neck, one shoe off.

The back corridor. A fast turn. The slick patch, just past the third drain.

Then the crash.

The crack.

Ryan’s head hitting the tile wall, hard and final.

Then it was gone like a bad radio channel, cutting out just as the screams started.

Sam flinched before he could stop himself, fingers curling tighter in his sleeves.

No one noticed.

The static didn’t stop after the vision faded. It stayed higher now, closer to the surface. Like a fluorescent bulb in his skull that wouldn’t shut off. His teeth hurt. His spine itched.

He forced a breath in through his nose, out through his teeth. His pulse was skipping again. Not dangerously - he knew what dangerous felt like - but enough to remind him what it meant. What it meant to see something that hadn’t happened yet. Something small. Fixable.

Something he could stop.

And if he could stop it, he didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t have to explain. Didn’t have to watch Ryan fall. Didn’t have to admit that the thing in his head was real. That it was happening again.

That it was getting worse.

The static buzzed louder now that he was thinking about it. Like it could hear him. Like it wanted something.

Sam stood, and no one looked.

He moved through the locker room like a ghost. Quiet, controlled, eyes forward.

He passed Jake and Connor, goofing off near the mirror. Passed Justin, balancing a ball on his thighs like he was back in seventh grade. Passed Coach’s clipboard leaning on the whiteboard, lineup already scrawled in dry-erase marker.

He didn’t stop until he reached the back corridor.

The light back there was dimmer and yellowed. The kind that always buzzed overhead, no matter how many times someone reported it.

Steam clung to the walls from earlier showers. The air was thick and wet, and the tile was just slick enough to catch the light.

And there it was, exactly like he’d seen it. The slow-spreading patch of water curling across the floor, right where Ryan would step.

Sam swallowed hard. His mouth was dry.

I don’t have to tell anyone. I just have to fix it.

The squeegee leaned against the wall in the corner, beside a pile of crusty towels and a busted soap dispenser that had been broken since last season.

He grabbed it. It was heavier than it looked. Solid and familiar, like holding something real. Something that made sense.

He braced his feet and dragged it across the tile in long, sweeping lines, guiding the water back toward the drain.

Once. Twice. Again.

The static didn’t vanish, but it eased. Like the act of doing something - of fixing it - was enough to dull the edges.

The movements were rhythmic. Like pen strokes. Like breathing.

If I’m fast, it doesn’t count. If no one sees, it’s just a coincidence.

By the time the tile was dry, his palms were wet. His sleeves were damp. His breath had evened out.

The headache was still there, but duller now. Quieter. The static buzzed softer, retreating under his skin like it was satisfied. Like it had been fed.

He leaned the squeegee back where he found it and wiped his hands on his hoodie.

This is better. This is what it’s for.

Back in the locker room, the noise hadn’t changed.

Ryan jogged past him toward the back corridor, towel over his shoulder, one cleat untied.

He didn’t slip. Didn’t fall. Didn’t even notice.

Sam didn’t stop him. He turned back toward his locker, dragging his fingers through his hair, his breath just a little uneven again.

No one looked twice. And that, he told himself, was good. The less they noticed, the safer it all stayed.

He sat down on the bench again and exhaled like the moment had passed.

Like he wasn’t already waiting for the next one.

____

Dylan had an essay due at midnight and a stats quiz in the morning, but none of that mattered.

Not tonight.

He was at his desk before pregame started, earbuds in, hoodie up, fingers tapping the trackpad until the stream finally loaded. The feed was crap - jumpy camera, tinny mic, no scoreboard overlay - but he didn’t care. The whole field could’ve been fogged out, and he still would’ve watched.

His boys were playing, and that meant Dylan was watching.

He leaned forward as kickoff drew close, angling the screen for a better view. He found Sam right away: number 11, middle third, pacing like he already knew where the game was going before it started.

From the first whistle, Sam played like a storm.

Quick touches. Controlled bursts. Clean distribution. He wasn’t flashy, not the way Jake liked to play or the way Connor sometimes went for style points on a dribble, but he moved like the whole field belonged to him. Like the game was bent around his timing. The midfield belonged to him. Every press, every redirect, every cross-field switch. He picked apart the other team like he was reading their code in real time.

Dylan caught himself smiling, just barely. Damn, he thought. Look at you.

But the smile didn’t last, because something felt wrong. At first, it was subtle. A twitch of discomfort he couldn’t name.

Then Sam sent a no-look pass to someone Dylan didn’t recognize without so much as a glance. He kept running.

He didn’t lift a hand to call for the return ball. Didn’t look at the sideline. Didn’t check over his shoulder.

He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t there.

Dylan narrowed his eyes.

Sam cut inside, intercepted a pass, fed it to Jake at the edge of the box - a perfect lead. Jake scored. The team exploded. Ryan pumped a fist. Jake yelled something and turned, grinning, probably trying to celebrate with him.

Sam just turned and jogged back to position. No smile, no nod, not even a glance.

Dylan froze.

He paused the feed. Rewound. Watched it again.

Same moment. Same reaction. Nothing.

His stomach twisted.

He’d seen Sam in every mood - furious, flighty, giddy after a win, barely holding it together after a nightmare - but this? This was off. He wasn’t checked out. He wasn’t angry. He was somewhere else.

And that scared Dylan more than anything.

After the game ended, after the boys had won, he reached for his phone and typed out a message to Sam.

DYLAN: You good, little brother?

You look wired

Not like game-wired. Like… not blinking-wired.

He stared at the message. Sam normally responded to him fast, but as was happening more and more recently, he got no response.

Dylan swore under his breath and switched threads to the one without Sam. The one that was once almost silent, but now got more responses than any of the others.

DYLAN: Something’s off

He’s playing like a machine, but he looks empty

The dots showed up fast.

Ryan: we know

Jake: we’ve tried

he won’t talk

still shows up. still wins.

Connor: it’s like he’s trying to keep us from noticing

Dylan didn’t answer right away.

He rewound the stream to the final whistle. Sam didn’t lift his arms, didn’t jog over to the sideline crew, didn’t touch anyone on the back. He just stood there, hands on his hips, chest rising too fast like the game hadn’t let go of him yet.

DYLAN: He’s trying to disappear in plain sight

Don’t let him

No one replied. Not for a long time.

But Dylan stayed there, in the dim of his dorm room, eyes locked on the frozen screen like he could force it to rewind just one more time and show him something different.

Something safe. Something Sam.

But all he saw was a boy in the middle of a field, perfectly still, surrounded by movement and noise and teammates who didn’t know how far away he already was.

____

The pasta boiled, bubbling thick in the pot, and Dean stirred it more out of habit than hunger. The kitchen was warm with garlic and butter, the kind of smell that usually brought Sam in before dinner was even called.

But today, he’d come home quiet.

He was sitting at the kitchen table now, hoodie up despite the heat from the stove, slouched low in the chair like he didn’t want to be seen but wasn’t hiding either. Dean had offered a rundown of the day: how Rumsfeld chewed through another corner of the welcome mat, how Bobby was still losing his mind over the new carburetor install. Sam had just nodded along. No jokes. No eye rolls. Barely there.

And then came the buzz.

Dean didn’t react at first. Thought it might be a homework reminder or a spam alert.

But then it buzzed again.

And again.

He glanced over. Sam’s phone lit up on the table, screen facing up.

DYLAN - NEW MESSAGE

CONNOR - NEW MESSAGE

DYLAN - MISSED CALL

Dean frowned, turned back to the stove. He stirred again, slower this time.

Another buzz sounded.

He looked over his shoulder. Sam still hadn’t moved. He just sat there, hunched over, fingers tangled in the edge of his hoodie sleeve.

Dean wiped his hands and crossed the room, resting a hand on the back of a chair.

“You gonna answer them?”

Sam blinked. Not startled, more like he’d forgotten the phone was even there. His voice came low, dull.

“It’s not urgent.”

Dean’s stomach gave a quiet twist.

He studied him a beat longer. The stillness wasn’t sharp or moody. It was weighted. Not I’m mad , but I’m tired . 

But Dean didn’t know entirely what he was looking at. He didn’t know what to name it yet. So he said nothing, nodding and going back to the stove.

He dished out two plates. He made Sam’s exactly the way he liked: extra sauce, the garlic toast just a little burned at the edges, because for some reason that’s how Sam liked it. Always had.

He brought the plate over and set it down.

Sam didn’t touch it.

Dean sat across from him. He gave it a minute.

Still nothing.

Another buzz.

This time, Dean turned the phone slowly toward himself.

DYLAN - MISSED CALL

DYLAN - MISSED CALL

CONNOR - NEW MESSAGE

RYAN - NEW MESSAGE

JAKE - NEW MESSAGE

DYLAN - MISSED CALL

Six more calls and messages Sam didn’t even look at.

Dean didn’t sigh. He didn’t reach for the phone. He just locked it and set it back down, face down, the buzz cut off mid-vibration.

Sam didn’t blink.

“Food’ll keep,” Dean said gently, after a long moment. “You can eat later, if you want.”

Sam nodded slowly.

Dean stood and took the plate back to the counter, reaching for the foil.

He didn’t know what was wrong. He didn’t know if it was stress, school, soccer, hormones, or a migraine. Didn’t know if it was something bigger.

He sat back down at the table beside him. He didn’t ask anything else. He stayed there, steady and close. Silent company in the middle of a question mark.

Because Dean didn’t need to understand it all right now.

He just needed to be there when Sam was ready to let him in.

____

The locker room was quieter than usual.

Not silent, there was still the muted rhythm of post-practice routine. The soft slap of cleats against tile, the hiss of the showers, Jake singing something off-key from behind a half-closed curtain. But the energy was off.

Thin, Connor thought. Like the air had stretched, and no one was breathing deeply enough to fix it.

He glanced up just in time to catch movement down the row.

Sam was sitting alone at the end bench, hunched slightly forward, his elbows braced on his thighs. The gray hoodie, the same one he'd worn three practices in a row, hung damp over his shoulders, sleeves pulled down so far the cuffs swallowed half his hands.

Connor paused, eyes narrowing.

It wasn’t that Sam was being quiet. He was always quiet. It was how still he was.

The others were winding down, joking, stretching, swearing about sore calves. But Sam looked like he hadn’t even heard any of it. His hands moved in tight little motions over something in his lap. Connor leaned just enough to see.

The sketchbook.

Connor’s heart caught a little, not out of alarm, but something close. Sam hadn’t brought that thing out in weeks. Not since before... 

He got up slowly, wandered over, and dropped onto the next bench with practiced casualness.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft. “Sketching again?”

Sam didn’t glance up. “Helps me focus.”

“Cool,” Connor said. “What’re you working on?”

Sam just continued drawing.

Connor glanced sideways, just enough to catch a flash of the page.

It wasn't cartoons, or monsters, or their mascot reimagined as a giant moose goalie like last season.

Just lines.

Dozens of them. Crosshatches. Grids. Spirals. Shapes repeating until they turned dense and dark, the kind of marks people made when they weren’t really drawing, just trying to get something out.

He recognized it. Not because he’d done it himself, but because he’d seen it before. On Sam’s face during warmups. In the way he pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose after a goal. The way he’d been flying on the field, tight and surgical, like a pressure valve waiting to blow.

“You used to draw us as superheroes,” Connor offered lightly.

“I still might,” Sam muttered, but his voice didn’t match the words. It was distant. Hollow. Like something he’d rehearsed and let go of at the same time.

Connor tilted his head. “What’s this stuff?”

Sam flipped the page, not answering.

Connor didn’t push. He didn’t try to touch the sketchbook. Didn’t force eye contact. He just sat there, letting the silence exist between them without trying to fill it.

Eventually, Sam closed the book and stood up. He tucked it into the pouch of his bag with a motion too careful to be casual.

“You’re not gonna ask?” he said, almost too quietly.

“I think I just did,” Connor said.

Sam stared at the wall past him. “I’m good.”

“You’re tired.”

Sam paused. “I can be both.”

Then he turned and left.

Connor sat there for a long moment after the door swung shut behind him, still feeling the echo of Sam’s presence like heat in a space just vacated. He picked up his phone from the floor where he’d left it during drills, thumb hovering over the screen.

CONNOR: hey

sam’s not okay

he’s drawing again. but not him drawings

i don’t think we’re helping enough

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

DYLAN: I’ll call him.

Tonight.

____

The sketchbook was on the floor, closed, its weight still heavy even though he’d dropped it hours ago.

Sam sat on his bed, knees pulled up, forehead resting against the tops of them. The heart monitor strap felt tighter than it should, cinched across his ribs like a reminder. He hadn’t changed out of his practice clothes. They were sweat-slicked, clingy, stiff in places where salt had dried. The air felt charged. Not just heavy, but electric in a way that made his skin crawl. Like the walls were humming with something he couldn’t hear, and the silence wasn’t silence at all. It was static, pressed in around the edges, waiting for him to say something first. Waiting for him to slip.

His phone lit up once from across the room. He didn’t move. It lit up again. Then again.

The fourth time was a FaceTime call.

Sam blinked slowly. Then he reached over without thinking and tapped the screen.

The camera opened before he could stop it. Dylan’s face filled the screen: hair tousled, eyes wide, voice halfway into a breath.

“Hey.”

Sam stared at the phone. He didn’t say anything, but he didn't hang up either.

Dylan’s face changed, just a little. Softer now. Cautious. “I heard about the sketchbook.”

Sam didn’t answer.

Dylan sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Connor’s worried. So is Jake. So is Ryan.”

“I’m not,” Sam said, voice barely above a whisper. “Worried, I mean.”

“You should be,” Dylan said gently. “You haven’t been answering texts. You look like hell. You’re drawing spirals like they’ll hold the world together. You’re wearing the strap all the time now.”

Sam’s jaw clenched.

“I just feel better with it on,” he muttered.

“You feel better,” Dylan repeated. “Or you feel in control?”

Sam didn’t answer.

The silence stretched.

Dylan tried again. “Sammy. You know you don’t have to… fix yourself before you let us help, right?”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Sam’s throat tightened. His breath hitched. A rush of heat crawled up his neck like embarrassment, shame, and static all at once.

“I’m tired,” he said, voice cracking on the end.

“I know,” Dylan said. “But don’t hang up, okay? Just stay with me.”

Sam closed his eyes.

He sat there for a long time afterward, hands folded around the phone as if he just held it long enough, it might mean something.

____

Sam had gone to put the cones away.

Coach had barely finished asking when Sam volunteered, already gathering gear like it would give him something useful to do. Typical Sam: efficient, quiet, helpful to a fault. No one thought anything of it, not at first.

Then thirty minutes passed.

Jake was still pacing near his car, keys clinking softly in his hand like the sound might pull Sam out of the grass.

“Seriously,” he muttered, for the third time. “Where the hell is he?”

Connor checked his phone again. Two unanswered texts. A missed call. No read receipts.

“He should’ve been back by now,” Ryan said quietly, walking up from the locker room. “His bag’s still inside.”

Connor frowned. The edges of his ribs tightened, that subtle warning his body always gave when things were about to turn sideways. “Coach said he finished?” he asked.

Jake nodded. “Let him go early. Figured he’d head out with us.”

But he hadn’t. He wasn’t at the lockers. He wasn’t at the water station. Not the far bench. Not the side field.

Then Connor looked toward the old bleachers.

They were tucked behind the second goal, where the hill sloped down into tall grass and rusted railings. The shadows there stretched long and soft in the early evening light. Out of the way. Forgotten, just the kind of place you’d go if you didn’t want to be found.

“Check the bleachers,” Connor said.

He didn’t run, but he moved fast enough that the others fell in behind him like a formation they didn’t have to think about.

They found Sam underneath, curled beneath the center support beam, legs folded tight, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

He wasn’t drawing.

His sketchbook lay unopened beside him.  His phone was face down on the concrete. He wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t crying. He was just sitting.

Connor’s breath caught somewhere under his sternum. He crouched, slow, careful not to startle him. “Sam?”

No response.

He tried again. “Hey.”

Sam blinked. His head turned slightly, like Connor’s voice had to cut through layers of static just to reach him.

Jake dropped into a squat beside Connor. “Dude. You’ve been gone almost an hour.”

Sam frowned. “No. I- I just got here.”

Ryan exhaled hard through his nose. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Sam looked down at his phone. Then to the sky, like maybe it would tell him something useful.

Connor watched his face. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t being difficult. He genuinely didn’t know.

Jake tapped the sketchbook gently. “You didn’t draw?”

Sam shook his head slowly. “Wasn’t really… thinking about it.”

Connor shifted forward. “What were you doing?”

Sam blinked again. “Just sitting. I think.”

There was a long pause.

Jake ran a hand through his hair, silent. Ryan crossed his arms tightly across his chest. Connor stayed still. He took in the angles of Sam’s body: how stiff he looked, like his joints hadn’t moved in too long. How pale he was under the stadium shadow. How absent.

“Are you cold?” Jake asked finally.

Sam shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

Connor stood slowly. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Sam didn’t move at first. Then, like something finally registered, he reached up and let Jake help him to his feet. His legs shook as he stood.

They walked in silence across the grass. Ryan drifted to Sam’s other side, close enough to be steady without touching. Jake opened the car door without a word.

Connor pulled out his phone.

CONNOR: we found him under the bleachers after practice.

he thought it’d been ten minutes. it'd been almost an hour.

he didn’t draw. didn’t talk. didn’t move.

he wasn’t there.

The message went out. He watched the screen. Waited.

DYLAN: Call me when you’re alone.

Connor didn’t answer, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling in. The car pulled away from the field, and Sam didn’t say a word the whole ride home. They dropped him off just after seven.

Dean met them at the porch and thanked them quietly. No questions, no jokes. Just a nod and a look that said, I’ve got him from here.

Sam didn’t say anything. He climbed out, hoodie still up, sketchbook tucked under one arm like an afterthought. He mumbled a quiet “thanks” and disappeared into the house.

The silence after was different. Too full. Too loud with all the things no one was saying.

Jake stared out the windshield, engine still off. Ryan leaned forward between the seats, his hands bunched into fists.

Connor broke the silence first. “Dylan said to call him.”

No one disagreed.

Jake handed over his phone before leaning forward and resting his forehead against the steering wheel. Ryan reached up and tapped the speaker without a word.

Connor hit dial.

It rang twice.

“Yeah.” Dylan, instantly. Alert, like he hadn’t let his phone leave his hand all night.

Connor swallowed. “It’s us.”

Pause.

Then Dylan’s voice, tight and low. “What happened.” No question mark.

Connor exhaled slowly. “He didn’t come back after practice. Coach thought he’d left with us. We thought he was still grabbing cones.”

“We checked the lockers, the parking lot, everything,” Ryan said. “It was almost an hour.”

Jake added, “Found him under the bleachers. Just sitting. No music, no drawing. Phone was off.”

“He said he thought it’d only been ten minutes,” Connor finished, voice softer than before.

Dylan didn’t speak for a beat.

Then: “Is he home?”

“Yeah,” Ryan whispered. “Dean was there.”

“And Sam?” Dylan’s voice cracked just slightly. “Did he say anything?”

Connor shook his head. “Barely.”

“Did he even know he scared you?”

“I don’t think he knows how to be scared right now.”

The silence that followed stretched long. Too long.

Jake finally said, “We didn’t tell him we were calling.”

“Good,” Dylan said. “I’ll do that part.”

Connor glanced at Ryan, then at the house. Sam’s bedroom light was on, dim behind the curtain.

Dylan’s voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “I’ll call him, and if he doesn’t answer, I’ll keep calling. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. I’ll call until he picks up.”

Jake sighed against the steering wheel. Ryan exhaled through his nose, like it hurt.

Connor just nodded, even though Dylan couldn’t see it. “Okay.”

Another pause.

Then Dylan added, quieter: “Thanks for finding him.”

They didn’t say you’re welcome. They didn’t have to.

The call ended a few seconds later. Not rushed. Just quiet.

But Connor had a feeling Dylan would still be holding his phone long after they got home.

____

The phone buzzed again.

Sam stared at it from where he lay on his side, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, monitor strap tight against his ribs like armor. The light from the screen strobed faintly across the ceiling.

It was the ninth time tonight. Tenth, if you counted the missed call during dinner.

DYLAN CALLING

He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to talk to Dylan. Not to anyone. But he knew what would happen if he ignored it again. Dylan would text the group. Jake would call next. Connor would show up. Ryan would just know. Someone might call his dad.

So he picked up. FaceTime connected on the second ring.

Dylan’s face filled the screen: familiar and steady and too damn earnest. “Hey, little brother.”

Sam blinked. “Hey.”

“You look like crap.”

Sam didn’t answer.

Dylan rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’re making me chase you for this, huh?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“No, you’ve been dodging,” Dylan said flatly. “You haven’t picked up the last million times I've called. You barely respond to texts. And when you do, it’s like one word every six hours.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dylan snapped. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Sam didn’t answer. He looked past the camera like maybe it’d all go away if he didn’t focus too hard.

The static had been buzzing under his skin all day, sharp and aimless, like radio interference in his bloodstream. It wasn’t just in his head anymore; it lived behind his ribs, curled up tight in the space his breath was supposed to go.

“You’re quiet all the time now, and it’s not just with me,” Dylan continued. “It’s not like you’re ignoring us, you’re just not saying anything to anyone. No one’s angry. We’re just… honestly, we’re worried sick and trying not to show it.”

Dylan hesitated before adding, more quietly, “I’ve been watching the games, you know. Livestreams and clips the boys send me. You’re fast. Sharp, but it’s like watching a machine.”

Sam frowned, jaw tight. “I’m playing good.”

Dylan didn’t flinch. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“I’m doing what I have to do,” Sam said, a little sharper now. “I’m the captain.”

Dylan’s voice softened, almost pleading. “Yeah. But it’s not you.”

Sam didn’t answer. The words caught somewhere just behind his ribs, where the static lived. He looked away.

Dylan’s voice cracked. “You’re shutting down. You’re going silent and hoping no one asks why. And it’s killing me, man. I can’t help if you won’t let me in.”

“You don’t get it,” Sam snapped, eyes flashing.

“Then explain it,” Dylan said, leaning forward, frustration edging into his voice.

“No,” Sam said flatly, chest rising too fast.

Dylan stared at him, the silence stretching long. “Seriously?”

Sam’s voice rose before he could pull it back. “I don’t owe you a rundown of everything just because you finally remembered to call!”

“That’s not fair,” Dylan said, quiet but sharp. “You know I call all the time.”

“From your dorm. From your perfect, clean little college world, where everything’s normal now. You get to move on, and I’m still here trying to-” He cut himself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Something in Dylan’s voice changed. “You think I don’t know what it means when you disappear for an hour after practice?” he said. “You think I didn’t ask when Connor texted me freaking out?”

Sam’s throat caught. His eyes flicked away.

“You sat under the bleachers for almost an hour and didn’t notice time passing,” Dylan continued. “Didn’t draw. Didn’t text. Didn’t move. You scared them. They didn’t say it like that, but I heard it anyway. They thought something was wrong.”

Sam didn’t answer. The static pressed sharply into the base of his neck.

“And when Connor found you, you said you were just thinking,” Dylan said, voice fraying. “But you weren’t thinking. You were gone.”

There was a pause - thick, tight, full of all the things neither of them knew how to say.

Then Dylan’s voice came again, quieter but firmer. “So don’t tell me I don’t get it.”

Sam’s lip curled, defensive. “I’m not ignoring anyone.”

“Then what are you doing, Sam?” Dylan shot back, hands tightening into fists at his sides. “Because whatever it is, it’s not working.”

Sam pushed up on one elbow, his voice clipped. “I’m handling it.”

The static twisted. It didn’t like the lie. It pushed higher, pressed in harder.

“And the strap,” Dylan said, voice sharp. “You’re wearing it so tight, little brother. Ryan said he saw the marks. You think no one notices? You’re pulling it so tight it’s digging into your ribs. I know it hurts.”

Sam flinched. He’d tightened it again before bed, the familiar press of it comforting, like a belt across something fragile. He needed it tight. If it was tight, he’d know he was still here.

“You’re shutting down,” Dylan said, his voice tight and rough around the edges. He blinked hard, jaw flexing. “I can’t help if you won’t let me in.”

He waited, just a beat, but Sam didn’t answer. 

Dylan exhaled shakily, then kept going, softer now. “I know you don’t want to say it, but I hear it anyway.” He leaned closer to the screen. “And just because my world looks cleaner from the outside doesn’t mean I ever left yours. I still check the group chat first thing every morning. I still call whenever I can. You guys are still my brothers, Sam. Even when you won’t talk to me.”

The static surged then, a low roar between his ears, humming so loud it made his teeth ache. It crawled up the back of his throat like a scream trying to evolve. The pressure behind his eyes sharpened to a dull blade.

Silence buzzed between them.

Dylan drew in a breath. “I was on FaceTime that night at Connor’s. When you were asleep.”

Sam’s heart stuttered. The static turned icy, like his body knew something was coming before his brain did.

“You started talking in your sleep. You didn’t wake up, Sam. But you were muttering. Saying it was cold. Saying you wanted to go home. You were talking about the night you got taken.”

Sam’s throat locked.

“You didn’t even know we heard you, did you?”

Sam had no response. The static was clawing now, desperate and electric. He couldn’t tell if it was shame or fear or anger or all three tangled together. He felt raw. Friction-burned from the inside.

“Ryan sat with you the whole time,” Dylan said softly. “He kept a hand on your shoulder. Kept telling you you were safe, even though you didn’t wake up.”

Sam stared at the wall. His stomach flipped.

“And after that, Connor told me about the courthouse dream, too. And I get it, okay? I get that you’re scared. But you can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen just because you won’t talk about it.”

The static was crawling behind his eyes, biting at his jaw, coiled in his spine. It made his fingers twitch. It made the corners of the room feel too sharp. It made everything Dylan said sound louder than it was; too close, too knowing.

Too much.

Sam sat up on one elbow. Something inside him was vibrating. Not just the static, but something under it - raw and volatile and loud.

The second it left his mouth, he felt it land sharp and deliberate: “You don't get to pretend you care just because you finally decided to show up.”

Dylan recoiled slightly, hurt flaring in his eyes. “I do care. I always show up.”

“No, you call. From your dorm. When it’s convenient.” Sam’s voice rose, hot and shaking. “You think FaceTiming once a week makes you family? Makes you present?”

His heart slammed behind his sternum. The monitor strap pressed tighter. He didn’t loosen it.

“I never left,” Dylan said, too soft and too sure.

Sam laughed bitterly. “You did. You left and moved on, and now you call in like you’re checking on your old project.”

Dylan flinched. “Jesus, Sam.”

But Sam couldn’t stop. Because if he stopped, he’d crack open. And if he cracked open, Dylan would see everything. And if he saw everything, he might never look at Sam the same again.

“You want the truth?” Sam spat. “You don’t know me anymore. You think you do because I still answer when you say my name, but you don’t have a damn clue who I am.”

“I didn’t say-”

“You like this version of me,” Sam cut in. “The quiet one. The controlled one. The captain. You like me better broken than angry. I’m easier to handle.”

Dylan’s eyes widened, stunned. “That’s not true-”

“You didn’t have to say it.” Sam swallowed hard. His throat burned. His heart thudded.

Dylan looked like he’d been punched.

“You think I’m disappearing?” Sam snapped.  His voice shook, but he didn’t pull back. “Good. Let me. Let me disappear so I don’t ruin whatever perfect little clean-slate version of me you built in your head to make yourself feel better.”

Dylan’s voice dropped. “That’s not what I’m doing-”

“Yes, it is!” Sam exploded. “You get to call from your dorm and pretend you’re helping, pretend you’re involved, but all you’re really doing is checking a box so you don’t have to feel guilty about who you used to be.”

The static screamed. It was behind his eyes, in his teeth, under his fingernails. His skin itched with it. His thoughts burned.

“You want to fix me?” he said, low and shaking. “You can’t. I’m not something you fix.”

And then he leaned toward the screen. He saw the way Dylan looked at him, like he was scared and still trying.

So he said it.

“I think you should stop calling me your little brother,” he spat, “if you don’t even recognize who I am anymore.”

Silence hit like a punch.

The space between them cracked wide open. Dylan didn’t say anything. He didn’t even blink.

Sam felt it instantly - that drop in his gut, like a pit opening. Like he’d just kicked the one rope still tethering him to something solid.

His breath caught. “I didn’t-” His voice came out hoarse. “Dyl, I didn’t mean-”

But the apology jammed in his throat. The static clawed up behind his eyes, hot and sharp and merciless.

He panicked and hit the red button.

The call ended.

He dropped the phone like it was on fire. He curled onto his side, heart hammering, monitor strap digging in like it wanted to hold him still. But nothing could.

He hadn’t meant it, but the words came like knives thrown in a panic. And now they were out there, bleeding on the floor between them.

What if Dylan didn’t call again? What if this was the moment that finally snapped the last thread?

The worst part wasn’t that he said it. It was that part of him meant it. Or wanted to, just to see if pushing people away would stop the ache.

It didn’t. It just made everything louder.

Sam didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just lay there, blanketed in silence and static, while the world spun too fast and far away to touch. The silence was louder than Dylan’s voice had ever been.

____

Dylan sat on the edge of his bed, phone still in his hand, screen dark.

He hadn’t moved since Sam hung up.

His ears still rang. His chest still ached like someone had dropped a cinderblock on it and walked away. He kept replaying it. Those last few seconds, Sam’s face going hard and far away, the sound of his voice cracking, the silence on the other end before it was gone.

"Maybe you should stop calling me your little brother."

God.

Dylan curled his fingers tighter around the phone. His throat burned.

He opened the group chat. His hand hovered for a second over the call button. He didn’t want to say it out loud, not yet. Not like this. But he couldn’t carry this alone.

He hit the button.

Connor, Jake, and Ryan answered almost immediately. Their faces blinked into view one by one. Concerned, confused, quiet.

Connor squinted at the screen. “Dyl?”

Jake leaned closer, his brows already pulling tight. “What happened?”

Ryan didn’t say anything, but Dylan could feel his eyes studying him.

Dylan stared at them for a long second. Then dropped his eyes to his lap. “I talked to him.”

Nobody asked who.

“It went bad,” he said. His voice came out flat. Paper-thin.

Connor sat forward. “What’d he say?”

Dylan didn’t answer at first. He had to swallow and breathe.

“He said I left him. That I live in some clean world now where everything’s easy. That I only call when it’s convenient. That I don’t get to fix him. That he’s my favorite guilt project to make myself feel better about who I used to be.”

Jake muttered, “Shit,” under his breath.

“I tried to reach him. I wasn’t- I wasn’t even pushing that hard. Just trying to talk. But he…” Dylan looked down again, then back up. His voice dropped. “He told me maybe I shouldn’t call him little brother anymore.”

The silence hit like a punch.

Connor’s face folded like something in his chest cracked.

Jake didn’t say anything at all. His jaw clenched. He looked away for a second, breathing hard.

Ryan blinked slowly. His voice was quiet when he finally said, “He didn’t mean that.”

“He said it like it wasn’t even a big deal,” Dylan whispered. “Like it didn’t mean anything anymore. And I just sat there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t stop him.”

He felt his chest rise, then fall in a stuttering breath. “And he hung up.”

Connor whispered, “Oh, man.”

Jake’s voice cracked. “Dyl…”

“He’s not okay,” Dylan said suddenly. “He’s not. And we’re all watching it happen like we’re behind glass. He’s wearing the monitor too tightly. He’s not sleeping. He barely texts anymore unless it’s just updates. He’s fading, and I tried to help, and he just-”

His voice broke. It folded in on itself.

“I think I made it worse.”

“No,” Connor said immediately, his voice thick. “No. You didn’t. You showed up. You were there. That still counts.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Dylan asked. “What if showing up just gives him one more person to push away?”

“He’s not pushing you away,” Jake said fiercely. “He’s scared. That’s all. He’s- he’s scared and stubborn and sinking and doesn’t know how to ask for help.”

Ryan finally spoke again. “You’re still his brother, even if he can’t say it right now.”

Dylan’s eyes burned.

“I don’t know how to hold on to him,” he said, and this time the words came out barely there. “Not like this.”

Then it hit, all at once. The grief of it. The helplessness. The weight of watching someone he loved unravel and not being able to catch the thread fast enough.

He didn’t sob. He didn’t break out loud. He just cried quiet and steady, his phone angled slightly away so they couldn’t fully see it, though they all knew anyway.

Connor leaned toward the camera, voice thick. “We’re gonna figure it out. Okay? All of us. We’ll get him through this.”

Jake nodded. His voice cracked. “He’s not alone. He just forgot for a second. We’ll remind him.”

Ryan added, barely audible, “We hold the rope. Even when he can’t.”

Dylan nodded, pressing the edge of his sleeve to his eyes. Because if he didn’t believe that, if they weren’t holding on, then maybe Sam really would vanish altogether. 

____

They ducked into the stairwell behind the gym once Sam walked to class without a word.

He hadn’t said anything all morning.

Not when they picked him up. Not on the drive. Not when Ryan handed him his water bottle, or Jake offered the front seat, or Connor asked if he wanted music.

He’d just slid into the car in his hoodie, pulled the sleeves over his hands, and stared out the window the whole ride to school. Eyes red-rimmed. Shoulders drawn tight. Silent in that way that wasn’t sulking. It was something deeper, heavier, like all the words inside him had turned to concrete.

When they pulled into the lot, he didn’t even wait. He opened the door, murmured something that might’ve been “thanks,” and walked inside before anyone could ask.

Now they were here.

Ryan sat on the top step, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he was praying. Jake stood beside the door, pacing and chewing the inside of his cheek. Connor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to keep his breathing steady even as everything inside him curled tighter.

No one said anything right away. Somewhere above them, lockers slammed.

Jake finally spoke. “He didn’t even look at us.”

Connor shook his head once. “I know.”

“He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like… at all.”

“He hasn’t,” Ryan murmured. “You can tell.”

Jake rubbed a hand over his face. “Dylan sounded wrecked.”

“Yeah,” Connor murmured.

“He cried.” Jake’s voice cracked, and he crossed his arms tighter, like he was trying to brace against something already inside him. “I’ve never heard him like that.”

Connor hadn’t either, and it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

Ryan still hadn’t looked up. “Me either.”

Connor glanced down at him, then back at the hallway floor. “Sam didn’t mean what he said.”

Jake shook his head slowly. “Maybe not, but Dylan believed it. And that’s the part that matters.”

Connor wanted to argue, but he couldn’t.

Because Dylan had sounded like something had broken open in him. And for once, Dylan hadn’t tried to hold it together. He’d just let the pain fall out into the call, raw and shaking.

“He’s drowning,” Ryan said softly. “And every time we try to reach in, he pulls farther back.”

Connor leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for half a second. “So maybe we should stop reaching from a distance.”

Jake looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we talk to him. Like, actually talk to him. Today.”

Ryan’s gaze finally lifted. “You think he’ll let us?”

“I don’t know.” Connor opened his eyes again. “But waiting isn't working. He barely speaks. He looks like he’s about to disappear. We don’t have time to wait for the perfect moment.”

He didn’t say I’m scared. It was in how his fingers curled tighter into his sleeves, in how his stomach hadn’t unclenched since Sam stepped out of the car that morning without even a goodbye.

“He’s wearing the monitor again today,” Ryan said, voice low. “Tight.”

“How tight?” Jake asked.

Ryan's silence was answer enough.

They stayed there for another long second. The first bell rang overhead, distant and mechanical. Connor could already hear the shifting tide of footsteps, lockers slamming, the slow trickle of a normal school day rolling on like none of this was happening.

Like Sam wasn’t unraveling one silence at a time.

“After practice,” he said. “Locker room. We don’t corner him. We just… show up.”

Jake nodded. “Talk to him like he’s still one of us.”

“Because he is,” Ryan said. “Even if he can’t feel it right now.”

Connor took a slow breath and pushed off the wall. “We remind him.”

They headed toward their first classes, scattering like loose pages, but all of them carrying the same thing in their chest.

A rope knotted between five people, pulled taut around one.

____

The locker room reeked of sweat, mildew, and something older. It was faint and sour, like a forgotten injury that never really healed. The busted fan overhead creaked uselessly, pushing stale air in no particular direction.

Sam yanked his practice jersey over his head with a frustrated shove, his arms heavy, fingers numb with exhaustion. The fabric clung. The heart monitor strap pressed too tightly across his ribs, but he didn’t loosen it.

Everything felt wrong. Too loud. Too slow. Too much. Even the light through the grimy windows looked warped, like it didn’t know how to land.

And underneath it all, beneath the soreness, the sweat, and the ache, was the static. Low and constant. Not in the room, but in him. Like a wire had frayed under his ribs and was sparking against his lungs. Every second, it hummed louder. Unfocused. Demanding. He couldn’t tell if it wanted him to see something or run from it.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Not since the call.

Not since Dylan had said little brother in that voice, and Sam had snapped like dry bark.

The guilt sat heavy in his stomach, too much and not enough all at once. He regretted what he said. He knew it the second the words left his mouth. But the static made it hard to think - hard to pull anything into focus long enough to say it right.

He kept replaying the way Dylan had gone quiet. The way it had ended, like a door shutting with both of them still on opposite sides.

He pressed his knuckles into his eyes.

The static didn’t care. It pressed harder, like it could sense the cracks forming.

He felt them watching before he turned.

Connor leaned against the lockers, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Jake crouched near the bench, his hands still on his shoelaces like he’d forgotten what they were for. Ryan stood by the door, posture tense, like someone bracing for a conversation he didn’t want to start.

They didn’t speak at first.

Then Jake said, voice quiet, like he was trying not to scare a stray animal, “Hey.”

Sam didn’t answer.

Connor shifted beside him, a little closer than before. “You okay?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, careful.

Sam tugged the hem of his jersey down, like he could hide inside it. “Fine.”

“It just seemed like maybe…” Ryan started, leaning against the doorframe. His voice was soft, uncertain. “You’ve looked kind of wiped.”

“Didn’t sleep,” Sam muttered, reaching for his water bottle without looking up. “It’s not a crime.”

“No one said it was,” Jake replied, still soft, still steady. “We just noticed.”

Sam scoffed under his breath. “That’s what this is?” he said, voice flattening out. “Noticing?”

Connor shifted again, folding his arms. “We just want to check in.”

“I don’t need checking in on,” Sam snapped, louder now, sharper.

Jake tensed but didn’t move. Ryan stepped forward slightly.

“We’ve been worried,” Ryan said, still gentle, like he was choosing each word before speaking. “You’ve been off.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, quick and annoyed. “I’m tired. I’m busy. I’m not ‘off.’” He turned toward his locker like the conversation was already over. “If this is about practice, save it.”

Jake stood slowly, pressing his palms to his thighs like he was grounding himself. “It’s not just practice.”

Sam stiffened, shoulders locking up. “Here we go.”

Connor’s voice stayed level, but there was something under it now. Something that sounded like hurt.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending,” Sam bit out, twisting toward them now, jaw set. “You just don’t like what’s real.”

And that was it. The softness cracked.

Connor’s jaw tightened. His whole posture changed - less cautious, more braced. “Then let’s be real.”

Jake didn’t look up. His voice was low, but it hit hard. “Don’t pretend this is new.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Pretend what’s new?”

Connor’s voice turned to cold steel. No hesitation now. “That you’re falling apart.”

Sam’s gut clenched. A quiet spike of panic flared behind his ribs. He fought not to flinch.

“I’m not,” he said, sharp and clipped.

Jake stood, eyes locked on Sam like he couldn’t stay quiet anymore. “You’re not sleeping. You’re skipping cooldowns. You flinched today during warmups like someone fired a gun.”

Sam didn’t look at him as he yanked the zipper on his bag closed. “It was nothing,” he muttered.

“No,” Ryan said, stepping forward now, his voice sharper than before. “Was the nosebleed nothing too? Or the panic attack? Or maybe the part where you’ve barely said a full sentence in a week and then come in today looking like shit?”

Sam’s head whipped toward him, eyes flashing. “Back off.”

“You don’t talk to us anymore,” Connor said quietly, from the edge of the bench. “You don’t joke. You don’t ask anymore. We text, you ghost. We try, you deflect.”

Sam’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He grabbed his water bottle and jammed it into his bag with more force than necessary. “I’m focused,” he snapped. “You want a captain who wins games or someone who whines about a bad day?”

He hated the way it came out - cold, clipped, wrong. But the static was rising again, pressing in behind his eyes. He could feel it humming beneath his skin, louder now. Angrier. Like the whole room had gone off-frequency, and his heart was trying to match it.

“It’s not a bad day,” Jake said, almost pleading. “It’s all the days. It’s been weeks, Sam.”

“You sat under the bleachers for an hour,” Ryan added, quieter now. “Didn’t even hear us calling you. Didn’t even realize it.”

“I was just thinking,” Sam hissed, but even to him it sounded hollow. Defensive.

“You weren’t,” Jake said. “And when Dylan called to check in, you lost it. He told us. He's mad, he's just scared.”

Sam’s spine went rigid. His eyes cut to Jake like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Are you reporting on my calls now?”

Connor pushed off the lockers and stepped forward. “He called us after, Sam, because he didn’t know what else to do.”

Sam’s breath hitched. The room felt too close suddenly. Too bright. The static surged behind his ribs like pressure in a valve.

Ryan’s voice was softer now. “He cried.”

Sam blinked, like someone had slapped him.

That word - cried - it hit somewhere deeper than he’d built walls for.

He didn’t move.

Jake nodded. “He tried to hold it in, like always. But it broke out anyway. He said you told him not to call you little brother anymore.”

Sam’s throat closed. His hand curled tighter around the strap of his bag.

“I didn’t mean…” he said, barely audible.

“No,” Connor said gently. “But you said it. And he believed it.”

The guilt burned hot and instant in his stomach, sharp and hollow all at once.

Sam looked down. His hands were shaking again, worse this time. He gripped the strap like it could anchor him, but it wasn’t enough.

“I’m doing what I have to do,” he said, as if he said it with enough certainty, it would become true.

“No,” Ryan said, stepping closer. “You’re breaking. And we’re watching it happen in slow motion.”

“I don’t need this,” Sam said quickly, chest tight, pulse skittering like it wanted out.

“Yes, you do,” Jake said, suddenly fierce. His voice cut clean through the static. “You need people. You need us . Stop acting like that’s weakness.”

Sam didn’t want to yell. He didn’t want them to see how close everything was to cracking, but the pressure had to go somewhere. And if he couldn’t scream into the static, he’d scream at them, because at least they could hear it. Even if they didn’t understand. Even if they walked away after.

“I don’t need anything!” Sam shouted. His voice cracked on the edge. The bag in his hands slipped and hit the bench with a sharp clatter. “I’m not your project. I’m not your charity case. I’m not falling apart. I’m holding it together the only way I know how.”

Connor stepped close again, eyes burning. “You’re not holding anything. You’re gripping it so hard it’s breaking in your hands.”

Sam’s eyes stung. “I said I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not!” Ryan said, louder now. “And we’re done pretending!”

The silence after that hit like a door slammed shut.

Sam stood there, chest heaving, that awful pressure building behind his eyes and ribs and spine. The static was louder now. The hall from the vision flashed again in his mind.

He gritted his teeth.

“I don’t care if you’re scared,” he said, hoarse. “You’re not me. You don’t get it. You never got it. So stop trying to fix what isn’t yours.”

Connor didn’t move. “You are ours. That’s the whole point.”

Sam turned away, voice shaking with fury and something worse beneath it. “Then stop pretending you’re doing this for me.”

Jake took half a step back like the words physically knocked him. Ryan’s jaw clenched. Connor’s mouth opened, then closed again.

He snatched his bag back up, pulled it on, and walked out fast. If he stayed one more second, the walls might close around him.

Connor called after him once. “Sam-”

But Sam didn’t look back.

He slammed the door behind him, the cold air outside slicing against his face like punishment. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

He just kept walking.

Because if he stopped, they might see what was really under all of it.

And he didn’t know if he could survive that.

____

The door slammed behind Sam as he stormed out.

The echo rang out across the locker room, sharp and final, like something splitting down the middle.

Then nothing. Just the whir of the broken fan and the distant thud of footfalls in the hallway. The air inside felt heavier now, like Sam had dragged all the oxygen out with him.

No one moved.

Jake stood where Sam had left him, shoulders squared like he was still bracing for a hit. His hands curled into fists, but there was no fight left in them.

Ryan lowered himself slowly onto the bench, like his legs had forgotten how to hold him. He stared at the floor without seeing it, jaw tight, eyes damp but dry.

Connor stood frozen for a long beat, then finally exhaled. The sound was shaky. He ran a hand through his hair and then let it fall, limp at his side.

“Fuck,” Jake muttered.

“He didn’t mean it,” Ryan said after a moment. His voice wasn’t sure. It was soft, almost a question.

Connor didn’t answer.

None of them had expected the words to hit like that. Then stop pretending you’re doing this for me. It had landed in Connor’s chest like a stone and just… stayed there. Still sinking.

“He’s not okay,” Jake said. “He’s not okay, and we’re just standing here watching it happen.”

“We’re not,” Connor said quietly. “We’re not doing that.”

“Sure feels like it,” Jake snapped, but there was no heat in it. Just fear. Frustration. Guilt.

Ryan rubbed his thumb across the edge of the bench. “I think he wants to push us away so it hurts less when he finally breaks.”

Jake looked over. “You think he’s breaking?”

Ryan didn’t look up. “I think he already is.”

No one argued.

Connor finally sat down beside Ryan. Not touching, just there.

The silence pressed in again.

“We shouldn’t have come at him like that,” Jake said after a while. “We tried to be gentle, and then the second he snapped, we-”

“He wanted the fight,” Connor interrupted, voice low. “Or maybe he needed it.”

Jake sank onto the bench across from them. “He needed something. I don’t think he even knows what.”

Connor stared at the locker where Sam had stood, where his bag had been. “He thinks we’re only holding on out of obligation.”

Ryan swallowed. “Then we show him we’re not.”

“How?” Jake asked, exhausted.

Connor’s voice was steady, if quiet. “We don’t stop.”

There was a long pause. Then Ryan looked up, his eyes clearer now, set with something heavier than just frustration. Something like intent.

“There’s somewhere we need to go.”

____

As soon as Sam was home, he went up to his room. He sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, socks twisted, fingers curled tight around the edge of the mattress. His bedroom window was cracked open to the cold. He hadn’t noticed until the breeze made the curtain twitch.

The buzzing was back.

Low and constant, not painful, but sharp enough to hum along his ribs, to catch at the edges of his vision. Pressure building in a room without windows. Not a thought, not a feeling. Just there.

He clenched his jaw and stood up, dragging the monitor cable a few inches with him. It tugged against the patch on his chest, a reminder. A tether.

He crossed the room to the mirror over his dresser and stared at himself.

His reflection looked pale and bruised under the eyes. Too much like the version of himself he didn’t want anyone to see.

“You’re fine,” Sam whispered.

The buzzing didn’t stop.

He said it again, firmer this time.

“You’re fine.”

It was still there.

His hand tightened around the monitor cords, his knuckles gone white, and he yanked it snug against his chest like it might hold something in. Something that didn’t belong. Something that was pushing too close to the surface.

“You. Are. Fine.”

Each word came louder than the last. Sharper. He breathed through his nose and stared into his eyes, willing the mirror not to blink.

If he said it enough, maybe it’d stay true. Maybe the mirror would show something steady, not the version of himself that kept breaking at the seams. The one that was too quiet, too tense, too much static humming just beneath the surface. He couldn’t afford to fall apart again. Not now. Not when people were watching.

He didn’t want to be the kid who cracked open the world and couldn’t put it back together.

The static buzzed once - a flare behind his ears, like a mosquito scream - and then faded.

His legs shook. He didn’t sit down.

No one knocked.

No one asked if he was okay.

And that was exactly how he needed it.

____

It was Ryan’s idea to drive the four hours.

Jake had the impulse. Connor offered the truck. But Ryan had said, “Let’s go,” with that sharp, hollow edge in his voice that left no room for argument. So they did.

Connor didn’t even remember agreeing to it, just that suddenly they were in motion. The locker room was behind them, and Sam was long gone, and the only person who might understand the wreckage better than they did was Dylan.

They didn’t warn him.

Connor just texted:

you free? come outside. lot behind your dorm.

No punctuation. No context.

Now the truck idled in the dark, parked beneath a flickering lamppost that didn’t quite reach the back half of the lot. No one spoke. Jake sat stiff in the passenger seat, chewing the skin on his thumb. Ryan rested his head against the cold glass in the back, eyes open but vacant.

Connor kept his hands on the wheel. 

When the dorm entrance opened, he didn’t move.

Dylan stepped out, hoodie zipped halfway, hair damp like he’d just showered. His phone was in his hand, screen still glowing. For a second, he didn’t see them. He scanned the lot, confused, blinking in the dark.

Connor watched it land as Dylan saw them.

That flicker of surprise. That half-step forward, like maybe, just maybe, it was Sam waiting for him.

And then the drop. The recognition.

Dylan’s whole posture shifted. He slowed as he walked across the lot, shoulders curled in like a folding chair.

When he reached them, Connor finally turned off the engine.

Dylan looked wrecked. Like he hadn’t slept in days. Like he was still hoping this wasn’t what it looked like.

He stopped in front of the truck, his voice rasped. “What the hell is going on?”

Jake slid out first, leaning against the truck bed. Ryan followed, climbing onto the tailgate in one fluid, exhausted motion. Connor shut the door behind him without speaking.

“Why are you here?” Dylan asked again. His voice wasn’t sharp, but braced. “Did something happen?”

Connor nodded once.

Dylan’s jaw tightened. “How bad?”

Connor didn’t sugarcoat it. “Bad enough we didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Dylan blinked hard, then walked past them and sat down on the curb behind the truck, phone still in his hand. He stared at the pavement.

Connor followed. Jake stayed where he was, arms crossed. Ryan rested his arms on his knees like they were too heavy to lift.

It took a moment before anyone spoke again.

Jake finally broke the silence. “Locker room. After practice.”

“He looked like hell,” Ryan said quietly. “Worse than this morning.”

Connor sat beside Dylan, not close enough to crowd him. “We tried to come in soft. But he… he wouldn’t let it stay soft.”

“He pushed,” Jake added. “And we pushed back.”

Dylan didn’t look up. “What did he say?”

Connor hesitated. “He said we should stop pretending we’re doing this for him.”

Dylan flinched. Just a small thing, a breath that caught and didn’t come back out.

Jake added, voice low, “He said we didn’t understand, so we should stop trying to fix it.”

Dylan put his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms against his forehead. He didn’t make a sound. Just breathed, long and slow like he was trying not to fall apart.

Then, softly, like he was afraid of the answer, he asked, “Did he say anything about me?”

Connor looked down at his hands.

“Yeah,” he said. “He said he didn’t mean it.”

Dylan turned his head slowly, not quite trusting what he’d heard.

Connor met his eyes. “What he told you, about not calling him little brother anymore. He said he didn’t mean it. He tried to take it back.”

Dylan’s throat worked around the weight of that. His voice, when it came, was barely there. “He tried?”

Connor nodded. “He didn’t get the words out, but he wanted to. You could see it. It cracked him.”

Dylan blinked hard. “I thought he meant it.”

“He didn’t,” Connor said. “Not even close.”

That broke something open in the silence.

Dylan sat there, phone limp in his lap, shoulders shaking just once before he got control of it again. His eyes burned in the lamplight, but he didn’t wipe them.

Jake spoke softly from the side. “We didn’t stop him when he walked out.”

“We’re not done,” Connor said. “That wasn’t the last word.”

Dylan looked over at him. “Then what do we do?”

Connor’s voice was steady. “We keep showing up. We hold the rope.”

Ryan nodded. “Even if he tries to cut it.”

Dylan exhaled. It sounded like surrender. But then he straightened slightly, just enough.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Next time, we don’t let him leave alone.”

They sat like that a little longer, quiet boys in a dark parking lot, held together by bruised loyalty and the thread of someone they loved.

____

The living room was quiet, lit only by the soft flicker of the TV.

Dean sat in the corner of the couch, legs stretched out, a glass of water untouched on the coffee table. The remote felt heavy in his hand as he flipped through channels, not really watching anything, just waiting for something to settle.

It had started earlier that afternoon, with a text he hadn’t expected.

SAM: hey

can you pick me up after practice

Short. Bare. No emoji, no punctuation, no reason. Just Sam.

Dean stared at it for a beat before replying.

DEAN: yeah. you okay?

No answer, just a read receipt.

That alone had put him on edge. Sam usually rode home with one of the boys - Ryan’s Jeep, Connor’s truck, Jake's rustbucket. They came as a unit most days. Sometimes Dean barely saw them slip through the door, laughing and loud and muddy, before flopping around the living room or devouring everything in the fridge.

But today, it was just Sam.

And when he got in the passenger seat - hoodie up, head down, bag clutched to his chest like armor - he didn’t say a word.

Dean didn’t press, but he noticed.

The silence on the ride home. The way Sam flinched when a car passed too fast on the left. The fact that his phone buzzed once in his pocket, and he didn’t even check it. He'd disappeared to his room for a little bit, but had come down for dinner when Dean called.

The air between them had been thick ever since.

Dean didn’t drink in front of Sam. Not even now, after all these years. So he sat with his water, flipping channels with the TV turned too low, the quiet almost oppressive.

Sam was curled up on the far end of the couch, hoodie drawn tight, legs folded in close. He hadn’t said anything since he came downstairs. Hadn’t said much since the car.

No jokes. No “what’s for dinner.” Not even a grunt when Bobby hollered that there was peach cobbler left over in the fridge.

Dean hadn’t asked what happened, but he knew something had.

He clicked again and landed on a replay - grainy footage of a Drake University game from the fall. The announcer’s voice buzzed, the camera panned wide, and there, cutting across midfield, was number 22 in white.

Dylan.

Dean didn’t smile, exactly, but his voice lightened just a little as he said, “Hey,” without looking over. “Isn’t that one of Dylan’s games?”

Nothing.

No blink. No breath. No flicker of recognition.

Sam didn’t even twitch.

He just stared straight ahead, face half-lit by the glow of the screen, the shadows under his eyes darker than they’d been this morning. The hoodie swallowed his frame. His hands were buried in the sleeves, fists curled like he was holding something in, like letting go would undo the seams.

Dean muted the TV.

The room got even quieter.

“Sam,” he said, softer now.

Still no response.

Dean glanced over fully and saw it: the way Sam’s eyes were open but not seeing, the way his jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact, the way his whole body had gone still in the worst way.

Not calm. Not relaxed.

He was frozen, like whatever had happened that afternoon was still happening somewhere behind his eyes.

Dean hit one button on the remote and set it down. The screen went black. The game ended mid-play.

He stayed seated, hands resting loosely against his knees, fighting the familiar urge to do something - talk, fix, dig.

After a long beat, Sam moved. It wasn’t much, just a shift of his shoulders, a subtle uncoiling. Then, slowly - so slowly it made Dean ache - he crossed the short space between them.

He just leaned in, breath shaky, and pressed himself into Dean’s side.

Dean exhaled and wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulders, and pulled him in like it was instinct.

Sam didn’t lean so much as collapse carefully. Hesitantly. Like his bones were tired of holding all that weight by themselves.

Dean felt the shudder before he heard it.

One trembling inhale. Then another.

Sam’s hands were still clenched in his sleeves. His head was tucked low against Dean’s chest.

He didn’t cry, but the air around him felt breakable.

Dean shifted his hand to the back of Sam’s head and rested it there, fingers gently tangled in his too-long hair.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, voice rough with something he didn’t name. “You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart. Not yet.”

Sam didn’t answer. He stayed there, breathing like each inhale hurt.

The room was dark now with the TV off, but Dean didn’t move. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask what Dylan said, or what the boys saw. What had even happened.

He’d ask later. For now, he just held on. Gentle. Steady.

Like he was trying to remind Sam where his edges were. Like he could still be a place to land.

____

The cafeteria was always loud, but today it felt worse. Every clatter of a tray or scrape of a chair was aimed directly at the base of Sam’s skull. He moved along the edge of the room like a shadow, lunch tray barely balanced in his hands, his monitor strap digging into his ribs. He hadn’t loosened it in days. He didn’t want to. He deserved the ache.

He hadn’t meant to see them, not today.

He’d had his dad drive him in early that morning - stupid early - just so he could slip into homeroom before he saw anyone. It hadn’t helped. They were still here, still orbiting the halls like gravity, and now he was in the cafeteria staring down the table he told himself he wouldn’t dare to look at.

Jake. Connor. Ryan.

They looked tired. All of them. Ryan had shadows under his eyes. Jake’s hoodie was on inside out. Connor was wearing the same zip-up from yesterday, his hair still wet at the back like he’d barely made it out the door. Sam couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t seen them in the morning.

Maybe they were just tired of him.

He wouldn’t blame them. He was tired of himself.

He hovered near the back corner, still deciding whether to eat alone or not at all, when Jake’s voice cut through the noise, clear and loud and totally Jake: “Hey, so we took a vote!”

Sam froze, tray still in hand.

“Ryan still wants to be mad at you,” Jake went on, breezy as ever. “I abstained. Connor says you’re an idiot, but forgivable.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. He didn’t dare look them in the eye. He couldn’t read the tone. He couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or spite or something worse: kindness. That was the one that broke him.

Connor’s voice followed, flat and familiar, like nothing had happened. “Don't listen to him, it was unanimous. Sit down.”

Sam’s heart stuttered. He looked up, finally, just enough to see them.

Ryan didn’t say anything, but he reached out and nudged his backpack off the bench beside him. A quiet gesture.

A place that hadn’t been taken away.

Sam stood there like his legs didn’t belong to him. The tray felt like it weighed twenty pounds. His chest ached, not with panic, but with pressure, something heavy pressing down on his ribs like the monitor strap was laced with lead.

They weren’t supposed to make it easy.

They were supposed to shut him out, let him sit alone, punish him for everything he’d said. For what he’d said to Dylan. For walking out. For throwing everything away just to see if they’d chase him.

But now they were waiting. Not saying a word. Just… waiting.

Sam crossed the cafeteria in five impossible steps and slid onto the bench beside Ryan.

Jake immediately stole a fry off Sam’s tray like nothing had happened. “That tightass monitor strap squeezing the blood flow to your brain, or can we talk again?”

Sam exhaled. It was sharp at first, then softer. A breath that almost sounded like a laugh. 

His hand stayed clenched around his fork. He didn’t trust it not to shake.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Because they didn’t leave. Because the chair had stayed his.

____

The field blurred into motion.

Every pass came too fast, every echo of the crowd too loud. Cleats pounded in his ears like heartbeat percussion, the crowd roared in his ear, and the air tasted like plastic and pressure.

But Sam didn’t miss a beat.

He couldn’t.

His body was running a script now. Cut left, drop two steps, watch the midfield press. Automatic and exact. Every movement was calculated. Every pivot was balanced. On paper, he was playing the best game of his season. Maybe of his life.

But it didn’t feel like anything.

Just friction and instinct.

The static had settled under his ribs like a second pulse. Low at first, but insistent. Not sharp enough to knock him down, but steady enough to drown out everything else. It vibrated behind his sternum, curled cold around his spine. He didn’t know what it wanted. Only that it was there.

It was always there.

The ball cleared downfield, Evergreen setting up for another push. Sam caught the shift before it happened, dropped back, and moved to intercept.

Perfect.

The striker didn’t even see him coming.

Sam slid clean, drove his cleat through the path of the ball, and angled it wide. Legal, fast, and brutal.

But the landing hit crooked. His hip jarred. His shoulder took most of the roll. The monitor strap dug hard into his ribs.

And for one second, everything pitched sideways. Static exploded behind his eyes.

He stayed down longer than he meant to. He wasn’t injured, not even dazed, but just overwhelmed. Disoriented in a way that made the painted lines on the field look wrong. Like they were folding inward.

“Sam!”

Connor’s voice came, sharp and immediate.

Sam blinked once, twice. The crowd was roaring, but it all sounded underwater. He tried to push himself up and realized he’d curled one hand into a fist so tightly his knuckles burned.

Someone dropped into his vision.

Jake crouched low, cleats skidding to a halt, eyes locked on Sam’s face.

“You’re up,” Jake said. His voice didn’t match the noise around them. It was calm. Real. Present. “Come on.”

Sam tried.

His knees didn’t want to cooperate. His legs were shaking. Not from pain, but from sheer depletion. He hadn’t realized how much energy he’d been burning to stay perfect. To stay unreadable. To hold it together on muscle memory alone.

Jake didn’t wait for him to ask.

He reached out and gripped Sam’s wrist. Firm and grounded, not leaving space for refusal.

Sam stiffened.

Jake stood, pulling Sam with him. His grip was warm, solid. And Sam didn’t let go.

“You’re not playing alone,” Jake said under his breath. “No matter how much you pretend to want to.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. He hated how the words lodged under his skin. How the static surged in response, flickering like a warning light.

Still, he didn’t pull his hand away.

Behind them, Ryan was calling formation. Connor was yelling from midfield. The game resumed without waiting. The crowd never stopped.

But for a breath, time held still.

Sam looked at Jake. Not directly, but close. He nodded once, jerky and small.

Jake let go. The space between them buzzed with something unspoken, but Sam turned and jogged back into position.

His body kept moving. His chest still hummed. The static hadn’t left.

After the whistle for time finally blew, Sam was sitting on the bench in the locker room, bent slightly forward. His jersey clung to his back like a second skin. His heart monitor strap felt too tight again, sweat-soaked and pressing into his ribs. His breathing was uneven, shallow in ways he was trying not to notice.

The game was over. They’d won. That should’ve meant something.

But everything felt wrong. Tilted. Too bright. Too loud.

The static under his sternum hadn’t faded. Not after the whistle. Not even after the celebration.

He reached down, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt.

Then the shift hit.

The light caught just wrong, refracting across the metal locker like a broken mirror. And the hum - low, electric, crawling under his skin - roared up his spine.

And the locker room vanished.

White tile. Long hallway. Fluorescent lights that buzzed louder than anything else. A single corridor stretched past his vision, flickering in and out like it was glitching. No sounds but that drone.

No way out.

He stared forward, but didn’t see.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Until-

He heard Ryan's voice from too far away. “Sam?”

“Hey, man, earth to Sammy.” Jake, closer now.

“Something’s wrong,” Connor said sharply, dropping to one knee. “He’s not hearing us.”

Jake followed. “He’s breathing, but it’s like he’s not here.”

“Sam,” Ryan tried again, now crouched in front of him. “Look at me. You're not there. You’re here. You’re safe.”

There was no flicker of recognition. Just that blank, glassy stare.

Connor reached out and gripped Sam’s wrist, not hard, but just enough to ground. The monitor blinked. Still green, but rapid. A warning.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Jake said, voice breaking just a little. “Come back, man. We’re right here.”

Then, a hitch in Sam’s chest. A sharp inhale. His whole body jerked like something snapped back into place.

Jake scrambled back half a step. “Whoa.”

Sam looked around fast, wild-eyed. At the bench. The lockers. The three of them crouched close. His breath came too quickly now, chest heaving like he’d run a full sprint.

“I-” he croaked. “I’m fine.”

“You weren’t,” Connor said quietly.

“You were somewhere else,” Ryan added, not accusatory, just honest.

Sam shook his head. “I got lightheaded.”

“You didn’t move for almost a minute,” Jake said, standing slowly. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Sam yanked off his jersey and wiped his face with it. “I said I’m fine.”

He pulled on a hoodie with shaking hands, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

____

It wasn’t even eight-thirty at night, but Dylan was already in bed.

The dorm room lights were off, save for the faint blue wash from his laptop screen across the desk. A water bottle sat untouched beside it. His practice gear was still half-stuffed into his laundry bin. His body ached from spring workouts - weighted squats, tempo runs, the kind of conditioning that turned legs to lead - but it wasn’t the training that left him this drained.

It was everything else.

He lay flat on his back, headphones in, staring at the ceiling like it might eventually blink back.

The past few days had been heavier than most. He hadn’t heard Sam’s voice in days. Hadn’t seen his name light up on a screen. And no matter how many times the others said “he asked about you” or “he didn’t mean it,” Dylan still carried the last words Sam had said to him like a bruise under the ribs.

He could still hear it. Could still feel the silence after.

So when his phone buzzed beside him, he didn’t move at first.

It buzzed again. Then again.

Finally, he dragged it closer.

RYAN: need to talk. you free?

His heart stuttered. He sat up, unplugged his headphones, and hit call.

The screen split into three faces. All of them were in different places - bedrooms, basements, and living rooms. The lighting was bad. Their expressions were worse.

None of them said hello.

Jake launched right in. “He froze up, Dylan. After the game. He was gone. Not like zoning out, but like he left.”

Dylan’s stomach dropped.

“He wasn’t there,” Connor added. “Not in the room, not in his eyes. It was like someone cut the cord.”

“He didn’t even blink,” Ryan said, voice tight and unfamiliar. “And when he came back, he lied. Said he was fine.”

Dylan didn’t speak.

The noise around him seemed to flatten to just the low hum of his mini fridge, the soft scuff of wind outside the window.

Sam froze. Sam vanished.

He hadn’t been there.

“We didn’t know who else to tell,” Connor said after a long silence. “But you needed to know.”

Dylan’s hand was pressed hard to his forehead now, fingers curled into his hair. He felt sick. Useless. The image was too easy to conjure: Sam hunched on a bench, glassy-eyed, chest rising too fast, the monitor blinking out warnings while no one could reach him.

He should’ve been there. He should never have left.

“Thank you,” Dylan said finally, voice low but steady. “For staying with him.”

“Always,” Jake said instantly, no hesitation. “But he misses you. He just won’t say it.”

“He’s been breaking,” Ryan added. “And today… it cracked.”

Dylan ended the call with a quiet goodbye, his throat thick. He sat in the dark for a long moment, the phone cradled in both hands.

Then, with a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he opened Sam’s contact.

He hadn’t texted him since the fight. He hadn’t wanted to say the wrong thing, hadn’t wanted to push. But now the silence felt worse than anything else. Now the silence felt like failure.

____

DYLAN [8:42 PM]: Connor told me about after the game.

Sam. What the hell happened? Are you okay?

DYLAN [8:45 PM]: He said you froze.

Like fully shut down.

Please. Please tell me you’re alright.

DYLAN [8:48 PM]: I’m not mad. I swear I’m not mad.

Not about the call. Not about any of it.

I just need to know you’re safe.

DYLAN [8:51 PM]: You don’t even have to say anything.

Just text back. Just something.

Please.

DYLAN [8:57 PM]: The messages are delivering. I keep checking.

You’re seeing them, right?

Sam, just let me know you’re there.

DYLAN [9:03 PM]: You’re scaring me.

I don’t know what to do from here. I just want to help.

DYLAN [9:10 PM]: If I pushed too hard during the call, I’m sorry.

You’re my little brother. That doesn’t go away.

DYLAN [9:15 PM]: You don’t have to answer tonight.

Or tomorrow.

But I need you to know I’m still here.

Always.

Read 9:26 PM

SAM [9:37 PM]: still breathing

DYLAN [9:38 PM]: That’s enough.

I’ve got you.

DYLAN [9:39 PM]: You don’t have to explain.

You don’t even have to talk.

Just don’t disappear on me, okay?

DYLAN [9:40 PM]: I’m not going anywhere. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

____

Connor’s truck was already outside the house when Sam stepped out. Steam coiled from the tailpipe into the brittle morning air, fogging in soft ribbons above the gravel. The truck looked the same as every morning before it: dinged bumper, cracked antenna, that stupid sticker on the back window that said Your pace or mine? , but Sam still flinched when he saw it.

Because they kept showing up.

Even after what he said in the locker room. Even after the shouting, the way his voice cracked when he told them maybe they shouldn’t care. Even after Jake’s face went still and Ryan took a step back like he’d been slapped. Even after Connor shouted back, and Sam had slammed the door on all of them.

Still, every morning since, one of them was there.  No speeches or guilt, just headlights cutting through the mist and an open seat.

Sam hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t thanked them either.

He tugged his hoodie down low and crossed the lot, the monitor snug against his ribs beneath two layers of cotton. The tape itched. The ache in his chest had settled into something dull and constant, like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing on.

He didn’t look up as he reached the truck. Didn’t wait for Connor to say anything or offer shotgun. He just opened the back door and slid in, bag thudding to the floor beside him.

Jake was already in the passenger seat, turned slightly, arms folded. He glanced back over the headrest. His expression was unreadable, mouth set in a line that didn’t twitch this time.

Sam buckled in without a word.

“Morning,” Connor said quietly, like the fight hadn’t happened, but not like he’d forgotten it.

“Yeah,” Sam muttered. His voice came out thin, like it had been hollowed out and wrapped in static. He leaned his head against the cold window, letting the glass leech heat from his skin. The condensation pooled under his breath in quiet, cloudy bursts.

The cab was quiet.

No music. No bad jokes. No off-key singing. Sam used to roll his eyes at Jake’s harmonizing with Connor’s playlist and threaten to jump out at red lights. Now the silence pressed in like a weight, soft but inescapable.

The tires hummed against wet pavement. Trees passed by in skeletal flashes. Sam’s reflection ghosted in the window, faded, too pale. The green pulse of the heart monitor blinked faintly beneath his hoodie. Steady. Silent.

Still green. Still green. Still green.

“You forgot your gloves yesterday,” Jake said, finally. His voice was even, but his eyes didn’t leave the windshield. “Coach has them in the office.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks.”

That was it. The only words exchanged for the rest of the ride.

He picked at a loose thread in his bag’s zipper until it frayed completely, the static in his head pulsing in time with the blinking monitor.

He was showing up. He was practicing. He was playing clean.

They didn’t ask if he was okay, and Sam didn’t offer anything. But the silence wasn’t angry, not anymore. It was cautious, like they were standing at the edge of a cliff and trying not to spook whatever was about to fall.

When they pulled into the school lot, Connor didn’t park near the gym doors like he usually did. He eased the truck down to the far end of the row, where the trees bent toward the fence and the sky felt a little farther away.

Sam didn’t ask why.

He just reached for his bag, fingers numb around the strap. His body hesitated a half-second too long before moving.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said. It barely qualified as a whisper.

“No problem,” Connor said. His voice stayed level, but his hands were tight on the wheel.

Jake didn’t turn. Just lifted two fingers, slow and tired. “See you at lunch.”

Sam nodded, slid out, and closed the door gently behind him. As he walked toward the building, he could feel the weight of their eyes still on his back.

He didn’t turn around.

But somewhere under all the static, where the fear hadn’t drowned out everything human, he hoped they’d still be there tomorrow.

____

Connor didn’t shift the truck into gear right away. He watched.

Sam’s hoodie was pulled up tight, his shoulders hunched like he was walking through sleet instead of morning fog. The strap of his bag dragged against the hem of his sweatshirt. His steps weren’t slow; they were deliberate, practiced. Like he’d rehearsed them.

But he didn’t look back.

Connor still had both hands on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.

Next to him, Jake stared out the windshield with that same tight line across his mouth he’d worn since the locker room blowout. No one had said it, but they all felt it. Sam hadn’t just snapped at them, he’d detonated. And now they were sifting through the fallout in real time, hoping to find something still standing.

“He’s not okay,” Connor muttered.

Jake didn’t look over. “He’s pretending harder. That’s worse.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

The gym doors opened ahead. Sam disappeared inside without a glance back. The doors sighed shut.

Jake finally turned. “You texting Dylan?”

Connor was already pulling out his phone.

CONNOR: He got in the truck. Didn’t speak.

Still playing it like nothing’s wrong.

Playing perfectly. Acting hollow.

Didn’t even flinch when Jake talked to him.

Still ghosting us emotionally, but showing up physically.

We’re staying close. But it’s getting harder.

Thought you should know .

CONNOR: Let us know if he says anything to you. Or if he doesn’t.

Dylan’s response came a few minutes later.

DYLAN: If he doesn’t answer tonight, I’m not texting. I’m calling your phone, you’re putting me on speaker, and I’m talking through you. He won’t hang up on all of us. Not if we make it harder to isolate.

Connor read it twice, then turned the screen so Jake could see. Jake stared for a beat, then gave a single, grim nod.

“Good,” he said.

Connor closed the messages and started the engine.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “If he shuts down again…”

Jake finished it for him. “We make sure he hears us.”

____

Connor’s phone buzzed mid-break.

He didn’t need to check the screen. He already knew who it was.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, sweat warm against his skin. Across the field, most of the team had broken off into loose clusters for water - sprawled out in the grass, leaning against bags, some tossing cones back and forth like lazy frisbees. A few had found shade by the goalposts, jerseys pulled halfway over their heads to cool off.

The kind of chaos that looked relaxed to anyone not paying attention.

Sam stood apart, just outside the white line. Not running. Not pacing. He was standing there, hands low at his sides, fingers twitching absently like they didn’t know what to do without a ball to grip or tape to fidget with. His shoulders were hunched, but not closed. His head was tilted slightly, like he was listening for something that never quite arrived.

Jake clocked it. So did Ryan. Connor caught their eyes and gave a small nod toward him.

Jake peeled off without a word, Ryan a step behind. Connor picked up the call on the move.

“He’s here,” he said before Dylan could speak. “Still with us.”

“Still not talking much?” Dylan’s voice was tight.

Connor hesitated. “No. Not yet.”

“Put me on speaker,” Dylan said, after a beat. “Please.”

Connor thumbed the icon, holding the phone at his side as he slowed near the edge of the field.

Jake and Ryan reached Sam first.

Jake bumped Sam’s shoulder gently with his own. “Water’s over there, genius.”

Sam gave him a look, tired but not defensive. “I’m good.”

“Liar,” Ryan muttered, handing him a bottle anyway.

Sam took it without argument.

Connor stepped in, lifting the phone slightly. Sam’s eyes flicked to the screen, and his body went still.

“You brought Dylan?” he whispered. 

“We didn’t plan it like that,” Jake said. “But he keeps calling. Figured it was time.”

Sam looked down, twisting the cap on the water bottle but not drinking.

“You don’t have to talk,” Connor said gently. “Just listen.”

There was a pause before Sam nodded once.

Dylan’s voice cut through - quiet, tired, but sure. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam flinched. It wasn’t visible unless you knew what to look for: the shift in his jaw, the catch in his breath. The way he went very still, like bracing for a hit.

“You’re still not talking to me,” Dylan continued. “That’s okay. I’m not mad. I just need you to know I’m still here.”

Sam didn’t speak, but he didn’t move away either.

“We’re good,” Jake said, voice soft. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Sam murmured.

Ryan stepped forward. “Then just let us be here.”

Sam blinked down at the bottle in his hands. “I don’t know how to talk to him yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Connor said. “Not today.”

Sam finally looked up. His eyes were red at the edges, but clear. “I want to. I just… I don’t want to mess it up again.”

Jake offered the smallest smile. “Then don’t. Take your time. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dylan’s voice came through again, steady now. “I miss you, little brother. Just wanted you to know that. That’s all.”

Sam breathed slowly, shaky. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t walk away.

Connor lowered the phone, screen still glowing faintly. Dylan didn’t speak again, but he didn’t hang up either. 

Sam stood with them for another moment, arms still loose at his sides, gaze somewhere near their shoes. He didn’t quite meet their eyes.

“I’m still here,” he said finally. It wasn’t defensive or soft, but quiet. Like he didn’t trust himself to say more than that.

Jake gave a slow nod. “Yeah. We know.”

Sam shifted his weight like he was ready to leave the moment behind. “I’ve got stuff to do,” he muttered.

Jake bumped his shoulder again, just lightly. “Not yet, you don’t. Come sit before Coach drags us into another circuit.”

Sam followed them back toward the sideline without another protest, steps heavy but not dragging.

Connor ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket.

Out on the field, the rest of the team was already regrouping - tossing cones, slapping cleats, hollering over nothing. None of them noticed what just happened.

But Connor did.

Sam wasn’t whole yet, but he’d stayed. He’d listened.

____

The second half of the away game had turned frantic.

Their midfield was holding, barely. The other team pressed hard, aggressive and fast, every footfall echoing louder in the twilight. Cleats tore divots into the turf. The crowd buzzed behind the floodlights, nervous and electric.

Sam moved on muscle memory. His touches were clean. His sprints were controlled. To anyone watching, he looked locked in.

But the boys knew better.

He hadn’t said a word since kickoff except to call shifts. Not to them. Not to Coach. Not even when Connor clapped his shoulder during warmups and muttered, “You with us today?”

Sam had nodded. That was all.

Now, fifteen minutes in, the static returned.

It started like it always did: a flicker behind his ribs, a soft buzz under his skin. But tonight it hit harder. Louder. The hum climbed up his spine, pressed into the back of his throat, and made everything too bright and too far away.

His chest felt hollow. His limbs were too slow and too fast all at once.

The crowd noise muffled, and somewhere past the edge of the field, beyond the reach of the lights, something shifted.

White tile.

Bare walls.

A door.

And a shadow just beyond it.

A voice - maybe his own, maybe not - whispered something he couldn’t make out.

“Sam…?”

It wasn't the hallway voice. It was real this time.

Connor.

But Sam was already moving.

Not fast. Not sudden. Just… drifting. Three steps off-course, toward the center line. Away from the ball. Away from the play. Like gravity had tilted sideways, and no one else noticed.

The field blurred. The noise dropped out.

Fingers wrapped tightly around his arm.

“Sam,” Connor hissed, breath ragged. “Where the hell were you going?”

Sam blinked.

The world surged back into place: color and motion and floodlight glare. The ball had already passed them. The ref hadn’t stopped play.

Connor’s face swam into focus, flushed and wide-eyed and scared.

Sam’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“I-” he tried, but that was all he had.

Connor didn’t say anything else. He just kept hold of Sam’s arm for another beat, grounding him like an anchor.

And then he let go, but he didn’t step away.

For the next five minutes, through a tight midfield rotation, a throw-in on the sideline, and a near-breakaway that Jake barely missed, Connor stayed close. Not hovering. Not obvious. Just within reach.

A tether.

And Sam, for once, didn’t shake him off. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t make eye contact. But he didn’t pull away.

Not even once.

____

The locker room buzzed with the usual post-practice chaos: zippers rasping open, cleats clattering against tile, half-shouted jokes bouncing between lockers. Sam moved through it like a ghost with muscle memory. No real destination, just the rhythm of motion. Jersey off, towel over shoulder, water bottle emptied and refilled without tasting it.

Jake’s voice called out behind him. “Bathroom run. Don’t let Connor steal my hoodie.”

He tossed his phone onto the bench as he passed, face up, screen still glowing.

Sam didn’t mean to look, but the screen didn’t lock right away.

And at the top of the thread was a name and a single line.

DYLAN: Sometimes I think the only reason he hasn’t vanished completely is because you three won’t let go.

Sam froze, just for a second.

It wasn’t like the hallway. The flashbacks. The static.

It was worse.

This was clear. Present. Real.

The screen dimmed, but the words burned into his vision anyway.

He finished drying his face on autopilot, suddenly aware of every inch of his skin, every pulse behind his ribs. Something behind his sternum pulled tight.

Vanishing by inches, and they knew it.

He sat down beside the bench like nothing had changed. Slipped on his hoodie. Reached for his bag.

Jake came back whistling, towel slung over his head. “Miss me?”

Sam shrugged.

The motion got a grin out of Jake as he reached for his phone. He didn’t notice anything in Sam’s face.

But later, in the parking lot, Sam walked a little closer to the others than usual.

And that night, after brushing his teeth, he picked up his phone.

Opened Dylan’s contact.

SAM: Still here. 

He hovered over the send button. Then, this thumb firm, pressed it.

Message sent. Screen black.

Sam lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know what he wanted Dylan to say. He just knew silence felt worse.

DYLAN: You better be.

That’s the first thing you’ve said to me in days.

Sam read the message once. Then again. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came immediately. His thoughts were all static and too-loud silence.

Another message came through before he could type:

DYLAN: I’m not gonna blow you up.

You already know I’m worried. And you saw what I said to Jake. Fine.

But if you're still here, really here, prove it.

Let someone in, Sam. Doesn't have to be me. But one of us.

Sam stared at the screen, chest hollow and tight. There was a pause. Minutes of nothing. Sam thought that was it.

Then:

DYLAN: I love you, little brother.

Even when you’re a stubborn idiot who lives in cleats and refuses to answer his damn phone.

Call me when you can.

Or text. Or nod aggressively in Jake’s direction. I’ll take what I can get.

Sam let the phone rest on his chest.

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t turn the screen off either.

Chapter Text

The wind skimmed low across the pitch at Chesterfield High’s stadium, tugging at jersey hems and flapping the corner flags. Sam jogged along the sideline, legs loose and body warm, but his stomach was tight and coiled.

He spotted him on the second lap. He had glanced toward the bleachers, scanning the faces out of habit. He hadn't been looking for anyone, not really.

The game was too far for his dad and Uncle Bobby to come without it turning into an ordeal. The team was staying at a hotel overnight after the game, the trip back home being too far to make after the game. Sam had insisted they stay home. Said he didn’t need them to make the drive. Said he’d be fine.

He’d said it too many times lately.

They’d only agreed after a long silence and the kind of tight nod his dad gave when he didn’t believe Sam, but was trying to.

“We’ll be watching the livestream,” he had said. “The second you go off-frame, I’m calling.”

Sam had laughed. Said, “You won’t need to.”

Now, standing there under a sky too wide and a field too loud, he wasn’t so sure.

It was in the middle of his scanning that Sam spotted him. Second row. Middle section. Stanford windbreaker. Clipboard. Aviators pushed up into his hair like he hadn’t decided if he’d be staying long.

Sam’s breath caught slightly, enough that his next step hit a beat late. He recovered fast, but the shift wasn’t nothing. It was pressure, hot and quiet and immediate.

He looked away.

Connor jogged past and bumped shoulders. Not hard, not playful, just enough to ground him. “Dude,” he said under his breath, “second row. Red jacket. That’s the guy you told us about last season, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered.

Jake caught up beside them, squinting. “That’s Stanford?”

“Yup.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Okay. No pressure or anything.”

Ryan joined them just as the whistle blew to start passing drills. “He’s writing stuff down already?”

“Looks like it,” Connor said, voice a little too calm.

Sam didn’t answer. He reset his stance and caught the first pass of the drill. One touch. Clean return. Fast feet.

There was a beat of silence where someone might have joked, lightened the mood, said something dumb just to break the tension.

No one did. The jokes had dried up lately.

“Play like you always do,” Connor said quietly once the drill ended.

“I’m not changing anything,” Sam replied.

But his hands were cold, and his heart was too loud in his ears.

Not today, he told himself. No static. No stumbles. You play perfectly today.

Kickoff hit like a starter’s gun.

Sam didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe wrong. Didn’t let the noise in.

His world narrowed to the field: crisp turf underfoot, the controlled chaos of motion and momentum, the ball arcing through space like it already knew where it was supposed to go. Every step felt precise, each pass like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

He didn’t feel the wind. He didn’t feel the knot of anxiety tightening in his gut. He didn’t even feel the faint buzz that had been living at the back of his skull for weeks.

At least not enough to matter. Not enough to stop him.

You play perfectly today.

The Stanford scout hadn't moved. He was still watching, still writing.

Sam’s muscles burned, but he pushed through the ache and shifted into overdrive. Let instinct take over where feeling should’ve been. His heart thudded, but the rhythm matched the tempo of the game.

First assist: a give-and-go with Jake, fast and clean, right into their forward’s strike zone. Goal. Sam didn’t celebrate.

Second: intercepted crossfield lob. He broke through contact and slotted it low into the corner. Goal. Still no celebration.

Someone shouted his name from the stands. It barely registered.

By halftime, his lungs were scraping at the edges. His pulse wouldn’t come down. His hands were starting to shake, but only when he wasn’t moving.

So he didn’t stop.

He jogged the sideline during the break, his water bottle forgotten on the bench. The static ticked louder behind his eyes, like pressure building in a faulty pipe. But his face stayed blank. Steady.

Don’t let them see. Not when they’re looking for reasons to doubt you.

Jake jogged up beside him, breath steady. He didn’t smile, but he clapped a hand to Sam’s shoulder.

“You holding up?” he asked, voice quiet enough that no one else could hear.

“Peachy,” Sam said, too fast and too light. His mouth twitched like he was trying for a smirk, but it never quite made it.

Jake raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing slightly. He gave a slow nod and peeled off, heading back toward the sideline.

Connor passed a moment later, jogging backward to match Sam’s pace. “You’re killing it,” he said, tone casual but eyes sharp. “The scout hasn’t looked away since the second play. Keep it tight, man.”

Sam didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “That’s the plan.”

Connor kept running, but he didn’t look convinced.

In the third quarter, Sam deflected a shot with his chest and didn’t flinch. 

In the fourth, he split two defenders with clinical precision and fed the ball clean to their striker for the final goal.

3 - 1. Victory.

Jake launched himself at Ryan, yelling like they'd just won the World Cup. Connor whooped and sprinted backward toward the bench, fists raised, jersey flapping. The rest of the team dogpiled near midfield, all limbs and sweat and joy. Even Coach cracked a rare smile, arms crossed and head shaking like he couldn’t believe they pulled it off.

Sam turned and walked. One foot in front of the other, like he was still mid-drill and hadn’t realized the whistle had blown.

He walked past the bench, past the coolers and sideline chatter, until he reached the back of the sponsorship banner. Where no one would see, where shadows pooled behind the vinyl.

He dropped to one knee. Then both. Everything inside him tilted, off-balance and wrong.

The static roared back, unspooling in his chest like coiled wire coming loose. His head swam - not like dizziness, but like distance, like part of him had been left behind on the field and the rest was unraveling to go find it.

The first heave came dry and violent. His whole body jerked. The second brought bile. The third, a lungful of acid and water he didn’t remember drinking.

He curled forward, one hand braced to the dirt, the other twisted hard into the hem of his jersey. His knuckles went white. His breath came in gasps, and his mouth tasted like metal.

For a second, just one, the flash of the hallway came back.

The linoleum. The cold flickering light. A door that was waiting for him.

Not now. Not real.

But it felt real.

His heart kicked against his ribs.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right beside him.

“Sam! Sam, hey, what the hell?” Connor’s voice cracked as he dropped to the ground beside him.

Sam didn’t lift his head. “It’s fine,” he rasped. “I’m fine. It’s just adrenaline.”

“Dude, that’s not what adrenaline looks like,” Jake said, crouching fast, his knee hitting the ground. “You puked your soul.”

Ryan slid in from the other side, already twisting the cap off a water bottle. “Here. Sip. Seriously. Do we need to get a trainer?”

“I said I’m fine,” Sam repeated hoarsely, the words barely holding their shape. His fingers clenched tighter in his jersey to stop the trembling. It didn’t help.

Connor knelt lower, breathing hard from the sprint over. “You didn’t even slow down after that tackle. We thought you were hurt.”

“You didn’t even celebrate,” Jake added, softer now. “Not once. You made plays and then walked away like they didn’t mean anything. Man… what’s going on?”

Sam took the water just to make them stop looking at him like that. His hands shook as he brought it to his lips. The first sip felt like nothing. The second nearly choked him.

The static pulsed behind his eyes. Not full-force, not like a vision, but it was there. His chest ached - not sharp, not dangerous - but deep and full.

He sat back slowly on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

Somewhere behind them, Coach was yelling for everyone to head to the locker room.

Somewhere in the crowd, he imagined the scout was still writing. Taking notes. Tallying metrics and aggression and vision.

Connor was still crouched beside him, not touching but close. “You don’t have to wreck yourself to prove anything,” he said quietly.

Sam didn’t answer. Some part of him wasn’t sure that was true.

____

The hotel room was dark except for the soft blue glow of the muted TV, stuck in a loop of late-night soccer highlights. The motion felt surreal, like everything had been slowed down for someone else’s benefit.

Sam lay stiffly on his back in the second queen bed, hoodie zipped tight around his chest, the faint blink of his heart monitor blinking through the fabric. Still green. Still steady. But it didn’t feel like the truth. Not anymore.

The nausea had passed hours ago. The ache - the one behind his ribs, behind his eyes - hadn’t.

They hadn’t spoken much since the bus ride back from the field. Not after what happened.

Connor lay on the edge of the first bed, one arm tossed over his face like it was shielding him from the weight of the room. Jake sat on the floor between the beds, knees up, scrolling his phone with the screen dimmed low. Ryan had taken the chair by the window, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face blank in the light of the flickering screen.

Sam’s eyes were closed, feigning sleep.

The ginger ale they’d brought Sam from the vending machine still sat unopened on the nightstand. No one pointed it out.

His phone buzzed once against the pillow. He didn’t move.

Connor’s phone buzzed next. Then Jake’s. Then Ryan’s, all at the same time.

“Group chat,” Connor muttered. His voice was stiff.

Jake glanced at his screen. “Shit. Dylan.”

Sam’s heart squeezed.

He peeked one eye open, just enough to glimpse Jake’s phone from where he sat on the floor. The screen was still lit.

DYLAN: What the hell do you mean he threw up on the field?

Why would you tell me that like it wasn’t a big deal?

HE THREW UP. On the sidelines. After playing the best game of his life??

There was a pause, then another buzz.

DYLAN: Don’t tell me it was “just adrenaline.” That’s not a diagnosis.

Someone tell me what’s going on. Please. He won’t text me back.

Jake swallowed. “I said it. I thought if I got ahead of it, he wouldn’t freak.”

“Didn’t work,” Ryan said under his breath.

Connor’s thumbs hovered over his screen. “I’ll tell him he’s okay now. Just tired.”

DYLAN: He’s not okay now if he’s still pretending this is fine.

Jake looked toward Sam, cautious. “Think he’s asleep?”

Sam had shut his eyes again before they could notice. He didn’t flinch, keeping his breathing even.

Another message buzzed, and Sam risked another peek.

DYLAN: I’m not mad at him. I’m scared for him.

He keeps trying to disappear and I don’t know how to stop it from here.

Sam’s throat tightened. The static swelled. He shifted slowly under the covers, giving just enough motion for Jake to glance over.

“Hey,” Jake whispered. “You need anything?”

Sam blinked once. “Water.”

Jake was on his feet in seconds, grabbing a bottle and pressing it into his hands. Sam sat up just enough to drink, then settled back down, avoiding all their eyes.

No one said anything, but no one looked away. Sam’s phone buzzed again. He didn’t check it, but he didn’t pretend to be asleep anymore either.

“You should go back to sleep,” Connor said eventually, softer this time. “We’ve got waffles in the lobby in the morning.”

Jake rolled to his side, facing the back of the other bed. “Unless Stanford ruined breakfast forever.”

Sam let out a half-breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite not.

“Dylan says if you don’t text him by morning, he’s calling Coach,” Ryan added after a pause.

Sam looked away.

The others shifted into place slowly. No jokes about who stole the blankets. No sleepover energy. Just the heaviness of something unsaid resting over the room.

Jake eventually shifted, slumping on their shared bed like gravity had pulled him that direction. One of his knees crossed the middle of it.

Ryan exhaled from the chair to the bed Connor was on.

Sam stared at the ceiling.

His phone buzzed again. He reached for it this time, reading the message.

DYLAN: You threw up after the game and won’t answer me. That’s not nothing, Sam. That’s not “fine.” You’re scaring me. I don’t care about the fight. I don’t care if you’re mad. I just need to know you’re okay. Please. Say something. Anything.

Sam stared at the screen. The glow of the message lit the hotel room just enough to make the silence feel heavier.

He read it once. Then again.

You’re scaring me. Please. Say something. Anything.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain that the static wasn’t just in his chest anymore. It was in his head, his skin, the shape of his thoughts. That the field had started feeling safer than real life because it was the only place where he knew what he was supposed to do.

And that throwing up didn’t even scare him anymore.

But Dylan did. Because Dylan saw too much. Knew too much.

He tapped the reply box.

Then stopped.

Then typed:

SAM: I’m fine. Adrenaline from the scout being there. 

He hit send before he could think better of it. He turned the phone face down and lay back into the pillow, eyes open, blinking against the too-dim ceiling light. The noise in his chest didn’t stop, but it had paused. Just a little.

Just enough.

____

Sam drifted in and out of sleep like he was underwater.

The sheets were twisted around his legs. The monitor was still strapped in place, its cord running up beneath his hoodie. The light blinked green against the fabric, rhythmic as a lighthouse, steady as a lie.

The room was quiet now. The TV had long since clicked off. Outside, the streetlight glow bled through thin curtains, carving faint lines across the beds. The red digits of the nightstand clock read 5:42 AM, too early for anyone to be moving.

But Sam was awake. Or close to it.

His body ached in scattered places. His knees, ribs, and the back of his neck. It wasn't a sharp pain, but a dull, bone-deep throb of too many minutes run on a battery already flashing red.

He shifted slightly, careful not to rustle the blankets, when he felt the weight of something warm and heavy on his chest.

An arm. Jake’s.

Sam froze.

Jake had half-rolled into the middle of the bed sometime during the night. One leg was still on his side of the mattress, but the rest of him slumped into Sam’s space like the laws of physics had briefly stopped applying. His forehead bumped the pillow. His arm stayed where it was, draped warm and unconscious over Sam’s chest.

Sam stared up at the ceiling and blinked.

Jake didn’t stir. His breathing was slow and even in that full-body kind of sleep Sam felt like he hadn’t had in months.

Sam didn’t move his arm. 

Behind him, someone shifted. Connor, probably. Ryan sighed in his sleep. The whole room breathed with them, slow and steady, like a held breath slowly releasing.

Sam turned his head just slightly. He could see Jake’s profile in the gray light: floppy brown hair flattened on one side, jaw slack, one arm stretched across Sam like a tether. Something in Sam’s chest ached.

He closed his eyes, just for a few more minutes.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. It was long enough for the light to shift, for his pulse to slow. For the static in his skull to ease, just a little.

Eventually, Jake stirred.

A twitch. A groggy stretch. A pause.

Then: “...wait.”

Sam opened his eyes again.

Jake blinked blearily, glanced at his outstretched arm, and froze. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “I hug-slept you.”

Sam didn’t move.

Jake began retracting his arm like it might explode. “This is the end. I’m gonna die here.”

Sam’s voice was soft as a feather. “You draped yourself across me like a weighted blanket.”

Jake groaned into the pillow. “Kill me.”

Sam rolled slightly, just enough to point. “You drooled on my hoodie.”

“I did not.”

His voice was barely more than a breath, but there was something lighter in it. “Evidence.”

From across the room, Connor stirred and cracked an eye. “Is he trying to file charges or just shame you?”

Jake muttered, “New passport. New name. Witness protection.”

Ryan mumbled into his pillow. “Extort him for money.”

Sam didn’t laugh, not quite, but the twitch of his mouth wasn’t just a reflex.

And all three of them picked up on it.

Later, when they got down to the lobby, the waffle machine was already steaming. Connor stood at the juice bar, peeling open cream cheese too aggressively. Ryan hovered near the toaster, chewing on a bagel with the dazed focus of someone surviving on adrenaline and caffeine alone.

Jake had already told the arm story twice with added dramatics and unnecessary hand gestures.

Sam poured a cup of coffee, slower than usual. He was still moving like someone who didn’t fully trust the ground beneath him. But he moved.

“You’re lucky,” Connor said without looking up, his voice still thick with morning. “Jake only sleep-strangles the people he loves.”

“I was unconscious,” Sam muttered into his coffee, clutching the paper cup like it was the only thing tethering him to the floor.

Ryan leaned against the counter, chewing a mouthful of bagel. “But you didn’t move.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and this time, the eye-roll didn’t feel like armor. It felt like him.

Jake rounded the corner with a yogurt in one hand and a spoon clenched between his teeth. He pulled the spoon free and pointed it at the group. “I’m filing for emotional damages.”

“You hugged him,” Connor said flatly, still working on spreading cream cheese like this was just another Saturday.

Jake set his yogurt down on the counter, affronted. “Supportively!”

“Like a sack of wet laundry,” Ryan added, tearing off another bite with a deadpan look.

Jake huffed, grabbing the spoon with theatrical indignation. “Unbelievable.”

Sam took a slow sip of his coffee, hiding the smallest smile behind the rim. He followed them to the table, sliding into the chair between Ryan and Connor without prompting. And that, more than anything else, made Ryan glance at Connor behind Sam’s back, and Connor’s shoulders dropped just a little.

They didn’t say it out loud, but they saw it.

The cracks.

The real Sam. Quiet, tired, maybe still breaking, but showing through. And for the first time in weeks, the air felt like it might hold.

Connor’s phone buzzed once on the table beside him.

He glanced down. Then nudged Ryan with the back of his hand and tilted the screen slightly.

DEAN WINCHESTER: Everything okay this morning?

Have Sam answer if not

Ryan’s brows lifted just a little. Sam hadn’t noticed - or maybe he had and was pretending not to. He was still nursing his coffee, still half-listening to Jake dramatically re-enact the “weighted blanket incident” with one hand over his heart.

Connor didn’t text back right away. He just looked at Sam, who was slouched slightly now but not curled in. His color was better. His breathing was steady. He was present.

Then he typed back one-handed, slow and certain:

he got hugged in his sleep by jake

we’ve got him

He hit send, then reached over and stole the top of Sam’s muffin like nothing had happened.

____

Sam knew it the second he stepped through the front doors: the school was freezing. Not regular hallway cold. Not “should’ve worn thicker socks" cold. This was a sharp, circulating chill. He paused just past the threshold, arms wrapping tightly over his chest.

Of course. Of course, the one day he forgot it, the school turned into a meat locker.

The hoodie, his usual gray one, was still at home on the kitchen chair. He’d seen it that morning, sitting draped over the back like it knew he’d forget. He’d meant to grab it, even had thought about it twice. But the back of his throat had been raw and he’d been running late and-

It didn’t matter. It was too late now.

He exhaled through his nose and tried to ignore the goosebumps trailing his arms, the way the cold made his monitor feel sharper against his ribs.

From behind him came the familiar squeak of sneakers.

“You look like a sad scarecrow,” Ryan said, adjusting his bag with one arm and squinting at him. “You okay?”

Sam nodded too fast. “Fine. Just cold.”

There was a beat of silence before Ryan dug into his backpack.

“Here,” he said, pulling out a navy hoodie. A little worn. A little soft at the seams. “Spare. The school is an icebox today.”

Sam hesitated.

It wasn’t that he needed it. He’d be fine. He could tough it out. He didn’t want to be the kid who always looked like he needed something. Who got offered things just because people felt bad.

But Ryan wasn’t doing that. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t making a face. He just handed it over, casual and unbothered, like it was no big deal.

Sam took it. “You sure?”

“It’s either you or Rumsfeld, and I don’t see him here.”

Sam couldn’t help it; he smiled, small but real. He tugged the hoodie on and exhaled when the warmth hit. It smelled like cinnamon gum and dry erase markers and Ryan's house.

Jake appeared at the top of the stairs and immediately narrowed his eyes. “Are we doing emotional support wardrobe swaps now?”

Sam didn’t answer; he just rolled his eyes and kept walking. The sleeves were too long. He didn’t mind.

By lunch, he’d almost forgotten it wasn’t his.

He kept the sleeves over his hands during class, tugged at the cuffs when his thoughts started drifting. His textbooks felt lighter somehow, less like a weight and more like background noise.

Connor offered him half a donut at lunch, which he took without arguing. Jake was half-asleep against the table. Ryan nudged his knee under the table when Sam zoned out too long.

It was almost normal.

He didn’t take the hoodie off all day.

That night after practice, when the others had gone home and the house had gone still, Sam stood in his room with the hoodie still on.

He peeled it off slowly. His arms were stiff, and his chest was a little sore, but he was fine. He folded Ryan’s hoodie carefully and set it on the back of his desk chair.

He opened his drawer without really thinking.

There it was.

The hoodie that had been Dylan’s once and had slowly become Sam’s. It was black. Captain was stitched across the back, softer than it had any right to be. He hadn’t worn it since the fight. Since that day. It had lived in the drawer like something sacred or radioactive - untouched, waiting, daring him.

He stared at it for a long time. His throat felt tight again.

It’s just a hoodie. It’s just fabric. It’s not an apology. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not going to fix anything.

But it was warm.

And it was his.

And it was Dylan’s.

Sam closed the drawer. 

Not yet.

He left Ryan’s on the chair. Went to bed in a plain T-shirt and didn’t sleep well.

____

Dylan wasn’t expecting the call.

Spring conditioning had been brutal. His coach had gone on a tangent about strategy rotations and “mental toughness,” which had turned into a full-team run. Dylan’s legs still ached, and his hoodie clung to his neck as he kicked his dorm room door shut with his heel, gym bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in.

He dropped the bag, flopped onto his bed, and pulled his phone from the charger.

JAKE CALLING

He blinked. His heart skittered once on reflex, and then he swiped to answer.

“Hello?” he said, voice cautious but even.

Jake’s face appeared, way too close to the camera, at a tilted angle that immediately told Dylan one thing: chaos was afoot.

Behind him, Dylan saw familiar walls, a cluttered desk, and Connor flat on his back on the carpet with a textbook on his chest, eyes half-closed. Ryan was pacing in the corner with a pencil clenched between his teeth, muttering something unintelligible about derivative chains and betrayal.

“Wow,” he said, smiling before he could stop it. “You’re all alive. That’s surprising.”

Jake turned the phone. “Alive’s a strong word.”

“Barely,” Ryan mumbled, pencil still clenched between his teeth. “Calculus is a government conspiracy.”

Connor raised a limp hand. “I’m dead in spirit.”

Dylan snorted. “You were dead in spirit last semester.”

Connor grinned faintly. “Still counts.”

It was easy, this part. The joking. The rhythm. They fell back into it like no time had passed. Except it had, and Dylan could feel it stretching between him and the boy he knew was in the room but hadn’t said a word.

He tried to sound casual. “Sam there?”

No one answered right away. Jake just tilted the camera slightly, slowly, like turning a page in an old book.

And there, on the bed, was Sam.

He was tucked into the far corner like a storm cloud with a pulse. A navy hoodie zipped nearly to his chin. His legs were folded in, his textbook open but untouched. He looked as though he was physically present but was trying to remain invisible.

Dylan felt something shift low in his chest. That same quiet ache he’d been trying to outwork on the field for weeks.

His throat went tight.

He softened his voice without meaning to. “Hi, Sam.”

Nothing.

No nod. No sound.

But then Sam looked up.

Their eyes met, even through the screen. Dylan’s heart thudded.

You looked. That’s something.

It wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t forgiveness. But Sam saw him and didn’t look right away.

That one second felt like the first breath after holding one for too long. Dylan had to keep himself from saying more. From apologizing again. From asking how he was sleeping, how the monitor was reading, if he’d eaten, if he needed anything-

Don’t push. Just be here.

The moment passed. Sam’s eyes dropped back to the textbook in his lap. His hand moved gently as it turned the page.

But he didn’t leave the room. Didn’t turn his back.

Jake didn’t comment. Connor glanced over once, quiet and watchful. Ryan caught Dylan’s eye through the camera and gave him a look that said We’re still trying, man.

And God, Dylan loved them for that. Or he just loved them.

He exhaled slowly, then offered the softest words he had left. “Tell him I said I miss him, yeah?”

Jake nodded without looking away from Sam. “He heard you.”

Dylan nodded too. He let it sit. Let it be enough.

He’s still letting me in. Even if it’s just a little.

They talked for a while longer, nothing big, nothing heavy. Ryan ranted about his math homework. Connor swore up and down that the vending machine at school was alive and had a personal vendetta against him. Jake rotated the camera to show a truly criminal pile of laundry.

Dylan laughed more than he meant to.

Sam stayed in the corner of the frame. Quiet. Breathing. Turning pages sometimes without reading them.

He never spoke, but he didn’t leave.

And when the call ended, when Jake gave him a two-finger salute and Ryan shouted “study like your life depends on it," Dylan just smiled into the screen and said, one last time, “Bye, little brothers.”

Sam didn’t look up, but his hand on his textbook stilled.

____

Practice had run long. The sun had already slipped below the tree line, and the locker room lights buzzed with that too-bright hum that made everything feel slightly unreal to Jake.

Most of the team had cleared out.

Jake lingered, unlacing his cleats with slow fingers. Connor was half-scrolling, half-watching Sam from the other bench. Ryan leaned against the lockers near the back, quiet.

Sam said nothing, as usual nowadays, but he reached into his duffel and pulled out a hoodie.

Not just any hoodie, but Dylan’s old captain’s hoodie. The one everyone knew about. The one Dylan used to joke was cursed with seasons of blood, sweat, and bad cafeteria lunches. Jake hadn’t even known Sam still had it, and yet, here it was. 

Sam didn’t look at them as he shook it out. He didn’t explain anything as he pulled it over his head, methodical and silent.

The sleeves hung long over his hands. The collar sagged slightly. It was too big, too lived-in. But on Sam, it looked like something sacred.

Jake didn’t know what it meant, but he felt it heavy in his chest.

Sam tugged at the right sleeve, quick, maybe frustrated, and that’s when it happened. The cuff snagged on the edge of the locker door. The sound of tearing fabric sliced through the room, and the sleeve split jaggedly up the wrist seam.

Sam stopped moving completely. He had one arm half-outstretched, his eyes locked on the rip like it was something violent.

Connor moved first, slow and steady. “Hey,” he said gently. “It’s okay, man. It’s just a hoodie.”

Sam didn’t blink.

Ryan stepped forward, careful not to crowd him. “We can fix it. I'm sure Bobby’s got a sewing kit somewhere. It’s not too bad.”

Sam still didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He stood there like the hoodie had become something brittle and holy that just broke in his hands.

Jake’s stomach turned. He stood up, pulled out his phone without a word, and hit Dylan’s contact.

Second ring.

“Yo?” Dylan sounded tired, like he’d been waiting for something and didn’t know what.

Jake didn’t ease in. “He wore your hoodie.”

A pause. “What?”

“Sam. Your old captain one. He wore it today.”

There was a long silence.

Jake continued. “It ripped just now. Right cuff, a bad tear. He hasn’t said anything, he’s just standing there.”

On the other end, Dylan sucked in a breath. Then, quietly: “I’ve got a backup. Same brand, same color. I’ll overnight it if… if he asks.”

Jake looked at Sam, still locked in place, his fingers curled around the shredded cuff. Connor stood beside him now, a hand lightly on his shoulder. Ryan crouched nearby, eyes steady on Sam’s face.

Jake swallowed and held the phone out.

“Dylan’s on the line,” he said. “He said he’d send you a new one. Just say the word.”

Sam didn’t look up right away. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the phone, holding it to his ear.

And, soft, barely audible but real, he said, “Yeah. I- I want it.”

Jake felt his heart catch.

On the other end, Dylan didn’t speak right away. Then: “It’ll be there tomorrow. I promise.”

Sam handed the phone back without looking at anyone.

He didn’t say another word, but he didn’t take the hoodie off. Even with the rip curling up his wrist like a wound, he kept it on.

And for the first time in weeks, Jake felt something shift. Not fixed. Not healed.

But open.

____

The living room at home was too warm, but Sam didn’t move.

Connor had claimed the couch first, sprawled sideways with his socked feet pressed up against the far armrest and a government textbook across his stomach. Jake sat on the floor nearby, back against the coffee table, muttering something about failing algebra on principle. Ryan was cross-legged near the TV, thumbing through flashcards and swearing under his breath every time he hit one he didn’t recognize.

Sam was curled up in the old armchair, a warm water bottle tucked loosely under one knee, half-heartedly pretending to read Fahrenheit 451 for English.

No one was talking to him, not directly, but they were here, just like every other night this week. They hadn’t called it a study session, but they all brought their books anyway. No one asked why Sam hadn’t spoken much. No one mentioned the hoodie, or the scout, or his quietness.

Jake flung a pencil up in the air and tried to catch it. Missed. “This is garbage. Who uses this much math in real life?”

“You do,” Connor said without opening his eyes. “Every time you calculate how many tacos you can afford.”

“Food math doesn’t count.”

“Try telling that to the IRS.”

Ryan snorted. “Or Coach. I'm five essays behind in three different classes. I swear to God if this project tanks my GPA, I’m blaming Jake’s calculator.”

Jake held up the offending object like a shield. “It betrayed me! I pressed cosine, and it gave me despair.”

Connor groaned. “That’s just your reflection.”

They spiraled into bickering after that, voices overlapping, teasing and tired and too loud for the hour. Sam sat perfectly still, his hand absently curling into the fabric of his sleeve. His chest ached - not sharp like it used to, not the way the static clawed when it wanted him gone - but softer. Stranger. Like something full that didn’t know where to settle.

He didn’t speak, but he listened.

He watched Connor’s head tip back as he rolled his eyes. Watched Ryan flip through his flashcards with that same furrow between his eyebrows he always got when he was secretly worried. Watched Jake throw his pencil again and finally catch it, and then hold it up like he’d won something.

They were fine. Not untouched, not unaware, but fine in the way that meant present. Still showing up. Still making space, even when he didn’t step into it.

Sam shifted in the chair, pulling his knees up tighter. His eyes flicked to the half-eaten bag of chips on the table. No one had offered them. They knew he’d take them if he wanted. They knew how to wait.

Connor turned a page with a sigh. Ryan swore at another flashcard. Jake muttered something about exponential functions and fate.

And Sam let his eyes slip closed for just a second.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t lean in.

But he stayed in the chair, and he didn’t want to leave.

____

At their next home game, in that strange pause between warm-ups and kickoff, Ryan wasn’t watching the field.

He stood near the end of the bench, his cleats scuffing the grass as he tore a piece off his protein bar without tasting it. His eyes kept drifting - not to the cones or the opposing lineup or the scout who’d been scribbling in a notebook since the minute they walked on - but to the far corner of the bench, where Sam sat like gravity didn’t quite apply to him anymore.

Sam hadn’t taken off his hoodie, even during warmups. The sleeves swallowed his hands, pulled down past his fingers in that way he did when he was trying to feel smaller than his own shadow. His water bottle sat at his feet, full. Untouched, like even hydration was too much to think about.

His shoulders were curled inward. Head slightly bowed. Not sleeping. Not resting. Withdrawn.

Ryan felt it in his chest, the familiar weight of knowing Sam was there but not really with them. Not gone, not dissociating in the terrifying way they’d seen before, but distant. Floaty, like someone pressed pause on him and forgot to hit play again.

It wasn’t new, but it still made Ryan ache.

With Dylan off at college - probably hovering over the livestream, helpless behind a screen - it felt even quieter on the sideline. Even lonelier.

Then the shriek happened.

“There he is! Number ELEVEN! That’s HIM!”

Ryan jolted. His head whipped toward the walkway just in time to see a blur of motion barrelling toward the bench - pink foam finger flailing, sparkly sneakers flashing, braids flying like they had their own wind system.

“Oh no,” Jake groaned from two seats over, dragging a hand down his face. “She’s back.”

Ryan laughed under his breath. “Ellie?”

Connor, standing just behind them, smirked. “Your sister?”

“One of four,” Jake muttered, watching the chaos unfold like a man facing his fate. “The loudest one. She begged to come. My parents finally caved.”

Ryan had met her before. So had Connor. She’d once bedazzled Ryan’s cleats “for luck” and put butterfly clips in Dylan’s hair for “aerodynamics.” She was chaos incarnate. And also, somehow, heart in the shape of a fourth grader.

But Sam hadn’t met her. Not until now, apparently.

Ellie didn’t slow down.

She launched herself past the water jugs, weaved through the cones like a seasoned player, ducked under the edge of Coach’s clipboard without flinching, and sprinted straight for Sam like the outcome of the game depended on it.

“Ellie, wait-!” Jake started, taking half a step forward, one hand lifting like he might intercept her.

Too late.

She threw herself at Sam in a full-body hug, foam finger bouncing off his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around his neck like she was claiming him in front of the entire known universe.

Sam froze.

Ryan’s whole chest locked. He didn’t even breathe.

Connor stiffened beside him.

Jake stood awkwardly halfway to the bench, eyes wide, clearly torn between stopping her and not wanting to make it worse. Coach’s whistle blew in the distance, sharp and impatient, but he didn’t step in either.

Sam didn’t move.

Not for a second. Not for two. He sat rigid under the weight of her, arms hovering just slightly off his lap, not touching, not reacting,  like his whole system had gone offline.

And then-

Soft and startled, Sam laughed.

It cracked out of him like it didn’t belong there, like it had been trapped under his ribs and didn’t know how to escape gently. His shoulders shook once. Then again.

His hands moved, slow and careful, and patted Ellie on the back like she was made of something rare.

Jake let out a visible breath and dropped back onto the bench, stunned.

Ellie pulled back just enough to beam up at Sam. “Jake says you’re a wizard.”

Sam blinked at her, still wide-eyed, caught between confusion and awe.

“You’re number eleven,” she added, pointing at his jersey like she was unveiling a prophecy. “So I made this for you.”

She tugged at the front of her glitter-covered shirt, which proudly read: GO #11!! in puffy paint and rhinestones. 

Sam smiled at it like it was a secret treasure map.

“You spelled my number right,” he said, voice low. “That’s tough under pressure.”

She nodded solemnly. “I practiced.”

Then she dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out a sparkly sticker shaped like a taco with sunglasses.

“It’s enchanted,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Jake said you’ve been having a hard time.”

Sam stared at the sticker like it was something sacred. Then, slow and deliberate, he peeled it and pressed it onto the side of his shin guard with the kind of reverence Ryan usually associated with church or state championships.

“Tell the council I’m honored,” Sam said.

Ellie gasped. “I knew you were a wizard!”

Ryan couldn’t stop watching Sam’s face. It wasn’t lit up, but something had unclenched. His jaw. His shoulders. The tension that lived behind his eyes - the fog - gone, just for a breath.

Coach’s whistle blew again, sharper now. “Let’s go! Starters up!”

Jake jogged over and gently herded Ellie back, one hand on her shoulder. “Alright, little miss. Let him breathe.”

“I gave him the charm!” she called as she skipped toward the bleachers. “Now you’ll win!”

Her foam finger flopped over her head like a wizard’s banner.

Ryan turned back in time to see Sam standing. Hoodie off. Cleats re-laced. Water bottle lifted, sipped. Captain’s band adjusted on his arm with practiced precision.

He walked toward Coach like he’d never stopped moving.

And on his shin guard, the ridiculous glitter taco glinted like a quiet flag of defiance.

As Sam passed the bench, Ryan caught it, just for a second.

That flicker.

Not the Sam they’d been chasing all season. The real Sam. The one who said weird science things during stretches and ranked vending machine snacks in a shared spreadsheet. The one who used to laugh like it meant something.

Ryan’s chest ached.

Then eased.

“Jake,” he said quietly.

Jake looked over, already pulling out his phone.

Ryan nodded toward the field. “Text Dylan. Tell him to check the stream.”

Jake didn’t even blink. “Way ahead of you.”

And Sam jogged onto the field - captain’s band in place, taco sticker shining, and the faintest shadow of something whole returning to his face.

____

After the game, Jake was halfway through stuffing Gatorade lids that had fallen out of his bag onto the turf when he felt someone hover at his shoulder.

He glanced up.

Sam stood a few feet back, hoodie back on, hair damp from sweat, taco sticker still firmly in place on his shin guard. He was fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, not looking up yet. His mouth opened once, then closed.

Jake stayed still.

Then finally, in that quiet, sanded-down voice Sam only used when he was trying not to ask too much, he said, “…Is she always like that?”

Jake blinked. “Ellie?”

Sam nodded, still not quite meeting his eyes.

Jake smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah. Pretty much from birth. She came out yelling and never stopped.”

Sam huffed a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh. His fingers tugged at the hem of his sleeve. “She, uh… she said she practiced my number.”

“She did.” Jake leaned against the fence. “She made, like, four shirts. That one was the most wearable.”

A long pause.

Then, very softly: “She said you told her about me.”

Jake’s chest ached a little. “I did,” he said. “Not everything. Just the parts that matter.”

Sam finally looked up.

“She’s got a whole theory about you being a secret wizard who was cursed by sadness and needed a charm to break it.”

Sam blinked. His lips twitched. “That… makes a weird amount of sense.”

Jake grinned. “Told you. Chaos brain. But she doesn’t miss much.”

Sam glanced toward the bleachers, where Ellie was now showing her foam finger to someone’s grandma like it was a sacred relic. The fading light caught her rhinestone shirt just enough to make it sparkle.

“Tell her thanks,” Sam said. “For the charm. And the sticker. And the… hug.”

Jake raised a brow. “She kinda launched that one without warning.”

“I know.” Sam paused. “It was good.”

He said it like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

Jake nodded once, slow and steady. “She’ll be thrilled.”

Another pause.

Then Sam turned to go, but stopped. “Hey… if she ever wants another game shirt, I can give her one of mine. The old one. From last season.”

Jake blinked. “You serious?”

Sam shrugged, cheeks pink. “Seems fair. Wizards owe their patrons, right?”

Jake didn’t laugh. He just smiled, big and warm and full of something like relief.

“Yeah,” he said. “They do.”

Sam offered a small nod and turned again, this time for real. There was something steadier in the way he moved now, like the ground wasn’t shifting under him anymore. Like maybe he could feel it beneath his feet again.

He crossed the field with slow, even strides, skirting the edge of the crowd as the stands began to empty. Parents called out to their kids. Someone dropped a metal water bottle with a loud clang. The speakers buzzed with leftover static as the playlist faded out, too quiet to matter.

Jake’s gaze followed him without thinking, just a quiet instinct now, tracking the smallest movements, always watching for the tilt of Sam’s head or the way his hands flexed when things got too loud.

He expected Sam to head toward the locker room like everyone else was, but instead, Sam veered left. He cut through the low gate at the edge of the bleachers, past the railing, toward the far side of the fence.

Toward the two figures waiting there.

Dean stood with his arms folded, a worn leather jacket draped over his frame, his stance loose but alert in that way only dads mastered: part casual, part coiled readiness, like he’d never fully relaxed a day in his life. Beside him, Bobby leaned against the railing with a thermos in one hand and his truck keys in the other, looking like he’d been waiting there since warmups.

Sam slowed as he reached them. He didn’t drop his shoulders or rush into it. He stepped close enough that Dean’s hand could reach out and find him - and it did, like gravity.

Jake watched as Dean’s hand lifted and cupped the back of Sam’s head. His thumb brushed lightly through Sam’s hair, smoothing it back from his temple. The motion was so natural that it made Jake’s chest ache. Like muscle memory. Like he’d done it a hundred times.

Sam didn’t pull away. He didn’t say anything Jake could hear, but he stood there, still, like the world finally stopped spinning beneath him.

Then he nodded. It was a small motion, quick but weighted.

Dean said something - Jake couldn’t make it out through the buzz of the crowd and the scrape of folding chairs - and Bobby stepped forward next, hand landing firm and warm on Sam’s shoulder. A steadying grip.

Sam leaned in.

And then they turned, all three of them, heading back toward the parking lot as the sky shifted around them, soft with early spring light.

Jake watched until they disappeared past the tree line. Then he pulled out his phone and texted his mom.

JAKE: Ellie’s charm worked.

____

The locker room was mostly empty. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, and the air still carried the faint sharpness of turf sweat and menthol rub.

Sam sat on the bench near the far wall, one knee pulled up to his chest, towel draped over his shoulders, sleeves damp from a rushed rinse in the sink. The taco sticker still clung proudly to the outside of his shin guard, now tucked into his open bag. He still hadn’t peeled it off.

Jake was crouched across the room, swearing softly at the laces of his cleats.

“Stupid thing’s bent,” he muttered, holding up the offending shoe. The eyelet near the top had warped somehow. It was bent inward, twisted just enough to make threading impossible. “Guess I’ll chuck it. Got my backup pair anyway.”

He moved to toss the cleat into the side pocket of his bag when Sam’s voice, low and almost absentminded, cut through the quiet. “Wait.”

Jake paused and glanced over. Sam reached out his hand, palm open.

Jake blinked. “You want it?”

Sam nodded.

Jake crossed the room slowly, still watching him like he might vanish if the moment shifted too fast. He handed over the shoe. Sam turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the curve of the damaged eyelet. It wasn’t that bad. Just bent metal. Minor. But enough to be annoying. Enough to ruin momentum if it happened mid-game.

Sam didn’t say anything.

He dug into the front pocket of his bag and finally pulled out the small multitool his dad had given him years ago. He unfolded the pliers with practiced care and crouched beside the bench.

The others didn’t say anything.

Connor was pulling his shirt over his head a few lockers down. Ryan was scrolling his phone near the mirror, occasionally making faces at whatever he was reading. No one interrupted, but they were watching.

Sam braced the cleat against his knee, twisted the tool gently, and nudged the metal back into place. His movements were deliberate. Focused. Quiet.

It took less than two minutes. He held it up, rotated it once, then ran the shoelace through. Smooth. Clean.

He handed it back to Jake without looking up.

Jake stared for a beat before taking it. “Works better than duct tape.”

Sam gave the barest shrug. A near-smile threatened his mouth but never landed.

He didn’t say, I needed something I could fix. He didn’t say, It helped to have my hands doing something real. He didn’t say, I miss knowing how to do things.

He just sat back down and began unlacing his cleats.

The room returned to its regular rhythm; the rasp of zippers, the thud of gear into bags, Jake dramatically trying the shoe on like Cinderella’s sarcastic cousin.

But the moment didn’t vanish.

Because Sam had reached for something broken and fixed it.

____

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, elbows digging into his knees, the glow of his phone screen cutting through the dark like it didn’t know how to be gentle.

The hallway hadn’t come back today. No flickering lights. No endless tile. No voice calling from nowhere.

But the static hadn’t left. It never did.

It curled under his ribs, thin and fraying like the edge of a thread someone kept tugging. It buzzed behind his eyes when he blinked too long, crept into the corners of his skull when the house went too quiet. It wasn’t screaming tonight, but it was watching. Waiting.

The message was still glowing:

DYLAN: Saw the stream from the last game. You laughed.

Call me? Or text. I’ll take what I can get.

Dylan had sent others before this.

Texts Sam could barely read, let alone answer. Voicemails he couldn’t bring himself to delete, but also couldn’t play again. A half dozen photos from campus: a chalkboard doodle, a half-empty pizza box, a blurry screenshot of their group chat that read "you okay?"

Sam had said awful things. Things that weren’t true and things that were, both twisted sharp enough to hurt. He hadn’t answered any of Dylan’s calls since. Not once.

But something had shifted since the last game. Ellie’s hug. The ridiculous rhinestone shirt. Sitting with his dad. Fixing Jake's cleat. Moments where he felt, briefly, like someone again.

And now, late at night, his hands still cold from the air outside, Sam hovered over Dylan’s name like it might burn him. The silence in the room felt alive, pressing in around his ribs. His thumb didn’t move.

Until it did.

He hit call.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then-

“Hey.”

Dylan’s face lit up the screen, washed in the soft yellow glow of his desk lamp. The shadows in his dorm room stretched long behind him. He looked exhausted. Pale. His hair stuck up in the back like he’d been lying awake for hours. His voice was small and careful.

“You called.”

Sam hadn’t known if Dylan would answer. But he also didn’t know what he would’ve done if he hadn’t.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, swallowing against the rawness in his throat. He could see himself in the tiny corner box - eyes red around the edges, skin pale, mouth pulled tight. His whole face looked wrong, hollow, and far too honest.

“I didn’t know if I should,” he said. His voice cracked halfway through.

Dylan didn’t blink. “You can,” he said immediately, already leaning closer to the screen. “Always.”

Sam dropped his gaze, blinking fast. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“I never stopped wanting to hear from you.” Dylan’s voice wavered, then steadied. “Little brother.”

It hit like a bruise Sam had forgotten he carried. Like pressure behind his ribs suddenly uncoiling. His breath stuttered. His eyes burned before he could stop it, and the tears rose, hot and fast and real.

He turned his head slightly, as if that might hide it, and wiped at his face with the heel of his palm.

“Sam?” Dylan’s voice broke. Not from panic, but from something heavier. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, throat tight. “I didn’t mean it. Not all of it. I was just… I didn’t know how to stop hurting without pushing it somewhere else.”

Dylan sat forward suddenly, elbow hitting the desk as he gripped the phone tightly. “I know,” he said, voice ragged. “I know you didn’t.”

He was blinking hard now, jaw clenched like he was holding back his wave of emotion.

Sam let out a breath that folded in on itself. His hand trembled as it pressed to his mouth. “I didn’t think I was allowed to still be your little brother,” he said. “Not after the things I said.”

Dylan shook his head immediately, fierce and aching all at once. “You don’t have to earn that,” he said. “It’s not a condition. It’s not a deal. It’s just true.”

Sam nodded, barely. A flicker. A breath. But it held.

“Okay,” he whispered.

The quiet stretched between them, full but not heavy.

Then Dylan asked, softer now, like offering a lifeline he hoped wouldn’t be refused: “You want me to stay on the line?”

Sam nodded again - this time fast, a little too desperate, like his body was answering before his brain could catch up. “Yeah,” he said. “Please.”

Dylan let out a breath. A shaky, overwhelmed sound that barely reached the mic. “Of course,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

They didn’t say much after that.

Sam curled under his blanket, phone propped on the pillow beside him. His breathing was still uneven, but it had slowed. The static still lingered in the corners of his mind, low and humming like an electrical buzz in the walls, but it wasn’t screaming anymore.

On the other end, Dylan opened his psychology textbook and started reading aloud. His voice was soft and unhurried as he mumbled something about dream states and memory processing, more for Sam than for any quiz. Pages turned. His voice dipped in and out like waves.

And when Dylan said “little brother” again - quieter than before, a whisper tucked inside the sentence like a promise - Sam didn’t flinch.

He didn’t hide his face.

He didn’t hang up.

He just closed his eyes.

And rested.

_____

Dean wasn’t planning on going in.

He told himself he was just passing by, just stretching his legs. That he just needed water.

But his feet turned left at the hallway corner instead of right toward the stairs, and before he could think too hard about it, he was standing in front of Sam’s door.

It was cracked open.

That was new.

Sam hadn’t left his door open in weeks. Lately, even the smallest crack had felt like too much air, too much space. The kind of thing Sam shut when the world felt sharp.

Dean stood still, hand just shy of the doorknob. He couldn’t hear any coughing. There was no muttering, no restless shuffling under the blankets.

He stepped in.

The room smelled like fabric softener and old pages. Sam’s hoodie was tossed on the floor, and a half-empty water bottle was by the bed. Monty the moose sat upright near the footboard, tilted slightly like he’d been through battle.

And Sam… Sam was asleep.

Curled on his side, one arm slung across his ribs, the other bent near his head. His mouth was half open, lashes pressed against his cheek in a way that still made Dean’s chest ache if he looked too long. The blanket had bunched at his knees.

Dean exhaled through his nose and moved in quietly, just enough to fix the blanket. He knelt beside the bed to tug it higher and noticed the glow.

Sam’s phone was still on, face-up on the pillow.

Dean leaned closer.

Call in progress. 2:11:43.

Dylan’s name filled the top corner of the screen.

Dean’s breath caught. He blinked, just once, then looked at the image: a soft-lit dorm ceiling, a shadowy blur of Dylan’s sweatshirt sleeve, and the faintest sound of breathing from the speaker. 

Dylan hadn’t hung up, even though it was clear Sam had long since fallen asleep.

Dean stared at the phone for a long beat. Then at Sam.

His kid’s face was softer than it had been in weeks. The deep, tight lines that had carved under his eyes were gentler now, less braced, like the fight in his chest had finally let up enough for him to rest.

Dean lowered himself to the carpet, careful not to jostle the bed. He rested one hand lightly against the side of the mattress, close enough to feel the warmth. He closed his eyes, just for a second.

He remembered Sam at seven: sick with a heart that didn’t work right, too quiet, curled up under a couch fort they’d built out of panic and pillows. How he wouldn’t sleep unless he could feel Dean’s sleeve balled up in his hand.

And now here he was, fifteen, tucked into quiet by a phone line. 

Dean leaned in slightly and pressed a fingertip to the volume button. He didn’t mute it, but lowered it to a hush. And then he whispered, “Thanks for staying.”

The screen shifted with a faint movement. Dylan’s face came into view for just a second.

“Always,” Dylan said softly. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Dean stood, careful not to disturb anything. He left the phone where it was, the line still active. He tucked the blanket a little tighter around Sam’s shoulders.

He walked to the door, hesitating for half a second, before leaving it cracked open.

Two heartbeats echoed behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

____

Sam walked the hallway with his hood up and his headphones in, even though he hadn’t hit play. The music app sat open on his screen, mostly as a decoy, something to keep people from trying to talk to him. The halls buzzed around him.

The static was quiet today. Not gone, but manageable. It trailed behind his ribs like a shadow, distant enough not to pull focus. The hoodie he wore, the new one Dylan sent, still carried a faint scent of detergent that didn’t belong to their house. He hadn’t said anything when it came, just took it up to his room and changed.

No one commented when he showed up wearing it, but he noticed the way Connor’s shoulders relaxed. How Ryan passed him a granola bar at lunch without a word. How Jake gave him his usual wave, like nothing had changed, like everything had.

He turned the corner near the science wing, heading toward his next class, eyes on the floor.

And then-

“…No, he called Dylan. Like, picked up the phone and dialed his number."

It was Jake’s voice, clear and familiar, floating from a classroom just up ahead. The door was propped open an inch, and a teacher’s desk lamp glowed through the crack.

Sam didn’t stop walking, but his feet slowed. He kept his head down, hoodie still up, but his eyes flicked toward the door as he passed. For a moment, all the background noise dropped away.

“Dylan said he cried a little,” Jake continued inside. “Not a lot. But… you know. It was real.”

Connor’s voice came next, softer: “We’ve known him for over a year, and I’ve never seen him cry. Not once.”

There was a pause, then Ryan’s voice, low and certain: “He’s trying. That’s all I wanted. Just… something. A crack in the wall.”

Jake let out a breathy laugh, almost disbelieving. “Man, I was scared he’d never talk to him again.”

“He didn’t hang up,” Ryan said. “That’s more than we’ve gotten in weeks.”

“He wore the hoodie today,” Connor added. “Did you see?”

Sam’s throat went tight.

He picked up his pace.

But as he passed the door, something shifted. A soft press of warmth beneath the static, like something tired in him exhaled. They weren’t just hoping he’d come back. They were holding space for him every day. Quietly. Steadily.

He hadn’t made it easy, but they kept trying anyway.

Maybe he could, too. Not all at once. Not loudly. Not yet.

But maybe.

He didn’t put his music on as he kept walking. For the first time in a long time, the static didn’t feel stronger than he was.

____

The grocery bags rustled on the counter, one with a rogue box of cereal poking out like it had tried to escape. Dean was halfway through putting stuff away when the front door creaked open behind him.

He didn’t look right away.

He heard the soft drag of cleats on the mat, the thump of a gym bag dropped by the stairs. A hoodie sleeve brushed the edge of the hall wall.

Sam.

Dean glanced over his shoulder.

The kid looked flushed from practice: hair a little damp, cheeks pink, hoodie bunched around his elbows. But there were no slouched shoulders, no bracing.

“You’re home early,” Dean said, keeping it casual.

Sam shrugged, dropped his bag with a soft thud. “Coach let us go early. Said we actually listened for once.”

Dean snorted. “What a concept.”

He turned back to the bags, finished pulling out a pack of apples, a brick of pasta, and the socks he’d grabbed on autopilot. Basic black, mid-calf, nothing fancy.

That’s when Sam drifted over.

Dean didn’t realize he’d stopped moving until he noticed Sam standing still beside the counter, eyes on the socks like they were something wild and half-remembered.

Then, quietly but with conviction, Sam said, “You got the wrong kind.”

Dean raised a brow. “They’re socks.”

“They’re the wrong kind,” Sam repeated, picking up the pack and flipping it over. “These don’t have reinforced toe seams. They pill. The elastic’s weak, so they slide. And they shrink. Like, fast.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was, he hadn’t heard the words. He was too busy listening to how Sam said them.

Not flat. Not automatic. Not hidden behind fog.

Just words. Real ones. With edges and corners, and the rhythm of Sam in them.

Bobby’s voice came from the kitchen doorway: “He’s got opinions again.”

Dean felt his throat catch.

Sam blinked like he was waking up mid-sentence. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “That was dumb.”

“No,” Dean said. “It’s good information to know.”

Sam looked at him then like he was trying to decide if it was safe to believe that.

Dean reached out, took the socks, and handed them over to Bobby without breaking eye contact. “Kindling,” he said. Then to Sam: “Write down the kind you want. Sock holy grail. We’ll hunt it down.”

Sam huffed. A near-smile. He didn’t argue.

Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket, untangled his earbuds with practiced fingers, and slipped one in. Then the other.

Dean tilted his head. “What’re you listening to?”

Sam hesitated before turning the phone screen around. Dean squinted. It was some blur of teal and gray and a title that sounded like an abandoned thesis.

“Post-rock,” Sam said. “Shoegaze-adjacent.”

Dean blinked. “That’s not even a real sentence.”

Behind him, Bobby sipped his coffee without looking up. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

Dean didn’t laugh.

He watched as Sam walked over to the couch, earbuds in, music loud enough that Dean could hear the faint wash of reverb and synth through the headphones. Sam didn’t pull his hood up. Didn’t curl in on himself. Just sat down, knees bent, arms loose at his sides.

Like he was letting himself breathe.

Dean watched the rise and fall of his chest. Slow. Unhurried.

Then Sam leaned forward and scratched behind Rumsfeld’s ears. “He prefers ambient soundscapes.”

Dean nearly dropped the peanut butter.

Bobby, deadpan: “Long as he doesn’t start floating, we’re good.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just looked at his kid - hood down, music playing, eyes open - and thought, There you are, Sammy. Just a little more every day.

____

Dylan didn’t expect him to join.

Not really.

He’d sent the link to the group like always, half a joke and half a habit, not thinking tonight would be any different from the last twenty calls. Ones where Sam didn’t show, didn’t reply, didn’t even leave the read receipt. But still, Dylan had sent it. Just in case.

He was lying sideways across his bed, laptop balanced on a pillow, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms. His psych textbook was open and untouched. The group chat window lit up the corner of his screen: Jake yelling about broken vending machines, Ryan eating directly into his mic like a menace, Connor curled up under a fleece blanket already half asleep.

It felt normal. Or a version of normal with a quiet, Sam-shaped hole in the middle of the screen.

He was in the middle of tuning Jake out when it happened.

SAM has joined the call.

The message popped up in the corner like an afterthought. For half a second, Dylan didn’t believe it.

Then he saw the new window: camera on, tilted awkwardly up at the ceiling. Blue paint. Desk lamp glow. A streak of shadow cutting across the frame. No face.

His heart stuttered.

The others must have seen it too. Jake went silent, Ryan stopped chewing, and Connor blinked more awake.

No one said anything. Dylan sat up slowly, as if even breathing too loudly might spook him.

Then the camera tilted, and there he was.

Sam, curled up on his bed in the hoodie Dylan sent. His hair was messy. Face pale. Eyes tired and soft around the edges like he hadn’t gotten real sleep in days. He looked small, and not because of the screen.

Dylan’s throat tightened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Good to see you.”

Sam blinked once and shifted his phone just enough for the light to catch his face more clearly. His voice was quiet, raw in that way Dylan hadn’t heard in too long.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sam murmured.

Dylan smiled, soft and steady, like saying more might undo something. “Nah. You're right on time.”

Jake picked the conversation back up without comment, like they’d all agreed to pretend nothing had changed. Ryan said something about pretzel-to-noise ratios. Connor dropped off the screen slowly, blinking like a cat and mumbling about sleep.

And Sam stayed.

He didn’t talk much, just listened. His eyes tracked whoever was speaking. His mouth quirked sometimes, maybe a smile, maybe not, but he didn’t leave.

And that alone undid something in Dylan that had been wound too tight for too long. He wanted to say so much.

I missed you. I’m sorry. You scared me. You didn’t ruin anything.

But he didn’t want to overwhelm him. So instead, after a pause in the call, he said, “I’m staying on till you fall asleep, little brother.”

Sam didn’t flinch at the name this time. Didn’t brush it off or hang up.

He just shifted on the pillow and, so softly Dylan almost missed it, said, “Okay. Thanks.”

That was it.

A few minutes later, Sam’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing evened out, and the camera stayed on.

Dylan didn’t hang up either.

He just muted himself, pulled his psych book into his lap, and stayed, guarding the silence like it meant something sacred.

____

Sam had told Ryan he might show, quietly over his shoulder. Half a sentence on the way to class that morning. The kind of maybe that could mean anything, a promise or a warning or nothing at all. Ryan hadn’t asked for clarification. He had just nodded like it didn’t matter either way.

But Ryan had hoped.

So when the door to the study room in the library creaked open and Sam stood there with his hoodie sleeves tugged down, eyes already half-braced for disappointment, Ryan’s heart caught. It froze right there in his chest, like it needed time to believe what it was seeing.

Jake covered first. “Yo. He lives.”

Ryan grabbed the spare water bottle and tossed it lightly. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

Sam caught it without thinking. “Almost didn’t.”

Ryan kept his voice easy and casual. “But you did.”

Sam stepped further in and scanned the room, eyes pausing on the far chair - his chair - like it might’ve been replaced or claimed in his absence. But it was still there. Unused. Quietly waiting.

Ryan had made sure of it. They all had. That chair had gone untouched, like saving space for a ghost they weren’t ready to give up on.

“Hey,” Jake added, his tone just the right amount of bored. “Grab a seat. We saved it.”

Sam moved like someone testing ice. Slow. Uncertain. Like maybe the floor would break under him if he moved too fast.

And then he sat.

Ryan exhaled.

That might’ve been enough for the night, honestly. If that was all Sam could give, it would’ve been enough.

But then Jake reached toward the middle of the table and opened the laptop, already set up and running.

And there was Dylan.

Ryan had texted him hours ago, no guarantee he’d be free. But Dylan had answered with two words: I’m in.

Now he sat there on screen, hoodie up, hair damp, room dim behind him. His posture was lazy, legs tucked up, but his eyes locked right on Sam the second the screen flickered to life.

He smiled. “Hey, Sammy.”

Ryan glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye and saw it. The tiny shift in his shoulders. The barely-there drop of his guard. Like hearing Dylan’s voice reset something in his bones.

“They kept me hostage,” Dylan added lightly. “Wouldn’t let me log off.”

“Voluntary hostage,” Jake muttered.

“We bribed him with Skittles,” Ryan offered, trying to keep the energy up.

“A terrible bribe,” Dylan said. “Considering I am in a whole different state.”

Connor rolled his eyes and flicked a flashcard at the camera, speaking for the first time. “We’ll mail them.”

Ryan almost missed it: the way Sam’s hand twitched slightly toward the water bottle, the way his gaze flicked to the screen and then down again. He didn’t lean into the conversation, but he didn’t lean away either.

It was a start.

They settled into the space like they always did:  loud, sarcastic, and messy. They talked over each other. They argued about Coach’s formations. Jake did a dramatic reading of someone’s stats sheet and mispronounced three terms on purpose. The heater rattled in the corner like it was trying to keep up with the room’s pulse.

Sam didn’t say much. But every time he shifted in his seat, water bottle in hand and pencil in reach, it was a kind of staying.

Ryan noticed it in one of those small in-between glances.

Sam’s hoodie had ridden up slightly when he leaned forward to grab a flashcard, and for the first time in weeks, Ryan didn’t see the band of the heart monitor pressed tight across his ribs. No pale imprint beneath the fabric. No tense shoulders curled protectively inward.

Instead, the monitor was clipped to his waistband. The wire was tucked under his shirt, loose and unobtrusive. Ryan blinked, startled by the small shift. It was subtle, quiet enough to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but to Ryan, it felt seismic.

Sam had loosened his grip, just a little. He’d let something go.

Half an hour passed. The pizza dwindled. Homework started to appear begrudgingly. Stats books opened. Flashcards multiplied. Jake declared war on his essay outline.

And then, Dylan cleared his throat, clearly ready to cause chaos.

“Okay,” he said. “Pop quiz. Sam, what’s the square root of your attention span?”

Sam didn’t even look up. “About as real as your GPA,” he mumbled, pencil tapping against the edge of his notebook.

Ryan froze. Everyone did.

Jake choked. “Oh my god.”

Ryan blinked, then broke into a grin that felt like the first real one in days. That sound - that dry, surgical timing - was unmistakably Sam.

Dylan, looking equally stunned, laughed out loud. “I’ll have you know, it is a respectable 3.1.”

Sam flushed faintly and dropped his gaze like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he didn’t back away.

Ryan looked up and saw Dylan smiling. Not his usual easy grin. A slow, stunned kind of thing.

And then Sam spoke again. He corrected Connor’s stat chart. Jabbed Jake for quoting the wrong term from the playbook.  

Ryan could’ve cried.

Later, when the conversation mellowed and people started yawning, Jake collapsed half on the table. “If I fail this quiz tomorrow, I’m blaming all of you.”

Connor flipped a flashcard at his head. “No one made you outline upside down.”

“I was testing a theory.”

“You were spiraling.”

Sam muttered without looking up, “You did both.”

Jake sat bolt upright, pointing an accusing finger. “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

When the laptop finally closed and bags were zipped and chairs scraped back across the tile, Sam lingered.

“See you,” he said to no one in particular, but the words felt pointed.

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got you.”

Sam nodded back. And this time, Ryan saw it clear in his face: he believed them, even just a little.

Later that night, Ryan’s phone buzzed just as he was brushing his teeth.

He glanced down at the screen, expecting a meme from Jake or maybe a reminder from Connor about the quiz they were all about to bomb, but it was Dylan.

Ryan wiped his hands and hit accept on speaker, voice low as he walked back to his room. “Hey. Thought you’d be passed out by now.”

Dylan didn’t answer right away. On the other end of the line, there was the sound of a chair creaking. A breath was drawn in.

“He’s coming back, isn’t he?”

Ryan paused and sat down on the edge of his bed. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I think he is.”

Silence came again, but not the bad kind.

“I didn’t expect him to talk to me,” Dylan admitted. “Not like that. Not so fast. I was ready to just… sit there and watch. Be near it. That would’ve been enough.”

“He didn’t mean the stuff he said before,” Ryan said. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Dylan whispered. “We’ve talked about it. But hearing him laugh again? Hearing him throw it right back at me like nothing ever broke? God, Ryan, I almost lost it.”

Ryan smiled a little. “He missed you.”

“I missed him more.”

There was another pause. Ryan heard Dylan sigh quietly, something soft behind it. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion.

“He’s still guarded,” Ryan said. “Still cautious. But he stayed. He wanted to stay. That means something.”

“It means everything,” Dylan said. Then, quieter, “You guys kept him here.”

Ryan’s throat went tight. “We just didn’t want him to disappear.”

“He almost did.”

“I know.”

More silence.

Then Ryan exhaled. “Also, did you see it?”

Dylan’s voice held a note of confusion. “See what?”

“The monitor,” Ryan clarified. “He wasn’t wearing the strap.”

“Yeah,” Dylan breathed. “I’ve been looking every time. I thought maybe he’d just hidden it better. But… no. It was clipped to his waistband.”

Ryan went quiet. He hadn’t realized until now how much it meant that Dylan had noticed too.

“That strap,” Dylan continued, voice softer now, “he wore it like a seatbelt through a crash. Like if he let it go even a little, the whole thing would come apart.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. His chest ached. “But he didn’t wear it today.”

“No,” Dylan said. “He didn’t. He came into that room without it wrapped around his ribs, and he laughed, and he stayed.”

Ryan closed his eyes for a second, letting that settle in.

“It wasn’t everything,” Dylan said. “But it was something.”

“It was huge,” Ryan whispered.

They let the silence sit a little longer. It was warm this time, like the tail end of a long storm.

Then Dylan said, quiet but steady: “Keep watching for the little things, okay?”

Ryan smiled. “Always.”

____

The warmth didn’t quite reach Sam.

He sat cross-legged near the edge of the fire circle, hoodie pulled low on his arms, a stick in his hand. He wasn’t roasting anything or talking. Just dragging the stick through the gravel and occasionally jabbing it at the edge of the logs.

The flames moved bright and insistent, snapping at the air. Beautiful and dangerous. Alive.

Sam didn’t like fires. There was something about the way the flames moved. It was too fast, too hungry. Like it remembered him before he ever remembered it.

Someone was telling a story. Ryan, maybe. Something about tripping over a cooler at last year’s camping trip and screaming like a haunted cartoon. There was laughter. Jake wheezed. Connor threw a chip at him.

Sam half-heard it all.

The sound blurred at the edges. Not in a scary way, but distant, like he was watching from underwater.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He pulled it out automatically.

He almost didn’t answer. But then, without thinking, he did.

The screen lit up with Dylan’s face, half-shadowed by dorm lighting. He was eating chips and clearly not surprised to be answered without a word.

“Hey,” Dylan said, then glanced around. “That a bonfire?”

Sam angled the phone slightly. “Yeah. Backyard at Connor's. Someone said it was ‘friendship bonding.’”

“You roasting marshmallows?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Too sticky,” Sam said automatically, wrinkling his nose.

Dylan snorted. “That tracks.”

Sam didn’t smile, but he didn’t hang up.

He turned the camera so Dylan could see the other.

They didn’t notice. Jake was still teasing Ryan about his “emergency marshmallow scream.” Connor had started trying to toast three marshmallows on one stick. The speaker played an acoustic song that Sam didn’t know.

He watched the flames. The way they bit and curled, chewing through the wood slow and hungry. The way they did so reminded him of something that still lived in the base of his chest.

Then, without even knowing why, he said, “It’s weird how something that can destroy everything also smells like home.”

The words came out soft, no buildup or warning. It shut down the laughter immediately.

Jake turned first. Connor paused, stick still hovering. Ryan looked up from the snack table. Dylan froze on screen.

Sam felt the quiet wrap around him, but didn’t pull back.

He kept watching the fire. Let the heat finally sting his cheeks, the smoke catch in his throat. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t shove it down.

“There was a fire,” he said, eyes on the orange heart of the flame. “When I was a baby. It started in my nursery. My mom didn’t make it out.”

The wind shifted. The smoke curled sideways. No one moved.

“I was six months old,” he said. “And my dad, Dean, he was fourteen. He carried me out.”

Jake’s mouth opened slightly. Ryan lowered his stick. Connor looked like he’d stopped breathing.

Dylan didn’t say anything. He just watched, unmoving on the screen.

Sam kept going, quieter now. “I don’t remember anything real. I mean, I was a baby. But sometimes I think I remember the smell of the smoke. And something sweet, maybe. Like burning sugar.”

His voice didn’t tremble. But his hand, still holding the stick, did.

“I’ve never really liked fire,” Sam admitted. “Even before I knew why. I’d freeze up during campouts. Cover my mouth at barbecues. Every time I smell smoke, it feels like a warning.”

Jake walked over and sat down beside him.  Ryan followed a second later. Then Connor. One by one, they folded in again. Rebuilding the circle.

Dylan’s voice came through, quieter now. “Have you ever told them that before?”

Sam shook his head.

Jake passed him a marshmallow without asking. Sam stared at it for a second, then slowly ate half. It was still warm, a little burnt. Too sweet. Perfect.

He turned the stick in his hands and whispered, more to the fire than to them, “Sometimes I think I remember her heartbeat. Like… through the smoke. Before everything.”

No one laughed. No one flinched.

Jake pressed his shoulder lightly against Sam’s.

Dylan’s voice came through again, steady. “You carry her, you know. That heartbeat’s still in you.”

Sam blinked and swallowed. He didn’t respond. But when the log split and the sparks rose high, he didn’t look away.

He just stayed.

And for once, the fire didn’t feel like it was coming for him.

It felt like it was letting him speak.

____

No one spoke right away after the Impala pulled out of the driveway.

The taillights disappeared down the road, and the night settled in like dust.

Connor crouched low beside the fire pit, prodding the last glowing logs with the end of a blackened stick. Ryan leaned against the base of the picnic table, legs stretched, hood up now that the wind had picked up. Jake sat in his usual spot, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he’d meant to say something and forgot how.

The fire had burned down to coals. Warm, pulsing, and quiet. Smoke curled into the dark above them, thin and steady, the kind that clung to your clothes.

Jake stared at the embers. They looked alive. Breathing.

“He said Dean was fourteen,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Ryan murmured.

Connor didn’t look up. “Carried him out of a fire.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. The heat of the fire still touched his shins, but everything else felt cold.

“I thought I knew hard stuff,” he said. “You know? Life stuff. But… that? That’s the kind of thing people don’t say unless it’s burned into their bones.”

“He never even told us his mom was gone,” Ryan added. “I mean, we knew. Obviously. But he’s never talked about her.”

“Or that fire scares him,” Connor said, softer now.

Jake looked at the coals again, eyes tracing the cracks of red beneath the ash.

“It makes sense,” he said. “He always pulled back when we joked around with lighters.”

Ryan nodded slowly. “Yeah. He’s always sat further away from the bonfires than we have.”

They all let the silence sit with them now. Not awkward, but big. Like a shadow stretching long.

“He’s been carrying that his whole life,” Connor said. “And he told us. Just… let it out. Like he finally let the pressure valve turn.”

Jake’s voice came back low. “Because of the fire.”

Connor poked the logs again, watching a small flame flicker up, then die. “Because he was staring it in the face.”

“Or maybe,” Ryan said, slowly now, “because he trusted us enough to say it out loud.”

Jake didn’t have anything to say to that. He just sat still and let it land. It hit heavier than the silence had.

The fire cracked once. It was soft, not sharp, like it knew it wasn’t the enemy tonight. Just the witness.

Jake drew a line in the dirt with the toe of his sneaker.

“He didn’t say it for attention,” he murmured. “You could tell. He said it because it was leaking out of him.”

Connor nodded. “Yeah.”

“And his voice-” Ryan started, then stopped. “It didn’t even shake.”

That stayed with Jake. Because Sam had said it like he was handing them something fragile. Not for pity, not even for comfort. Just because it had been his alone too long.

They went quiet again.

Jake looked at the fire, what was left of it. It was just embers now. A red hum in the dark.

He stood slowly, dusting ash from his palms, and crossed to the edge of the pit. He poured a water bottle over the embers, silencing the glow.

The coals hissed, and a breath let go.

____

They had the corner table in the library to themselves.

Mostly because no one else wanted to sit that close to the ceiling vent that buzzed faintly overhead like a wasp trapped in the ductwork. But Sam had picked it last year, and once he did, it was theirs.

Even now, with midterms looming and the library full of tension-heavy bodies hunched over textbooks, no one touched the corner table.

Jake was slouched forward, muttering in all three Spanish tenses like he was trying to summon the ghost of his quiz. “Yo tuve. Tú tenías. We’re all gonna die,” he hissed, flipping a flashcard like it had personally offended him.

Ryan had a massive textbook open in front of him, earbuds in. He wasn’t reading - hadn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes - but his eyes tracked the same sentence again and again like it might make sense if he stared long enough. Now and then, he tapped his pen against his knee.

Connor was working through making flashcards for history and trying not to snap, but his pencil kept slipping sideways against the page. The lead was down to a nub, and the eraser had long since given up. His grip tightened too fast on the downstroke and-

Crack.

The pencil split. A clean break, half tumbling into his lap.

“Seriously?” Connor muttered, exasperated. “I swear this pencil wants me dead.”

From across the table, Sam didn’t even look up. He’d been hunched over his textbook for the past hour, silent and still, barely blinking.

He slid his binder sideways without comment.

“Front pocket,” he said, voice soft. “There’s a good one in there.”

Connor gave him a squint. “You’re not setting me up with, like, cursed graphite or something?”

Sam finally looked up, deadpan. “You’re not interesting enough to hex.”

Jake snorted behind his notes. Ryan cracked a smile without looking up. Even Sam’s mouth twitched, just slightly, before he dropped his gaze again.

Connor opened the binder.

Inside the front pocket sat a pencil. It was freshly sharpened, worn smooth on one side, the kind of tool that had seen use but hadn’t lost its edge. Along the side, printed in tiny, neat handwriting:

Dad’s, but I stole it fair.

Connor grinned. “Of course.”

But as he started to close the flap, something else caught his eye. A folded slip of paper, tucked into the crease where the cover met the spine. The graphite was soft, so faint it was almost part of the paper, but the shape was clear.

A fox.

Small and curled in on itself, nestled into the hollow of a hoodie that pooled around it like a blanket. Its tail looped back around its body, tucking it in, wrapping it safe. Beside it sat a tiny fire ring. It wasn’t roaring, it wasn't climbing. It was just a flicker. A calm, contained flame circled in smooth stones.

And above it, in Sam’s handwriting, small and even, unmistakably his:

safe here.

Connor froze.

Something in his chest folded in - sharp and quiet and warm. He stared for another moment, just breathing around the weight of it.

He gently pulled out his phone and took a picture, hands steady. Then tucked the paper back exactly where it had been. Flap closed. No trace left disturbed.

When the bell rang and they started packing up - Jake grumbling about conjugation, Ryan stretching like a tired cat, Sam moving just a beat behind the rest - Connor stayed silent.

Until they were walking out.

Then, once they’d split in the hallway, Connor tapped into the group thread. The one without Sam.

CONNOR: look what I found in his notebook

There was a beat.

Then-

RYAN: holy shit

JAKE: okay so he’s a fox now??

cool. just gonna go cry about that forever.

DYLAN: He gave himself a tail that wraps back. That’s safety.

JAKE: the hoodie. it’s literally him.

CONNOR: and the fire didn’t scare him

not in the drawing.

RYAN: he made the fire soft because it’s us

and now I’m publicly emotional, thanks a lot.

DYLAN: He’s starting to let it out.

Just a little.

We hold this, okay?

JAKE: like glass

wrapped in a hoodie

carried by a fox

CONNOR: i’ll print it and frame it and tape it to my heart

DYLAN: Then tape another copy to his, even if he pretends to hate it

Connor stopped in the middle of the hallway, still staring at the image. He zoomed in on the tail. The small, flickering fire. The relaxed shape of it all.

There was no panic in the lines. No fear in the shading. Just a strange kind of peace. Quiet and warm and real.

Just Sam. Soft and strange and shining through the cracks.

Connor smiled to himself, tucked the phone back into his pocket, and walked on.

And somewhere behind them, maybe, that fire still flickered.

____

The diner was warm in a way that made Sam feel colder.

It pressed against his skin like static-charged fleece: comfortable in theory, but too much in practice. The vinyl seat clung where his hoodie had ridden up. His ribs ached familiarly, like they always did at the end of long days, when the monitor strap started to feel like a question he hadn’t answered.

The ceiling lights buzzed faintly. A high, electric whine just above hearing range. He couldn’t tune it out. He didn’t really try.

Jake was dramatically recounting a story to Ryan while Connor was off in the restroom. It was something about duct tape and a locker and the assistant principal’s eyebrows being “unconstitutionally dramatic.” The words floated past Sam in loose orbit.

He stayed curled in the corner of the booth. His right foot was wedged between backpack straps. His left thumb pressed into the seam of his cuff in slow, rhythmic pulses.

The static wasn’t loud tonight. It didn’t roar like it sometimes did behind his eyes. It lingered. A fog, low and heavy, pressing in instead of exploding out.

He hadn’t touched his milkshake. Hadn’t touched the fries.

His bones felt tired in a way he didn’t know how to name, like even his breath was trying to move quietly so no one would notice him unraveling at the edges.

Then something outside the window shifted his focus.

It was a dog. Not just any dog, but a service dog. Gold fur, blue vest, and a confident, even gait. It trotted like it had somewhere to be and no interest in being afraid. The woman beside it wore scrubs and carried herself like sleep was a rumor. They passed the window without slowing.

But the dog turned its head right toward him, blue eyes locking on Sam.

Sam blinked. Something deep in his chest flickered; a low, unsteady light trying to remember how to stay on.

“Dogs can be trained to detect cardiac events,” he heard himself say, voice soft but clean, like the words had already been waiting. “They can pick it up thirty minutes before symptoms hit.”

Jake’s laugh stuttered off. “What?”

“Before the person even feels it,” Sam murmured. “They can smell the shift in biochemistry.”

Ryan leaned in. “How do you even know that?”

Sam hesitated. His thumb found the seam again. Pressed.

“I used to wish I had one,” he said.

He didn’t know why he admitted it.

Maybe because he was tired. Maybe because the fog was low enough to let the truth slip past. Maybe because the dog had looked at him like it knew.

Jake didn’t tease. He just looked at Sam, then shrugged like it was obvious. “Well, you’ve got four service dogs now.”

Sam frowned faintly. “What?”

Jake gestured around the table. “Us, dumbass.”

Something cracked open in Sam’s chest. Not in a way that hurt, but a split wide enough to breathe through. He didn’t laugh, but he exhaled, huffed a little, and let the weight pull his shoulders down.

He leaned back, not quite meaning to. He meant to tip toward the window again, but Jake had shifted just slightly, and Sam’s head landed against his shoulder instead.

Jake didn’t move. He just kept talking, a little softer now.

Sam didn’t correct his posture. He didn’t pull away.

His hoodie smelled faintly like detergent and cut grass. The letterman jacket Jake had dropped over his shoulder when they had arrived was warm. The diner lights blurred through his lashes. His chest felt tight and loose at the same time, like everything inside him was waiting for permission for this.

The buzz of the diner faded into a soft, indistinct hum. And for once, he didn’t fight it.

His last conscious thought was the dog saw me.

And then, Jake didn’t move.

____

Jake didn’t move.

Not when Sam leaned in. Not when the full weight of him settled slowly and hesitantly against his shoulder, like he hadn’t meant to fall but didn’t have the strength to stop it. Like his body had decided, finally, to stop bracing.

He just stayed still. Let Sam curl in, hoodie sleeves and all. Let the silence wrap around them. Let it hold.

The hoodie swallowed Sam up, the hem bunched awkwardly at his ribs. Jake’s letterman jacket had been passed over without a word when they first got to the diner, and now it lay draped across Sam’s frame like a shield. Too big, too warm. Perfect. Sam had pulled his hands inside the sleeves at some point, curling into the fabric like it was something sacred.

His head rested against Jake’s arm, breath soft and steady, eyelashes dark against his cheeks. His mouth was parted just slightly. He looked younger like this. Softer. Like the weight he always carried had finally slipped to the floor and stayed there.

Every so often, the heart monitor tucked beneath the layers blinked a faint green when the lights shifted - a quiet pulse, barely noticeable.

Jake felt something thrum in his chest. It wasn’t pain, it was quieter than that. Sadder. A kind of awe.

Like he was watching a wild thing curl up in the open for the first time.

Across the table, Ryan caught his eye. He didn’t speak. Just gave him a look - soft, knowing, weighted - and Jake nodded.

Yeah.

Ryan reached for his phone slowly, careful not to jostle the table. He didn’t turn on the flash. He angled it and captured one shot.

Sam’s head on Jake’s shoulder. The jacket like armor. A flicker of peace that only showed up when Sam forgot to hold himself tight.

That was the one.

He sent it.

Connor returned from the bathroom a minute later and froze when he saw them. He took it in silently - Sam slumped and sleeping, Jake a statue beside him - then slid into the booth next to Ryan, reached for a napkin from the dispenser, and scribbled something in block letters.

LET HIM REST

He set it gently on the edge of the table like a warning to the world.

Jake smiled faintly. “Guess we’re staying a while.”

Connor nodded. “Fine by me. Someone’s gotta guard the milkshakes.”

Ryan’s phone buzzed again with a call.

He answered immediately, voice low. “Hey.”

Dylan’s face lit up the screen. He was flushed from movement, hair wind-tousled, the sunset slanting across one side of his face like gold. He was outside somewhere. Ryan caught a glimpse of the track behind him, the outline of the gym door just swinging shut.

“You sent the picture,” Dylan said, breathless. “Is he still- can I see him?”

Ryan didn’t answer. He just turned the camera.

Dylan’s breath hitched audibly through the speaker.

“Oh my god.”

Jake didn’t look up, but he raised a hand gently toward the screen in a wave, still cradling Sam’s weight against him like it was instinct.

Connor leaned forward so his face came into view. “He was dead on his feet when we left practice. Sat down and just… tipped. Hasn’t moved in for half an hour.”

“He looks okay,” Dylan whispered. “Like, safe.”

“He is,” Jake murmured. “Swear it.”

Dylan turned away from the screen for a second, voice muffled. “I dropped a barbell mid-set. I just walked out the door. Coach yelled something, I don’t even know.”

“You’re here now,” Ryan said. “That’s all that matters.”

Dylan looked back at the screen, wiping quickly at one eye. “He’s really out?”

“Like a rock,” Connor said. “Not even the jukebox clattering woke him.”

“I miss him,” Dylan said, eyes locked to the image. “I miss all of you, but him- God. He looks so small.”

Jake didn’t speak. He just gently adjusted the jacket so it covered Sam’s wrist. Sam shifted slightly at the touch but didn’t wake.

Ryan let the moment stretch. Then he said softly, “You want us to keep you on?”

Dylan nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, just… put me somewhere I can see him.”

Ryan propped the phone up against the napkin dispenser, angling it just right.

“You’re good,” he said. “We’ve got him.”

The camera stayed steady on Sam’s face.

Dylan’s voice, barely above a whisper now: “Still here.”

Jake looked down at Sam, his little brother by choice if not blood, wrapped up in his jacket and breathing like the weight had let go.

“Still ours,” Jake said.

And for a long time after that, no one spoke.

The jukebox hummed something sleepy and old. The fries went cold. The milkshake melted untouched.

Sam didn’t stir.

The phone stayed propped on the table, glowing softly with Dylan’s image watching from miles away, like a promise they weren’t letting go of.

____

The garage was quiet in that wide, echoing way that only came late at night: tools asleep on their hooks, air cool with the scent of oil and old cedar. The overhead bulb cast a cone of light across the workbench, leaving the corners in shadow. Somewhere, under one of the windows, a spider had spun a silver thread that Sam could just barely see if he turned his head.

He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t want to see anything that delicate, not tonight.

Sam sat hunched on the stool near the old red tool chest, elbows on his knees, his sketchbook open across his lap. A faint graphite outline of their lopsided mailbox curled on the page. It was angled just wrong, like even paper couldn’t pretend it stood straight. He’d started sketching it with the intention of finishing, thought it might help settle the feeling in his chest. It hadn’t. The pencil had slipped from his fingers at some point and landed with a soft clink on the concrete.

He hadn’t picked it up.

His sleeves were tugged down over his hands again, knuckles hidden like a kid trying to disappear into cotton. One foot was still braced against the stool rung, the other flat on the cold floor like an anchor. Or maybe a warning, something his body understood before his thoughts did.

The monitor at his hip blinked calmly and green.

Inside, the thread hummed.

Not loud. Not sharp. Not like it had been on the field. But it was there buzzing under his ribs like a quiet alarm that hadn’t decided whether to go off. Not a vision. Not dangerous. Just the idea of one.

The space behind his eyes felt tight. His head ached. Not painfully, just persistently, too many half-formed thoughts trying to crowd into the same room.

He didn’t want it to mean anything.  He didn’t want it to start again.

He just wanted the quiet to be enough.

The door creaked long and low, a sound so familiar it barely registered anymore. Sam didn’t jump, but the hairs on his arms stood up like they were listening.

“Hey,” his dad said from the threshold, voice soft and low, like he already knew. “I didn’t see you inside.”

Sam didn’t look up. “Wasn’t sure I was.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

His dad crossed the room slowly, socked feet careful on the concrete like he didn’t want to scare the moment off. He crouched down in front of the stool and didn’t reach out right away. He just looked at him. Not through him. At him.

“You okay out here?”

Sam blinked, eyes stinging. He swallowed once, then again. His fingers flexed inside the sleeves, still knotted in his fists. “I don’t know.”

That earned a slow nod. Dad reached forward, steady and slow, and offered his hand: palm open between them, fingers splayed like a rope bridge.

“Count five things,” he said gently. “One for each finger. Doesn’t matter what.”

Sam closed his eyes and did as he was told.

The hum inside him didn’t disappear, but it lost its edge. Like it had been heard. Acknowledged. That was enough for now.

And then, one by one, he reached out and grounded himself in the only thing that made sense.

One. His thumb brushed over Dad’s pinky. The cold metal edge of the stool dug into the backs of his thighs.

Two. His fingers wrapped around the next. The sharp, familiar scent of old motor oil and cleaner in the air.

Three. His palm brushed the middle finger. The subtle, rhythmic tick of the old wall clock above Uncle Bobby’s tool board.

Four. He pressed Dad’s index finger gently. The quiet, steady pulse of the heart monitor beneath his hoodie.

Five. His hand curled around the thumb. His dad. Warm. Solid. Real.

When he opened his eyes again, Dad hadn’t moved.

“I’m here,” Sam whispered. “I’m home.”

His voice didn’t shake, but it was worn at the edges. A thread pulled taut and slowly loosening. Dad’s expression softened. He gave Sam’s knee a quiet squeeze.

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I needed.”

They didn’t rush the silence that followed. Sam didn’t need to pretend to feel better. Dad didn’t ask for anything more. It was enough just to be there.

Eventually, his dad’s gaze drifted down to the open sketchbook lying across Sam’s lap.

He tilted his head. “Is that the mailbox?”

Sam flushed a little, the tension easing just a hair. “Kind of. I was gonna fix the angle, but then it just… didn’t feel right.”

Dad huffed a soft laugh. “That’s because it never stands straight. That thing's been leaning like that since we moved in.”

Sam’s hand moved, almost unconsciously, tracing the crooked graphite flag with one hoodie-covered knuckle.

Dad smiled a little more, then said, “You remember that phase you had? The one where you kept asking me if I’d still love you if you turned into stuff?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, cautious but curious. “Uh… what?”

“You were seven,” Dad said, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You started with ‘Would you still love me if I was a werewolf?’ Then came the skeleton. Then if you ate all the bacon and blamed Rummy.”

Sam groaned. “I was such a weird kid.”

“You were the best kind of weird,” Dad said. “But the haunted mailbox? That was the winner.”

Sam blinked. “What did I even say?”

Dad’s grin went full. He shifted his voice into a high, deeply serious tone, an uncanny mimic of Sam’s old solemnity:“ I live in the front yard and creak when the wind blows. And sometimes people hear whispering if they open me too fast. But it’s just me, saying hi.”

Sam let out a breath. “No way I said that.”

“Oh, you did,” Dad said. “You were completely straight-faced. Thought it was tragic and poetic.”

Sam dropped his face into one hand. “That’s awful.”

Dad’s voice gentled. “I told you, ‘There’s nothing you could turn into that’d make us stop loving you.’”

He said it like it still mattered. Like it would always matter.

Sam didn’t laugh again, but he smiled. A little small, but real. He looked down at the crooked mailbox on the page.

Maybe it wasn’t haunted.

Maybe it was just him, saying hi.

____

Jake knew how Sam played now.

Precise. Controlled. Clinical. Every move measured to the inch, every pass perfect. He hit his marks like he was reading off a script. It wasn’t lifeless; Sam still cared, but it had lost the spark. The rhythm. The stupid, stubborn joy that used to come out when he really got into it.

Jake had started to think maybe that version of Sam was gone. Or buried too deep to come back.

Then Sam got the ball in midfield. There was traffic everywhere. One glance, one cut, one threaded pass that shouldn’t have been possible, and suddenly Connor was sending it into the net, clean as daylight.

The crowd roared.

Jake started to turn back to his position when he saw it.

Sam, jogging backward.

And then-

He bounced.

Not much. Just a light hop, quick and instinctive, like his feet forgot for a second that he wasn’t supposed to enjoy any of this.

But it was real.

Jake stumbled for a step.

Connor skidded up next to him, breathless. “Did he…?”

“Yeah,” Jake said, stunned. “He bounced.”

Connor was already half-smiling, still panting. “He used to do that all the time. After drills. After goals. Remember that dumb one-foot dance thing he used to do?”

“He used to grin,” Jake muttered. “He used to love this.”

Ryan’s voice rang from the goal. “What are you two talking about?”

Jake shouted back, “Sam just bounced.”

“What?”

“He bounced, Ryan. Like, on purpose. I swear to God.”

Ryan’s laugh cracked down the field. “Say it again, I didn’t record it.”

Jake groaned. “I don’t have my phone!”

“I always have my phone,” Connor moaned. “Why’d I leave it in my damn locker?”

Jake couldn’t look away from Sam.

Because Sam wasn’t shutting down. He wasn’t pulling into himself, hiding in precision. He was resetting. Light on his feet. Shoulders relaxed. Not smiling, not yet, but looser. Calmer.

Present.

Jake watched him slide back into formation like he belonged there. Not because he was required, but because he wanted to.

“I’m burning it into my brain,” Jake muttered.

Connor nodded. “Me too. We’re telling Dylan the second the whistle blows.”

Eventually, finally, the whistle blew. The final was score: 2 - 1, but that wasn’t what had Jake vaulting over the bench like his cleats were on fire.

“We’re calling him now,” Jake said, already yanking open his locker.

Ryan was right behind him, tugging his phone out of his duffel like it had oxygen in it. “I’ve got bars. FaceTime?”

“Obviously,” Jake said, tugging his jersey over his head. “We’re not telling him. He has to see our faces.”

Connor was already half out of his cleats, pulling off his headband. He glanced down the row of lockers to where Sam sat, towel around his neck, heart monitor now clipped to his waistband.

He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but he wasn’t leaving either.

Ryan ducked into the screen as the FaceTime connected. “Yo.”

Dylan’s face filled the phone, lit by a too-yellow dorm lamp. “You won?”

Jake shoved into the frame. “We won. But that’s not why we’re calling.”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

“Sam bounced,” Ryan said.

Dylan squinted. “Bounced?”

Connor leaned over Jake’s shoulder. “After the assist to Connor. Wait, I mean me. He bounced. Like he used to.”

“Full bounce,” Jake confirmed. “Little hop. Didn’t even think about it.”

“He didn’t even notice,” Ryan added. “But we did.”

Dylan’s face shifted, slow and stunned and just barely wet around the eyes. “You’re serious.”

Connor grinned. “Dead serious. He looked light. Just… for a second.”

Jake said, softer now, “He wasn’t just playing well. He was playing like himself. ”

Dylan sat back from the camera and covered his mouth. He let out a breath that sounded like it had been sitting in his chest for weeks.

“God, I needed that,” he said.

“We all did,” Ryan murmured.

Offscreen, a voice called, “Dude, you crying over soccer again?”

Dylan didn’t respond. He was still staring at the screen like he was afraid to blink.

Jake smiled, crooked and warm. “We’ll make it happen again.”

Connor glanced back toward Sam, who was now tugging off his shin guards with quiet focus. He wasn’t listening. But he hadn’t left.

____

Dylan was still staring at the screen when the camera jostled.

Jake turned toward someone offscreen. “Hey. C’mere.”

Sam’s voice, quiet and wary, filtered in. “What?”

Jake didn’t answer, shoving the phone into his hands.

“Talk to your big brother,” he said. “He earned it.”

There was a pause. A shuffle. The image tipped slightly as Sam took the phone, and Dylan was looking at him for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

The angle was a little low, a little unsteady. Sam had one shin guard off, socks half-peeled. Hair damp with sweat. Face flushed from the field.

And he was smiling.

It wasn’t big. It wasn’t loud. But it was real. Soft and crooked and so uncomplicated that Dylan forgot how to breathe.

“Hey,” Sam said.

Dylan blinked. “You won?”

Sam shrugged, still smiling. “We did.”

Dylan sat back in his chair like someone had knocked the wind out of him, but in the best way. He let out a shaky laugh. “Connor said you bounced.”

Sam’s smile crooked a little wider. “I didn’t even realize.”

“Yeah,” Dylan murmured. “That’s the best kind.”

Sam didn’t say anything after that. Just held the phone steady. Let Dylan see him.

And God, he looked like himself. Not all the way, not entirely. But for the first time in weeks, there was ease in him. A glimpse of light not crushed under pressure.

“You looked good out there,” Dylan said, voice soft and thick. “Like you.”

Sam ducked his head a little, sheepish. “Connor’s cross was perfect.”

From somewhere offscreen: “I accept your praise.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop smiling.

Dylan let the moment breathe. He didn’t push. Didn’t say what he wanted to say, not yet.

Just watched his little brother, alive in the quiet, and smiling like the weight wasn’t everything tonight.

“Hey,” he said finally.

Sam looked up.

“I’m proud of you.”

Sam didn’t respond right away, but he didn’t look away, either.

The smile stayed.

____

Connor tossed a chip into his mouth as he drove and said, “We should go to Ikea this weekend. I need shelves.”

Jake snorted. “You’re gonna get lost. Again.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you end up in the lighting section three times?”

“That was on purpose,” Connor replied with dignity. “Mood lighting.”

There was an easy rhythm to the conversation: snacking, chirping, winding down from practice. Sam leaned his head against the truck window, hoodie pulled high over his knuckles, and was mostly quiet. 

Then Connor added, “I swear, that store’s a maze. I think it changes.”

Sam blinked and sat up a little.

“It doesn’t change,” he said.

Three heads turned.

Sam rolled his shoulders back like he hadn’t meant to speak. But then, softly, like the words had already started and he couldn’t stop, he said, “It’s designed that way. It’s a behavioral trap. They lay out the floor plan like a hex grid to manipulate perceived forward momentum. You think you're progressing, but you're actually being funneled through impulse-buy zones.”

Silence.

Then Jake slowly lowered his fry. “What?”

Sam’s mouth twitched. “Ikea architecture exploits the Gruen Effect. That’s when the environment overwhelms you just enough that you forget your original purpose. They want you to wander.”

Connor blinked. “So the store gaslights you?”

Sam shrugged. “Efficiently.”

Ryan turned around in the passenger seat. “Dude. How do you even know that?”

“I read things,” Sam said, matter-of-fact.

His gaze slid sideways toward the rear view mirror, where he could see Jake’s stupid grin. Ryan nudged Connor with his elbow and mouthed, Don’t say anything , like Sam would vanish if they acknowledged it out loud.

But Sam caught that, too. He ducked his head, pulled his hoodie sleeve over his hand again.

The static behind his eyes didn’t vanish. But it didn’t press in as hard, either.

For a second - just a second - it felt like breathing was allowed.

____

JAKE: he just went on a full lecture about ikea’s layout strategy

like. out of nowhere

RYAN: he called it “a behavioral trap”

i choked on a fry

CONNOR: used the phrase “impulse-buy funnel zones” like he was reading from a cursed textbook

DYLAN: WAIT WAIT

WHAT???

SAM???

OUR SAM???

JAKE: dead serious

you should’ve seen his face

soft smile. hoodie sleeves. full nerd voice.

DYLAN: I NEED VIDEO

SOMEONE RECORD HIM RN

I DON’T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO ASK HIM TO EXPLAIN IT AGAIN

RYAN: can’t. he tucked back into his hoodie like nothing happened.

it was the perfect hit and vanish

DYLAN: He does that

Rage info-dumps and retreats like a little scholar cryptid

It’s not fair you got to hear that in person.

JAKE: you’d have cried dude. he was just. there. for a second

DYLAN: That’s all I need

Literally

A second is enough

CONNOR: we’re bringing him to ikea

he deserves to fight it in person

DYLAN: He’s gonna reverse-engineer the maze and lead us out like a mythic guide

JAKE: ikea questline unlocked

RYAN: final boss: the self-checkout

DYLAN: I’m putting “impulse-buy funnel zones” on a shirt

For him

____

Sam played like a machine.

Sharp angles. Fast turns. Voice steady, cutting through the field at practice like a metronome in cleats.

“Jake, inside! Watch the wing!”

“Connor, overlap, go!”

“Ryan, time it!”

The drills were clean. The execution was tighter than it had been all week. Coach didn’t yell once, which meant Sam was doing everything right, but he didn’t feel it. Didn’t feel the ball on his foot. Didn’t feel the sun on his shoulders or the stretch in his calves. He just felt the momentum. Just the noise in his ears and a rhythm in his breath that felt borrowed.

He wasn’t tired. He was filled with static, low and constant, like a signal that wouldn’t tune clearly.

Still, he called plays. Covered more ground than anyone else. Hit every cross clean. He didn’t smile once.

Then someone shouted, “What the hell- dog!”

The field fractured. Whistles blew. Voices lifted. Cones tipped.

Sam turned toward the chaos just as a blur of dark brown muscle and tail-wagging chaos tore onto the field from the far gate. A huge chocolate lab, ears flopping, paws thudding like drumbeats, charged directly through the defensive line like it had somewhere important to be.

Someone gasped. Ryan yelled, “That thing’s enormous!”

Jake shouted, “Coach, it’s got no brakes!”

Then the dog locked eyes with him and bolted straight at him like it had picked him from the crowd. Sam dropped the ball from his hands and instinctively crouched.

The dog didn’t slow down.

It barreled into his chest, full-body, eighty pounds of joy and gravity, and knocked Sam flat onto the grass with a bark that sounded like a laugh.

“Oof- hi, ” Sam wheezed, caught between breathlessness and disbelief.

The dog licked his cheek once, loudly, and then flopped on top of him like it had declared permanent ownership.

Sam laughed. Really laughed. The kind that cracked out of him unguarded and whole.

He wrapped his arms around the dog’s barrel chest and said, “You’re made of bricks and love. What even are you?”

The dog thumped its tail twice and huffed like it agreed.

From across the field, he could hear the boys. Not shouting, now whispering like Sam wasn’t supposed to hear.

Ryan: “Oh my god.”

Jake: “Look at him. Just look at his face.”

Connor: “Is he… smiling?”

Sam heard it. All of it, and didn’t look away.

He kept petting the dog’s ears, kept scratching its chin, and let the heat behind his eyes gather into something warm instead of sharp.

Coach approached, phone in hand, and read the tag dangling from the dog’s collar. “Well. Says his name’s Meatball.”

That broke the last of Sam’s composure. He wheezed. Actually wheezed. Fell halfway back onto the grass with his hands still buried in the dog’s fur.

“You’re named Meatball,” he whispered, like it was the funniest, most beautiful truth in the world. “I’m gonna cry.”

Jake dropped to his knees nearby. “You good?”

Sam nodded without looking away from the dog’s massive head. “I’ve been tackled by a dog named Meatball. I’m the best I’ve been all week.”

Coach got the owner on the phone, a neighbor two blocks over, apologetic and out of breath. The gate had been loose. Meatball had a habit of chasing good smells and, apparently, soccer fields.

“I think he’s yours now,” Jake muttered.

Ryan hovered a few feet back, phone in hand. Sam could feel the camera on him, but he didn’t care.

Connor laughed. “We just lost our captain to a sentient meatloaf.”

Still, no one pulled Sam up. No one rushed him.

He stayed on the grass for several minutes, one arm draped over Meatball’s back, the other scratching slow circles behind his ears. The heart monitor under his shirt blinked its soft, steady green. No tension. No pressure.

The dog didn’t bark again. Just breathed. Stayed.

Sam’s eyes fluttered half-shut.

He wasn’t thinking about drills or the hallway waiting behind his eyes.

He was thinking about how soft the dog’s ears were. How warm the grass felt. How, just for this moment, there was no static ringing in his ears or buzzing in his chest.

Jake said something he barely caught, something about “his whole face changed” and “did you see him?”

Sam didn’t reply. He just stayed quiet.

Still smiling.

____

It started again on Tuesday.

Not loud. Not suddenly. Just a flicker.

He was pulling off his cleats after practice - mud dried in the grooves, socks damp at the edges - when it hit.

A ripple behind his eyes.

Quick and high, like pressure from inside his temples. Like something flaring just behind the bone. It wasn’t painful, not really. Just… presence. Like being watched from the inside out.

He blinked and rubbed at his face as if it were sweat. Laughed at something Connor said.

He shook it off, but it came back.

Once in the hallway between chemistry and English, just for a second, the overhead lights stuttered. He didn’t even stop walking. Just looked up, blinked, and kept moving.

Once in the library, he bent to pick up a dropped pencil, and when he looked back up, the carpet under the study table was gone. In its place: white tile, cold and humming. His stomach lurched like the floor had changed underneath him and forgot to tell the rest of the world.

He closed his eyes. Counted to four.

Then Coach had said Haverford during the end-of-practice huddle, just said the word, and Sam felt it slam into his chest like a shout he couldn’t hear.

He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t flinch, not in a way anyone could see.

He just started carrying a pencil again.

He drew in corners. On crumpled practice schedules, worksheet margins, and receipts he forgot to throw away. Half of it was just motion: crooked frames, doorways he couldn’t quite place, repeating squares. A bent shadow. Sometimes just static. Black scribbles that started as nothing and slowly began to mean something.

Ryan saw it once, during a study session in the library. 

“What’s that?” he asked, halfway through a sentence about amino acids.

Sam looked down at the notes he wasn’t taking. It was just a door this time. Off-center. Slightly ajar.

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

Ryan blinked, nodding like he believed him.

Sam tried to believe himself too.

That night, he lay on his side with the hoodie pulled up over his ears, monitor strap tight under his ribs, eyes open in the dark.

He didn’t move because it was already there.

The hallway.

Longer now. Sharper. The tiles glowed faintly in the dark behind his eyes. The air felt stale. Wrong.

A door, halfway open, hummed like it knew his name.

He swallowed.

The static didn’t scream this time. It hummed. Familiar. Patient.

Waiting.

Sam curled tighter into the blanket. Told himself he just needed to sleep. Just exhaustion.

But even with his eyes closed, he could still see the light under the door.

____

The sun had already started its slow, sideways drop by the time practice started. Warm enough to sweat, cold enough for breath to fog when they stopped moving.

Coach barked out the warmup stretch order like military orders: quads, hamstrings, butterflies. They obeyed automatically, falling into mirrored rows like they’d been built for it.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He dropped into position with practiced ease, knees bent, feet together, elbows on thighs. 

Coach called for lying spinal twists.

Sam dropped back, exhaling as he stretched his arm across his chest, opposite leg pulled up.

That’s when it happened.

The sky overhead stuttered, just once, like a lightbulb flickering in a hallway.

Sam blinked.

Once. Twice.

The clouds snapped back into place like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t shifted into the wrong shape just for a second. He stared upward, breath caught at the top of his throat, ribs tight beneath the monitor strap.

Connor’s voice came from his left. “You good?”

Sam blinked again. “Yeah. Just… stiff.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t true either. Not where it counted.

They finished stretching without another word.

When Sam sat up, his head didn’t feel clearer. If anything, it felt heavier. Like the static had started to settle in the back of his skull and was just waiting, coiled and humming, for something to push it loose.

In the scrimmage, he played like his cleats were made of wire. Everything was sharp. Every pass was exact. Every steal was calculated.

No fun. No flair. No color.

He only faltered once, cutting too fast on defense, the same way he had at state. His knee held, but his ankle wobbled. It wasn't bad enough to stop him, but it was bad enough for him to remember.

He didn’t cry out or even look up. He just reset his position and played on like nothing had happened.

But Coach saw.

And afterward, when practice wound down and the final whistle blew, Coach’s voice cut through the settling noise: “Winchester.”

Sam turned slowly, heartbeat kicking against his ribs. “Yeah?” he said, voice even but cautious.

“You limping?” Coach asked, squinting toward him across the field.

“No,” Sam replied, too fast.

Coach didn’t flinch. “You’re tighter than usual. You’re leading with your shoulder again.”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, jaw tight.

Coach stared at him a second longer, unreadable. He didn’t nod, but he didn’t push either.

“Locker room,” he said flatly. “Wrap that ankle. Then rest it.”

Sam nodded. “Okay,” he murmured.

In the locker room, the lights felt too bright. Buzzing in a way that made the air feel thinner, like he was slowly running out of space between himself and the things he hadn’t told anyone.

He sat down too fast on the bench, compression shirt clinging too tightly against his ribs. The monitor strap itched like it didn’t belong. His breath stayed shallow.

But he kept breathing like it was enough.

Jake dropped down next to him without a word. He tossed the wrap into Sam’s lap like it wasn’t personal.

“Connor’s grabbing tape,” Jake muttered, pulling off his cleats. “You want me to tell your dad you tweaked your ankle again?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “You gonna tell him?”

Sam didn’t answer.

Ryan came around the corner a moment later and dropped a protein bar on the bench with a soft thunk. “For after,” he said simply. “You look pale.”

“I always look pale,” Sam muttered, eyes still on the floor.

“Yeah,” Ryan said softly, folding his arms as he leaned against the locker row. “But not like this.”

Connor reappeared then, expression unreadable, the tape in his hand already unspooled. He sat down on Sam’s other side without a word and reached for his ankle.

Sam let him.

He didn’t wince. Didn’t protest. But he flinched, just slightly, when Connor pressed the bone just below the joint.

Jake caught it. His brow furrowed. “Same one as state?”

Sam nodded once. “It’s not bad,” he said, voice low.

Connor didn’t reply. He just kept wrapping, slow, careful, and practiced.

Ryan hadn’t moved. He was still watching like he was solving a puzzle without the edge pieces. One only Sam could finish.

No one asked about the way Sam kept rubbing his temple like he was trying to ground himself. Or the door he’d sketched in the corner of his water schedule - and then crossed out four times.

No one said Haverford.

But it was there, pressed into the silence between them.

Waiting.

____

Sam moved on autopilot. Shoulder to the lockers, hoodie sleeves over his palms, thumb tracing the frayed seam near his left wrist like it held the map to somewhere quieter. The bell had rung five minutes ago. English next. Two rooms down. Easy.

He could do easy.

He was still doing okay. Sort of.

His ankle ached, but not enough to limp. His head hadn’t buzzed in hours. The static was low today, like white noise in a distant room, something he could almost pretend wasn’t waiting just past the corner.

His sketchbook was in his bag, zipped up. His pencil was in his pocket, unused since lunch.

He was winning. Quietly. Almost.

Until the alarm went off.

It didn’t ramp up or warn, and it hit like a freight train.

A shrill, electric shriek exploded above his head like a scream wired wrong. It was loud and sharp and too much. The fluorescent lights overhead blinked once with the surge, just enough to crack the illusion.

The tiles looked wrong, just for a second. Too clean and white, not school tile. Not now tile. Somewhere else. Somewhere colder.

The hum in his ears bent sideways, sharp and warped, like a voice caught between frequencies.

His body stopped. One foot mid-step with a breath caught in his throat that was stolen from him.

The hallway twisted, just slightly. The floor under him blurred, like the tile was wrong, like it didn’t match the ones from three seconds ago. Too white. Too shiny. Too much like-

No.

His brain tried to speak that word.

No. Not real. Not now.

Around him, students reacted the way students always did for a fire drill: groans, flinches, slamming lockers. Someone near the stairwell shouted something about “false alarm.” Someone else laughed.

But none of it reached Sam.

His hands clenched into the sleeves of his hoodie. His fingernails dug into fabric. The heart monitor didn’t beep, but he could feel it thrumming against his ribs like it was trying to hold a line steady inside a storm.

The hallway wasn’t changing, but his mind was.

That door, the one in his head, was open now. Not fully, but enough to let the hum out.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

He jerked. Not a full jump, just a recoil, like something inside him peeled back fast.

“Hey. Sam.”

Connor.

His voice didn’t sound alarmed, but it was layered, concern buried under calm.

Before Sam could try to nod or speak, Jake appeared at his other side, backpack slung halfway down one arm. “It’s a drill,” he said gently, eyes scanning Sam’s face. “Just a drill. You’re alright.”

Sam blinked.

Connor and Jake bracketed him now, shielding just enough of the chaos to give him space. Jake stepped slightly in front, herding a few students aside with a subtle shoulder-check.

“You good?” Connor asked again, softer now.

Sam tried to nod. He didn’t succeed. 

Another alarm pulse went off, deafening, and this time his hand twitched toward his chest like he could press it down. 

Make it stop. Make it all-

“Okay,” Jake said, already moving. “We’re going out. You don’t have to do anything. Just walk.”

Connor fell into step beside them as Jake turned Sam gently toward the stairwell. They didn’t rush him. They stayed close, keeping pace like a buffer.

The lights above them flickered again as they passed under.

Sam didn’t flinch this time, but his fingers curled around his backpack strap like he was holding something shut from the inside.

By the time they stepped into the crisp afternoon air, Ryan was already waiting just past the sidewalk. He clocked Sam’s face immediately and joined the other side as they moved toward the lawn.

The noise dulled as they got further from the building. Students stood in clusters. Teachers took counts. Someone was laughing too loudly near the parking lot. A group of freshmen were pretending to scream like it was an apocalypse drill.

Jake shifted slightly to glance at Sam again. “You want to sit?”

Sam nodded. It was small, barely more than a dip of his chin.

Then his knees buckled. Not dramatic, just quiet and sudden. His body had been holding him up on credit, and the bill finally came due.

Jake caught his arm. Ryan stepped in instinctively, steadying him from the other side. They guided him down onto the edge of the sidewalk, careful and slow.

Ryan passed him a water bottle. Jake’s, from earlier. Sam took it. He didn’t drink, but he held it tight.

And after a moment, after the sirens faded into memory and the crowd thinned around them, Sam leaned. Not much, just enough for his shoulder to find Connor’s. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t think he could, not around the static still buzzing in his head.

But Connor didn’t move. He just sat there, grounding him without pressure.

Beside him, Ryan shifted slightly closer too. Silent, steady.

Sam stayed like that: quiet, but present.

Still here. Still not alone.

____

It hadn’t even been a few hours since the fire drill.

Since the shriek of the alarm split the hallway open like a wire snapped in his chest.

Since the lights flickered and the tile shifted and the static behind his eyes surged so high it almost felt like music, wrong and dizzying and too close to the hallway he could never quite outrun.

Since Jake and Connor and Ryan had helped him down onto the curb without saying anything loud. Just steady. Just there.

And now-

Now he was here.

Back in the strategy room. The air smelled like dry-erase markers and sweat-soaked turf. The projector hadn’t been turned on yet.

It started with the board.

Coach stood at the front, jaw tight, tapping the edge of the marker against the whiteboard like it was a challenge. Formations were already scrawled in overlapping blue lines, names and numbers half-erased and rewritten, #11 circled in red. Twice.

Sam sat near the end of the row. Hoodie sleeves pulled low. Pencil cap in his mouth. Not drawing. He hadn’t all day. He was just biting down to ground himself. His monitor strap pressed firmly under his ribs, a quiet reminder. Still here.

His fingers itched for his sketchbook, but he hadn’t brought it.

Coach turned, voice flat. “Haverford doesn’t change. Same lineup. Same structure. Same tactics. And they’re gonna go after 11 again.”

The air in the room changed.

Jake, beside him, stopped spinning his pen mid-turn. Connor exhaled softly like he’d known this was coming but still hated hearing it out loud. Ryan adjusted how he was sitting, foot tapping just once against the linoleum before going still again.

No one turned to look at Sam, but he felt it like a weight redistributed around him. Like pressure. Like silence that had been waiting for a reason to land.

He just stared at the board. The number circled in red, over and over.

#11.

He pressed the pencil cap harder against his back teeth. Held it there until his jaw started to ache.

The marker squeaked as Coach underlined Haverford twice.

Sam’s ears buzzed faintly. Not the static. Not yet.

But close.

It didn’t feel like a strategy. It felt like a warning.

And deep down, he already knew.

He wasn’t getting ready for a game. He was getting ready for a hit.

____

The turf was wet when the strategy session ended. Not soaked, but slick in the way that punished hesitation. Clouds sat low like they were watching.

Sam didn’t mind.

He stepped onto the field with his cleats already tight. Hoodie traded for a training jersey, heart monitor blinking under layers no one could see. He didn’t joke, didn’t stretch with the others, just took his place in the drill lines and started moving.

Jake offered him a fist bump.

Sam nodded instead.

Coach called them in, went over warmup rotations, and pointed toward midfield. “Scrimmage sets. Keep it tight. Heads up.”

Sam was already jogging before he finished the sentence.

He played like a machine. Sharp passes. Tactical cuts. He didn’t slow down, didn’t play sloppily, but there was no rhythm in it. No ease. No lift.

Just forward. Always forward.

Jake called for a switch. Sam anticipated it and sent the ball slicing between two defenders, and turned back on his heel before Jake could say thanks.

Connor winced after a collision. Sam didn’t pause.

Ryan’s cleat caught a divot. Sam didn’t glance over.

Coach yelled for tempo. Sam was already three steps ahead.

What good was a captain if he couldn’t carry pace? What good was a playmaker if he folded when the game turned violent?

Sam didn’t want to hear that answer, so he braced.

He braced with every pivot, every header, every tackle that landed heavier than it needed to.

Because last time, Haverford had gone for his ribs.

Last time, he’d baited the foul that sealed the win, but it came at a cost: bruised ribs, an ankle monitor, and his heart monitor flashing yellow in front of the entire stadium.

And he still remembered what Dylan looked like in that moment, standing over him on the field. How his dad looked, racing over the sidelines. How Uncle Bobby refused to say anything at all.

Sam planted hard on a turn. Too hard.

His ankle twinged. Not sharp, but there. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just shifted his weight and kept playing.

Jake noticed first.

“Hey,” he started after one aggressive push off. “Sam.”

Sam didn’t look at him. He intercepted a pass, kicked it wide, and called out the reset like nothing was wrong.

Connor said later, under his breath to Jake on the sideline, “He’s not playing anymore. He’s prepping for damage.”

And Jake just swallowed hard. Because they both knew the truth.

Sam wasn’t leading them into the Haverford game.

He was leading himself to the hit, so none of them would have to.

After practice, the locker room was humid with effort and barely muted silence.

Cleats thudded against tile. Someone’s locker door slammed with more force than necessary. The shower hissed on and off behind the far corner, steam curling like ghosts no one was ready to acknowledge. The smell of turf sweat and grass hung thick in the air - dense, damp, clinging to his skin and sticking in the back of Sam’s throat like static.

It wasn’t loud yet, but it was there.

He sat at the edge of the bench. Legs spread slightly, one foot flat, the other elevated on the ball of his heel. His sock was rolled down, blood dried along his shin in a flaky streak. He’d scraped his leg, he’d felt it sting once during a slide, but didn’t remember when it happened. The pain didn’t register the same anymore. It just filed itself somewhere under the static.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He just folded a rough paper towel and dabbed at it mechanically, like removing evidence more than treating an injury. Then reached for the athletic tape like it belonged in his hand. Like this was what came next in a checklist.

Step one: get hurt. Step two: hide it. Step three: keep moving before the visions catch up.

Jake shifted beside him, reaching for his towel and freezing mid-motion. “Sam. That’s…”

Sam kept his eyes on the tape. “It’s fine.”

Jake squinted. “It’s bleeding.”

“Not really.”

Across the room, Connor paused with his protein drink half-raised, straw still in his mouth. Ryan stopped halfway through zipping his gear bag. Neither spoke, but the air changed. Cooled by the silence, drawn tighter by the tension they all felt but didn’t name.

Sam tied off the tape and stood.

His ribs stretched tight, a dull soreness blooming from earlier when he’d collided with a defender shoulder-first and didn’t bother to roll with it. He ignored the ache, peeling off his jersey and reaching for a fresh shirt. The motion was careful, but not slow.

He didn’t wince. That would’ve felt like admitting it.

The static buzzed quietly under his skin. It wasn’t a scream, it hadn’t been one since the fire drill. It was a low current, somewhere between bone and breath. Always waiting. Always humming, like a radio between stations.

And behind it, that door. Half-open. Just enough to let in flickers.

A white hallway. Cold tile. A voice he couldn’t place whispering just past the threshold.

He hadn’t drawn it yet today, but he could still see it.

Jake stepped closer now. “You’re not supposed to break yourself before the game.”

Sam paused, just for a breath. His hand lingered at the edge of the hoodie he was pulling over his head. He didn’t meet Jake’s eyes.

“I’m not broken,” he said. It came out flat. 

He dropped onto the bench again, hoodie falling into place, sleeves swallowing his hands. The hem bunched slightly where his monitor strap pressed underneath - small, green light still blinking, still steady.

Still okay on the surface.

Connor crossed the room without a word and tossed him something soft. Sam caught it reflexively. An ice pack wrapped in a folded towel.

“Just in case,” Connor said, like it didn’t mean anything.

Sam didn’t thank him, but he set it gently against his ankle. Not like it hurt, but he knew it would if he didn’t.

The scrape pulsed. His ribs ached. His skin itched faintly from salt and sweat and something more abstract. A pressure. A shimmer. A warning he couldn’t name but couldn’t unfeel either.

He kept seeing the moment from last year.

The tackle. The whistle. The breathless rush of the crowd right before everything spiked - ankle twisted, ribs screaming, monitor blinking yellow under his jersey like a tiny silent alarm.

It felt like it was happening again already.

He could feel it building. The static. The edge. The hallway.

Sam leaned back against the cinderblock wall, hoodie drawn over his arms like armor. The cold pressed into his shoulder blades. The hum of the shower faded out.

The room settled into soft, uneasy noise: laughter that didn’t quite land, bags being zipped, studs clicking against concrete.

No one asked him anything else, but he could feel them watching.

____

The front door clicked shut softly behind Sam when he came home.

Dean didn’t look up right away, but he clocked the sound of Sam’s cleats hitting the floor with that uneven drag that meant something wasn’t right. Too careful and quiet, like he was trying not to limp.

Dean put down the paperwork he was putting together for a customer and finally turned. Sam was halfway across the living room, sleeves swallowed down past his palms, his face unreadable but distant in a way Dean had started to recognize too easily.

“Tough practice?” he asked casually, keeping his voice level.

Sam shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. Just long.”

Dean's eyes flicked to his posture, the way Sam moved deliberately and stiffly, guarding one side like it might give out if he wasn’t careful.

He nodded towards the kitchen. “Ice packs are in the freezer.”

Sam didn’t argue. He just went and grabbed the cold pack, wrapped it automatically in a towel, and stood there like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Dean crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Sit.”

Sam let himself be steered to the couch without a word. Dean crouched in front of him, hands steady, and peeled back the sock with careful fingers. The tape holding the wrap in place was fraying. The scrape underneath was worse than he expected, angry and raw, still bleeding faintly around the edges, grit from turf embedded deep in the skin.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean muttered.

“It looks worse than it is.”

Dean didn’t answer. He stood and returned with warm water, antiseptic, and a clean rag. He settled back into place like he’d done a thousand times before.

He was gentle, but thorough. Sam hissed once when the cloth passed over the worst of it, but he didn’t pull away; he just watched his own hands clenched tightly in his lap.

Dean cleaned the wound, checked it twice, then rewrapped the ankle slowly. His thumbs worked the ice pack into place, not too hard, just enough pressure to keep it steady.

When it was done, Dean started to stand, but Sam’s hand caught his sleeve.

It wasn’t firm, wasn’t desperate. It was a quiet reach, like something inside had softened, and Sam wanted to stay that way.

Dean sat down next to him without a word.

Sam shifted, almost cautiously, and tucked himself in. He leaned into Dean’s side like it wasn’t a decision. Dean wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in, and felt the way Sam settled, bit by bit, like pressure bleeding off the edges of something tightly coiled.

The ice pack rested across his ankle. His heart monitor blinked green under the hem of his hoodie. His face was turned just enough that Dean couldn’t see his eyes, only the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

No words. Sam didn't explain, but Dean didn’t need one.

He just sat with his kid tucked under his arm, one hand rubbing slow circles into the fabric at Sam’s shoulder.

____

The sun was low enough to turn the field gold at the edges, but the air still clung with heat. Practice should’ve been over twenty minutes ago.

“Final drill!” Coach shouted. “Break the press. Fast cut. Defensive fallback. Go!”

Sam was already moving before the echo faded. His cleats cut hard into the turf, muscles tight, motion sharp.

He called the run, called the pressure, moved into the cut, and threw himself straight into the collision.

He didn’t even flinch, timing it just right. He calculated the contact point like a physics problem that he already knew the answer to.

It worked last time, he told himself. It worked. It hurt, but it worked.

And maybe that was the trade. Pain for points. Bruises for proof.

The defender wasn’t even being aggressive, but Sam took the hit like a dare. He let it fold him just enough to make the fall look real. It would’ve drawn the card in a real game. He knew the angle, knew the risk.

That was the point.

His shoulder hit first. Then his hip. Grass ground into his palms. His ankle, already sore, twisted just a little too far.

He hissed, but didn’t cry out. He didn’t move either.

The whistle blew. Not practice’s end, but just stop .

“Winchester!” Coach barked.

Sam blinked up at the sky, face tight. His heart monitor was still green, but the band under his ribs felt like it was gripping him.

Jake was there first, dropping to one knee. “Jesus, Sam-”

“I’m fine,” Sam muttered, already trying to sit up.

“You hit the ground like a dead guy,” Jake snapped, catching his elbow. “That didn’t look fine.”

Ryan came up fast, already peeling the wrap from his wrist like he was ready to re-do Sam’s ankle. “We told you to back off after the last drill. You’re not supposed to test limits today.”

Sam looked between them. The sunset behind Jake made it hard to focus. “It’s just prep.”

“For what?” Ryan demanded.

“For Saturday,” Sam said.

Jake’s voice cut sharper. “You mean for hurting yourself again?”

Sam froze.

Across the field, Connor slowed to a walk, watching but not interrupting yet. Coach had turned away, barking instructions at the subs, pretending not to see.

Sam pulled away from Jake’s grip and sat up fully. “It worked last time.”

“You could barely stand after last time!” Jake snapped.

“Yeah,” Ryan added. “You won the foul, and then you had to go to the urgent care for X-rays.”

Sam’s breath caught. He didn’t want to talk about that. Not now. Not with Haverford looming like a shadow.

Jake exhaled and dropped to sit beside him, knees up, arms braced over them. “Sam, you’re playing like you expect to go down. Like that’s what makes you a captain.”

Sam stared at the grass. He didn’t answer.

Ryan crouched in front of him, quieter now. “You don’t have to get hurt to prove you matter.”

Sam’s jaw worked. “You think I’m trying to get hurt?”

“I think you’re expecting it,” Jake said. “And that’s worse.”

Silence settled like heat, thick and uncomfortable.

Connor finally walked over, dropped Sam’s water bottle beside him, and stood behind the other two.

“We need you on the field,” he said. “Not on the ground.”

Sam said nothing, but he reached for the water and didn’t argue when Jake stood and offered a hand.

____

The silence in Ryan’s car wasn’t new, but this time, it pressed in heavier.

Sam sat with his hoodie sleeves over his hands, one knee drawn up slightly in the passenger seat. His backpack sat at his feet, cleats muddy from drills. In the back seat, Jake sat with one knee bouncing, fingers tapping against his thigh. Connor stared out the window, earbuds in but no music playing. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the soft clinking of Ryan’s water bottle in the cupholder.

Sam didn’t mind the quiet usually, but today it stuck in his throat.

Ryan cleared his throat once and didn’t look over. "You know you don’t have to do it again, right?"

Sam blinked. "Do what?"

Ryan didn’t answer at first. He made a slow turn past the gas station, thumb tapping the wheel. "You know what," he said eventually.

Sam looked out the window. The clouds looked low. Like they were watching.

"Last year," Ryan continued, voice careful. "You baited them. You knew they’d hit you. You got the foul. Got us the goal, but it cost you. You couldn’t walk right for weeks."

Sam didn’t respond. His fingers curled tighter in his sleeves.

Connor pulled out one earbud. "You played like you didn’t care what happened after. And now you’re doing it again."

Jake leaned forward slightly, arms on the back of Sam’s seat. "You’re playing like you want it to happen again."

That made Sam move. He sat up straighter, jaw tight. "I’m playing to win."

"You’re playing like you’re waiting on a stretcher," Jake said.

The words hit sharply. 

Sam shook his head softly. "You don’t get it."

Ryan pulled down his gravel drive and shifted into park. He didn’t turn off the engine.

"We get more than you think," Ryan said.

The car stayed quiet. Heavy.

Jake spoke again, softer. "You don’t have to prove you’re willing to break. We already believe in you."

Connor added, "But we need you to start the game and finish it. On your feet, not in the back of an ambulance."

Sam stared out the windshield. Then down at his hands.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he said quietly. His hands were clenched inside his sleeves. “It worked last time.”

"Trust us instead," Ryan said. "Enough to believe we’ve got your back. Enough to believe you don’t have to get broken for us to win."

Sam didn’t speak. He shifted his weight. The ankle he’d taped extra tight ached.

Jake said, quieter now, "Just don’t play like the stretcher's already waiting."

The car was too quiet.

Sam opened the door.

"It’s not your job to decide how I play," he said.

He stepped out.

Sam walked up the driveway, backpack slung over one shoulder, heart pounding like it was trying to warn him of something he didn’t want to hear.

____

The field was empty in the late evening, the sky stretched wide and bruised above them, streaked in soft gold and lavender. Ryan kicked a divot near the sideline. The other two boys didn’t speak right away.

They had just dropped Sam off. He hadn’t looked back, and the rest of them had ended up back at the field, somehow.

Jake shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and muttered, "We can’t let him go into that game like this."

Connor paced a few steps toward the bleachers, then back. "We already said it all. In the car. Before practice. During practice. He’s not hearing us."

"He is," Ryan said. "He just doesn’t believe us."

Jake kicked at a bottle cap. "Then who’s he gonna believe?"

No one answered for a beat.

Then Ryan glanced at them both. "We call Dylan."

Connor frowned. "We already did that. A dozen times. He’s tried, but Sam’s not answering."

"I don’t mean to call him to talk to Sam," Ryan said. "I mean, we ask if he can come. To the game."

Jake blinked. "You think he would?"

He pulled out his phone and hit the contact without hesitation. "I think he’d already be here if he could. Let’s find out."

Two rings.

"Ryan?" Dylan’s voice was immediate, tired but focused.

"Hey," Ryan said. "We just left Sam’s."

There was a beat. "Yeah? How’s he doing?"

Ryan exhaled. "Not great. He played today like he was already bracing to get hit. Like last year. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t dodge. Just absorbed it."

Jake leaned in. Connor stopped pacing.

"Shit," Dylan said softly. "Is he talking to you guys?"

"Not about any of it," Ryan said. "We tried. He shut down. And the game’s in two days."

Another pause. Then the sound of rustling, like Dylan was already moving.

"Is there any way," Connor said, "you could come?"

There was a hitch on the line.

"I was already planning on it," Dylan said, quieter now. "It’s my spring break, and some of the seniors managed to convince my coach to cancel workouts for the week. I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up in case he changed his mind last minute, but yeah. I’m coming."

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah," Dylan said. "I’ve missed you guys. And I’ve been worried."

"When are you getting in?" Ryan asked.

"Friday night. I’m crashing at my mom’s; she already knows. Don’t tell Sam, alright?"

"Not a word," Connor promised.

Jake grinned. "He’s gonna lose it."

"Good," Dylan said. "He needs someone to shake him loose. I can do that."

They stayed on the line a few more minutes, lining up the plan, making sure the timing would work.

When they finally hung up, the three of them stood a little straighter.

____

The locker room buzzed around him, but Sam barely registered it.

Shin guards clattered to the floor. Velcro straps ripped open and shut. Someone thumped a water bottle against a bench, counting under their breath. The air smelled like menthol and turf and nerves. Familiar, but too close.

Sam sat at the end of the row, ankle bent over his knee, fingers working fast.

The tape was already halfway wrapped. Tight, precise, and mechanical.

Too tight.

He didn’t notice.

His mind was somewhere else. Or maybe it was nowhere at all. The static wasn’t roaring, not exactly, but it hovered. Like breath against the back of his neck. Like the hum of fluorescent lights just before they blew out.

He pulled the tape taut again, muttering under his breath, “Almost done…”

Then a hand landed gently on his wrist.

“Hey,” Connor said, kneeling beside him. “You’re gonna cut off circulation.”

Sam blinked down. The tape had gone gray from the pressure. His knuckles ached.

Connor didn’t wait for permission. He just unwrapped the last layer carefully, then started again. Slower. Steadier. The way Sam used to do it before he got used to bracing.

“You’re not prepping for war,” Connor murmured. “It’s a game.”

Connor finished the wrap with a practiced tug, then gave the ankle a light tap. Secure, not smothering.

Sam let out a breath.

He reached for his jersey and pulled it on over his compression shirt. The monitor underneath blinked once. Green, steady. Not loud. Not visible. But there.

As he adjusted the hem, Ryan walked past him. He tapped two fingers lightly over Sam’s chest, where the strap ran under the fabric.

Sam blinked again. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. Just… breathed.

His fingers found the edge of the bench.

The sounds of the locker room rose again: a senior was swearing about his shin guards, Coach barking a time check, Jake making some crack about “Haverford looking like a discount villain squad.”

It felt like noise. But also, somehow, like a shield.

Coach clapped once, loud and sharp, cutting through the air like a shot.

Everyone stilled.

“Alright,” Coach said, stepping to the middle of the room. “I’m not gonna do the full speech. You’ve already done the work. You know what they’re gonna throw at you. You know how they play. I don’t want pretty. I want smart. I want us to walk off the field whole. Got it?”

Heads nodded, Sam’s among them.

Coach’s eyes lingered on him a beat longer than the rest, but he didn’t single him out. He added, “And remember: leadership doesn’t mean breaking. It means lasting.”

Sam didn’t look away.

“Let’s go,” Coach finished. “Tunnel in two.”

The boys moved. Jerseys were tugged into place, laces checked, and sleeves rolled. Sam stood slowly, weight balanced, ankle wrapped right this time.

Jake handed him his captain’s band.

____

The tunnel pressed like a heartbeat.

Every step toward the light felt heavier than the last, his cleats echoing against concrete, his monitor a quiet buzz under the fabric of his jersey. Sam walked at the front, not because he wanted to, but because it was expected.

The crowd was a wall of noise when they broke onto the field. The sunlight was too sharp, the colors too bright. Haverford’s team was already warming up, a blur of maroon and black at the far end. The bleachers were packed, the band in place, and the familiar home sideline buzzed like static.

Sam didn’t look up. He couldn’t, not yet.

His fingers flexed at his sides. Every muscle in his body felt wired wrong. Too tight, too alert, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. His monitor strap was still there under the compression shirt he always wore during games, but today it wasn’t cinched like armor. It was just snug. Secure. Not a warning, just a presence. Still, he felt its ghost across his ribs like a breath he hadn’t released in weeks.

Then Ryan bumped his shoulder as they walked.

“Left side,” he said, low and steady. “Top third row.”

Jake added, “Go on. Look.”

Sam did. And the second his eyes locked on the corner of the stands, the breath punched out of him like he’d taken a hit to the chest.

Blonde hair, tucked under a baseball cap. Red hoodie. Dylan, sitting between his dad and Uncle Bobby like he’d always been there.

Dad had his arms folded across his chest, chin tilted just enough to let the pride show. A soft smile clung to the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for this moment and didn’t want to scare it off. Uncle Bobby leaned forward on his knees, grumbling something that probably ended in “idjit,” but even from here, Sam could tell it was fond.

But Dylan was looking right at him.

And when their eyes met, something in Dylan’s face cracked wide open. All the weight Sam had been carrying on his shoulders fell away in a blink.

Dylan lifted one hand. No theatrics, no big gestures. Just a simple wave, like a promise.

I’m here.

Sam stopped walking.

His feet just… forgot. One cleat scuffed the turf, his heel planted crooked, and he stood frozen like someone had unplugged his spine.

His chest fluttered, but not with static, not this time. It was something else. Something quieter. A pulse.

He blinked, and the corners of his vision went blurry. 

Jake nearly walked into him. “Dude.”

But when he saw Sam’s face - the wide eyes, the parted mouth, the sheer disbelief tightening every inch of him - Jake’s voice dropped.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “He’s glitching.”

Ryan came up alongside them and whistled under his breath. “I’ve never seen him blue-screen in real time.”

Sam didn’t react to the teasing. He couldn’t. He was still trying to remember how to breathe.

“How… what…” he rasped. His voice cracked halfway through.

Jake just smiled. “He wanted to see you play.”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. Still nothing.

Connor, jogging ahead, called over his shoulder. “You good?”

Sam blinked again, harder this time. His throat ached. He didn’t nod at first.

Then he did. Once sharply. Then again, slower.

The monitor clipped to his waistband blinked green. His chest still felt tight, but it wasn’t the old pressure. Not the static. This was a weight he wanted to carry.

He started jogging toward the formation. The turf felt real under his cleats. The air didn’t sting. His breath evened out on the second inhale, and his limbs moved like they belonged to him again.

And just before he reached his position, he looked back one more time.

Dylan still had his hand raised. Dad hadn’t stopped smiling. Uncle Bobby leaned back with a look that said Told you so.

____

The light hit differently on Haverford’s turf.

It was sharper. Too clean. It bounced off the fresh paint lines like a warning, the kind of bright that made Sam's eyes ache even through a squint. The bleachers loomed on either side, packed with the usual game-day crowd, but Sam barely saw them.

He was too focused on the sound in his head.

The static was back, low and steady, humming under his sternum like a thread pulled too tight. It was a constant thrum of pressure right where last year’s bruises had bloomed.

He adjusted his armband as he scanned the field.

Spacing, wind, lineup. Keep your head down. Stay in the zone.

It worked.

Mostly.

The first five minutes passed in pieces. 

Sam ran his routes. He tracked back on defense. His passes were clean, his calls sharp, but none of it felt like him. It was too smooth. Too measured. Like he’d been programmed to do everything right without letting anything through.

The Haverford players were already getting physical, shouldering into him harder than necessary, testing the edge of what the ref would allow. He didn’t react or push back. He just kept playing.

From the sidelines, Coach shouted. The team adjusted. Ryan barked from the goal. Jake swore under his breath when a pass got intercepted.

But Sam stayed locked in a little too tightly.

Nothing flared. Nothing sparked. There was only that pressure behind his ribs, steady and watchful.

Until-

“SAM!”

His name rang out, sharp and bright, cutting through the noise like a thread snapping tight.

He didn’t know which of them said it. It could’ve been his dad. It could’ve been Dylan. It sounded like both. He looked up on instinct, heartbeat stuttering, vision locking onto the stands.

And there they were.

Dad’s hands were cupped around his mouth, grin crooked and proud. Uncle Bobby stood beside him, yelling something that might’ve been “run your line, you stubborn idjit.”

And Dylan was just smiling, wide and bright, like he’d waited weeks to see Sam exactly like this.

And just like that, something shifted.

The static in Sam’s chest didn’t disappear, not entirely, but it loosened. Cracked. Let the light in.

His foot met the ball cleaner. His breath steadied. The field snapped into clarity. It wasn’t a trap or a stage, but a map he still knew how to read.

The ball hugged the inside of his cleat as he pushed forward, scanning the left wing before cutting in.

Foot over foot, controlled and fluid. He caught the rhythm, the pressure, the pull of the defenders converging. His jersey tugged against his shoulder blades. His heart monitor blinked green under the fabric. He didn’t need to look to know.

He didn’t see the Haverford defender until the last second.

Number 8. Broad shoulders, buzzcut, eyes already narrowed like he wanted to start a fight. He slammed into Sam shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Sam could smell turf and sweat and whatever gum he had been chewing.

“You gonna dive again, golden boy?” the guy sneered, crowding him toward the sideline. “Try to get another foul called like last year?”

The words should’ve hit harder. They didn’t.

He just turned his head slightly, like the whole thing bored him, and said, casual as air, “Nah. Thought I’d go for humiliation this time.”

Then he moved.

The ball snapped forward with a toe tap, behind his heel, then up and around Number 8’s cleat in one dizzying spin. His momentum carried with perfect precision: low center, shoulders tilted, balance already leaning forward as he cut hard inside.

Number 8 flailed. Sam didn’t. He sliced past him like a shadow cutting through a floodlight, clean and close, and never looked back.

Gasps erupted from the bleachers like a firework misfired.

Someone on the Haverford bench yelled, “What the-?”

Jake, sprinting up the far line, bellowed, “YES, SAM! ”

Ryan, from the goal, smacked the post and yelled, “LET’S GO!”

Connor tried not to double over laughing as he ran. “That man just got spun into next week.”

Sam grinned. For the first time in months, it didn’t feel like he was pushing himself through the motions; it didn't feel like he was waiting to fall.

He was here. He was playing. It felt like freedom.

From the stands, his dad’s voice boomed again, half a cheer and half a claim. “That’s my kid! ” Uncle Bobby threw a fist in the air beside him like a proud old bear.

Dylan stood, half out of his seat, one hand over his mouth, the other clenched into a fist. His face cracked into the biggest grin Sam had seen in a year, like watching Sam be himself again was all he’d ever wanted.

He passed the ball down to Jake at the corner and took off again, eyes up, feet sure.

For the first time in weeks, the game made sense again.

And he knew who he was in it.

____

The crowd hadn’t stopped buzzing since the spin. Sam could still feel the echo of it, but he didn’t dwell.

He moved.

The game surged around him like a current, and this time, he didn’t resist it. He read it.

Jake tapped the return pass toward midfield, but Sam dummied it with a quick shoulder feint and let it roll past, right into Connor’s path.

“Man on!” Sam called, already spinning.

Connor one-touched it back, Sam one-touched it to the wing, and their striker met it on the run.

Three passes in less than two seconds.

Sam stayed moving, cycling back to cover midfield, checking the angle of the sun on the field, and adjusting their formation without waiting for instruction. He caught Ryan’s eye and pointed, one subtle shift in the back line, and Ryan nodded.

“Shift left!” Sam barked, sweeping his hand across the field. “Tuck in behind, now!”

His team obeyed without hesitation.

“Kid’s running the game,” Coach muttered. 

The next Haverford push was messier, desperate. Number 12 came in hot on a loose ball, cleats a little too high.

Sam didn’t blink. He dropped low, met the challenge, and stole it clean. The contact was solid, the kind that would’ve made him flinch two weeks ago.

Now, he stayed on his feet.

Ryan whooped from the far end. “YEAH, CAPTAIN!”

Sam turned the ball cleanly out of pressure, sent it long to Jake, and kept running.

The tempo was up now, and so was Sam.

A long pass came from Ryan, more of a hopeful clear than a true cross, but Sam tracked it anyway, sprinting across midfield. The Haverford winger stepped into his lane too early.

Sam didn’t break stride.

He jumped, trapping the pass with the side of his foot midair, and spun on the landing, pushing forward like he’d had that ball tethered the entire time.

The bleachers gasped again.

On the Haverford line, Sam heard someone mutter. “Where the hell did this kid come from?”

From the stands, his dad was still standing, fists clenched but proud, eyes tracking every step. Dylan sat forward in his seat, hands on his knees, mouth open just slightly.

The last few minutes of the half played out with the ball glued to Sam’s feet. He didn’t score. He didn’t have to; he set up everything else.

And when the whistle blew for halftime, Sam jogged off the field, breath coming fast but steady. His jersey clung to his back, and his hair stuck to his temple.

And for the first time in a long time, Sam didn’t feel like a shadow trying to pass.

He felt like a captain.

____

The locker room door slammed open, bouncing on the hinge as Jake barreled in like the walls couldn’t hold him.

“WHAT- ” he shouted, spinning toward Sam with both hands in the air. “Okay. No. Seriously. What the hell was that?!”

Sam blinked, halfway through retying his cleats.

Connor came in behind him, eyes wide, laughing like it had broken something loose in his ribs. “Bro. You trapped that volley midair like you had magnets in your socks.”

Ryan stumbled in last, dragging the goalie gloves off his hands. “And don’t think I didn’t see that pass string in minute twenty-six. One touch to Connor, heel flick back to you, pass to Jefferson-”

Jake collapsed onto the bench beside Sam and smacked his shoulder lightly. “You spun their captain. Their captain, man. I think his ankles filed a missing person report.”

Sam huffed. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. 

Connor dropped his water bottle and pointed. “No, hold on. The one where you caught the rebound with your chest and turned on it before it hit the ground? I thought the laws of physics just packed up and left.”

“I thought he was gonna fall,” Ryan added. “I mean, you didn’t, but still-”

“No flinch,” Jake said, over them. “That’s what got me. You didn’t flinch once.”

Sam looked down at his socks. His ankle twinged, but it wasn’t sharp. His heart thudded, but not in warning. The monitor under his jersey blinked green and steady, unnoticed but present. Just like him.

And it was true, he hadn’t flinched. Not at the crowd, not at the contact, not at the way number 8 had tried to rattle him with words from last season.

He just played, and the boys had felt it.

Ryan dropped onto the floor by the bench, chugging half his water bottle. “First few minutes, I was worried,” he admitted, quieter now. “You were back to the checklists. Straight lines. No bend.”

“But then-” Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then you saw us again.”

Sam blinked.

Connor sat against the lockers, stretching his legs out. “You remember what you shouted at me when we flipped sides?”

Sam shrugged faintly. “Told you to push left early.”

Jake grinned. “No, man. You snapped it. Like the game was talking to you again.”

Ryan nudged Sam’s shin. “You made us better. Every play, every touch.”

Jake nodded. “And we’re not saying it so you’ll break yourself again, but so you know that it wasn’t a fluke.”

Sam sat still for a moment, letting the noise happen around him. The yelling. The reenacting. Jake miming his fall during the backspin assist, Ryan groaning dramatically about his knees, Connor pretending to announce SportsCenter highlights.

But in the middle of all of it, Sam just smiled.

The noise hadn’t quite settled when the door creaked again. Coach stepped inside, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.

Everyone straightened fast.

Coach looked at them for a long moment and then turned to the whiteboard.

“We’re up by one,” he said simply. “But that doesn’t mean they’re done swinging.”

He tapped his marker twice against the board. Click-click.

“They’re going to adjust. They’ll press tighter. Hit harder. Try to get under your skin.”

He turned, eyes narrowing just slightly. “They’re going to come for Sam. They'll want revenge for last year.”

The silence dropped like a pin in a glass jar.

Sam’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t drop his gaze.

Coach didn’t soften.

“But it won’t work,” he said, voice even. “Because Sam’s already beating them. Not just with speed. Not just with plays. But with control. With trust. With you.”

He looked at the rest of them now.

“I don’t care if you win by four or hang on by one. I care that you play as a team. I care that you leave this field knowing you didn’t let fear call the shots.”

Sam felt something shift in his chest. A flicker low behind his ribs. Not static this time.

Conviction.

Coach clipped the marker back to the board. “You’ve got forty more minutes. Lock in. Stay clean. And someone, please remind number 8 what a yellow card means.”

That got a few grins.

Coach stepped aside, arms crossed. “Line up in two.”

Jake clapped Sam’s shoulder once. Ryan stood and tossed him his water.

Connor bumped his shin lightly with a smirk. “You good?”

Sam nodded. Not automatic. Not a lie.

Real.

“I’m good.”

And this time, he meant it.

____

The second half started with pressure.

Tighter. Meaner.

Sam could feel it before the whistle even blew. The way Haverford’s midfield tightened. The way their defenders crept higher, shoulders loose and eyes locked on him like he was a mark, not a player.

Within minutes, it was clear: they’d made a decision.

Target #11.

It started subtly. A body check here, a shove at the sideline. Quick, quiet hits timed just out of sight of the ref.

But Sam stayed on his feet. Quick passes snapped between him and Connor, then out wide to Jake, sharp and instinctual. He didn’t hesitate. He moved like he belonged again.

When one of the Haverford midfielders muttered, "Let’s see if your monitor still works after this," right before a clipped knee caught Sam mid-turn, he didn’t even blink. He absorbed the contact and still sent the ball through with a heel flick that left the defender red-faced.

Jake bellowed, “Touch him again and I swear-”

Coach was already yelling from the sideline. His dad stood up in the bleachers, fists clenched. Uncle Bobby grabbed his arm but didn’t pull him back.

Sam rose steadily. Bruised but breathing.

They weren’t getting to him. Not this time.

Five minutes later, it happened again.

Sam cut toward the top of the box, and #4 caught him hard: cleat to ankle, the kind of foul you didn’t come back from easily. Sam hit the turf, wind knocked out of him.

The whistle stayed silent.

Ryan slammed his hand against the goalpost. “CALL THAT!”

Connor and Jake surged forward to help him up. Ryan’s voice echoed across the field. The crowd was loud now, booing and shouting. 

Sam blinked against the sky, ribs tight, vision swimming. The static threatened for half a second, just a flicker, but he shoved it back. Forced it down with a grit of his teeth as he stood.

The whistle finally blew, not for the foul, but just a throw-in.

Later, Sam got boxed into the sideline with two defenders breathing down his neck. He tapped the ball between one’s legs and stepped into space, but the second came barreling in, shoulder to chest.

He didn’t fall this time, but he stumbled, and the whistle finally shrieked.

From the stands, one voice cut through everything: “KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HIM!”

It was Dylan, half out of his seat and eyes blazing.

Jake just smirked next to him. “I wondered how long he’d last.”

Sam had heard Dylan’s voice like it reached straight to the field, and he laughed. Out loud.

Then, in another moment, a bad bounce. Sam backpedaled, caught it with his back heel , spun once, and sent it flying to Ryan, who’d made a surprise run up the sideline. The whole thing looked impossible.

Jake wheezed, “You smiling, Winchester?”

Sam grinned, wide and real. “You bet.”

Play stopped a few minutes later after a Haverford player twisted his ankle. Sam suspected he was faking it, but Coach called him off to the sideline during the stoppage.

Sam jogged over. Fast, but not careless. The monitor blinked green. Fast, but steady.

Ryan met him halfway.

“Breathe,” Ryan said, hand braced between his shoulder blades.

Coach crouched to eye level. “You good?”

Sam nodded. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Sam nodded again, slower. “Yeah.”

Coach stood, looking back toward the field. “Then go remind them why they hate playing you.”

Sam grinned again and jogged back into the storm.

____

The ball hit the back of the net with a sick, ugly thunk.

It wasn’t a clean goal. It came off a crowded scramble in the box. Connor had tried to punch it clear, someone elbowed Ryan off balance, and the rebound skimmed straight to a Haverford striker’s knee. One wrong bounce, one second too slow. Just like that, 1 - 1.

The whistle shrieked, and Sam’s breath caught behind his ribs.

Jake slammed a fist against his thigh. “Bullshit.”

Connor let out a guttural exhale from the goal. Ryan cursed under his breath, pacing a small circle like it might rewind time. Coach was already shouting something from the sidelines. Encouragement, orders, Sam couldn’t make it out.

Sam stood still at midfield, hand braced on his hip, his shirt sticking to his chest.

His heartbeat was a little too loud. Not from the run, but from the way the momentum tilted. That sick tilt, like the game had been theirs, and now it was Haverford’s turn to reach.

Behind him, cleats scuffed the turf.

“You’re slipping, golden boy,” came a voice low and smug.

Number 8, again.

Sam didn’t turn around. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and grounded himself. Counted the studs on his cleats. Stared down the field like the scoreboard hadn’t changed.

But inside-

A flicker.

Quick. Cold. The tug behind his eyes again.

The faintest shimmer of a hallway where grass should be. Light leaking around a doorframe that didn’t belong here.

Not now.

He blinked once sharply. He kept breathing through his nose.

In the stands, the crowd shifted, voices rising and falling. He couldn’t hear his dad or Uncle Bobby or even Dylan. Just static. Just the buzz.

Just the pressure building in his chest like a warning.

He didn’t move until the ref blew the restart whistle.

____

The ball skidded wide off a deflection, bouncing crookedly along the touchline.

Sam was already moving.

His legs burned. His ribs throbbed like a second heartbeat. His vision tunneled at the edges every time he pivoted too fast.

But none of that mattered. The ball was still in bounds, and there were only minutes left on the clock.

I can do this. Just a little more. Just until the whistle. Then I can stop.

He felt it before he heard it: a buzz. Not from the crowd, not from the field, but from somewhere inside him. Deep and wrong and alive.

White tile. Fluorescent lights. The hallway.

No, no, no. Not now.

But it was there. Waiting. The hum in his ears matched the light overhead, that cold hallway breath pressing in against his ribs like a second set of lungs, trying to steal his own. He could feel the door inside his ribs. Waiting. Watching.

Each step was pain carved into muscle memory. His ribs burned. His ankle ached. But that was fine. It was real. He could fight through real .

But the static… the static was not real. And it was growing louder. It pressed against the inside of his skull like pressure before a storm. Cold. Electric. Patient.

Not yet. Please. Just one more play. Just let me finish this.

Connor veered left. Jake circled behind. Ryan watched from the goal like a shadow.

Sam chased the ball. The moment. The final thread of control that was holding him upright.

The monitor at his hip blinked green.

Still green. Still green.

The ball flicked in from Connor’s pass. Sam caught it with the inside of his foot and turned. Pain lanced up his side. He ignored it.

Jake was open.

Sam struck. The ball carved through the defense like a blade.

Jake caught it. One touch. Shot fired.

The net snapped.

Whistle.

2 - 1.

Final.

The stadium erupted. Benches emptied. The crowd surged.

His dad must have shouted. Sam knew that somewhere, but it didn’t reach him. Because the second the whistle blew, the static inside him detonated. 

His head jerked slightly. Not from any impact, but from something cold and wrong threading through his skull.

The hallway slammed into focus.

White tile. White lights. That door inside his ribs tore open, no resistance left to stop it.

He staggered half a step. His foot caught on nothing.

The monitor at his waist blinked once.

Green.

Then-

It paused.

A flicker.

Red.

His knee buckled.

Then the other.

One second he was upright, and the next, the ground caught him like a secret.

His cheek hit the turf.

Grass tangled in his lashes.

The red light blinked once more beside him, slow and sure.

And everything else stopped.

No bench. No field. No Jake. No Connor. No Ryan. No Dylan.

Not even his father.

Just static.

A tidal wave of it, crashing through the cracks in his ribs.

He was on the field.

He was in the hallway.

He was nowhere at all.

His fingers twitched.

His eyes didn’t.

The static cracked the sky, and he slipped through.

Chapter Text

The field was chaotic in the best way. The kind that came with a final whistle and a roar that shook the bleachers, loud enough to rattle ribs.

Sioux Falls had done it again; they’d beaten Haverford. Again.

Jake had Ryan in a headlock, dragging him toward midfield and shouting something incoherent about “back-post royalty!” while Ryan laughed breathlessly, chest heaving, too wrecked from adrenaline to care. His face was flushed, eyes wide like he hadn’t even fully registered it yet.

Connor had dropped to his knees near the top of the box, both hands in his hair, face tilted toward the lights like he needed the sky to confirm it. Like the universe itself had to say yes.

The crowd was exploding behind them, a wave of stomps and shouts and clapping thunder.

Coach was hugging one of the assistants. Teammates were sprinting down the sideline. Banners waved in the bleachers.

The boys were already looking for Sam.

Jake turned in a half-circle, scanning the field like he expected Sam to materialize right in front of him. “Where is he?”

Ryan pushed sweaty hair out of his eyes, grinning. “Where’s the smug little assist king?”

They were used to it by now: his bounce, his smirk, the gleam in his eyes right before he threw his arms out wide like you’re welcome, world. He always showed up first. Always threw the first one-liner, always took the first hug like it belonged to him.

But he wasn’t coming.

Jake’s grin wavered. His hand loosened on Ryan’s shoulder.

“Wait,” he said again, quieter this time. “Where is he?”

Connor stood slowly, like the weight of the moment had shifted. “He should’ve- he always-”

Then they saw him. Sam wasn't running; he wasn't even walking. He was standing still in midfield, alone.

His hands curled at his sides. His head tilted, like he was listening to something only he could hear. Like the stadium had gone silent around him, and none of them had noticed yet.

Then he staggered. Not a fall, not yet, just a half-step. A shuffle. His foot caught on nothing.

Jake’s voice dropped, hoarse: “Guys-”

Another twitch. Sam’s hand lifted to his chest.

Then he collapsed.

No stumbling. No gasp.

His knees buckled like the air had vanished beneath him. His body hit the turf hard enough that Jake winced. It was a full-body drop, limbs loose, face turned toward the ground.

The sound of it cracked across the field, a thud that overrode the cheers.

And just like that, the celebration broke.

“SAM!”

Connor was the first to sprint. Jake was half a second behind, cleats tearing into the grass. Ryan ripped off his gloves mid-run, flinging them without looking. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes locked hard on Sam’s unmoving body and never left.

From the sidelines, Dylan saw it all happen in a blink. One second, he was making his way to the field, ready to celebrate with them. Next, he was vaulting the sideline bench and sprinting like the real game had just started.

They reached him all at once.

Sam lay curled on his side, one leg bent awkwardly under the other. His jersey was twisted, his arm limp against the grass. His chest barely rose. His skin wasn’t flushed from effort; it was pale. Gray.

“Sam.” Dylan dropped to his knees, voice already shaking. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His hands shook as he pulled up the edge of Sam’s jersey, revealing the small heart monitor clipped tight to his ribs.

Red.

Blinking.

Furious.

“Shit,” Dylan whispered. “It’s red. It’s red. That’s a full alert.”

Jake skidded in across from him, voice cracking. “What the hell does that mean?”

Dylan didn’t look up. “It’s not a yellow. It’s not a warning. It means his heart’s freaking out. Spiking or crashing or- or something. Something’s wrong. ”

Sam twitched. A single violent jerk, like a wire sparking and then severing.

Then he was still again.

“Sam!” Connor dropped hard to the ground beside them. “Come on, man, say something! Look at us.”

Ryan crouched at Sam’s feet. His hand hovered for a second, then rested gently against Sam’s shin. “He’s freezing.”

Jake moved, shielding him from the stadium lights with his body. “It's too bright. He hates those. Just- just keep it off him.”

“He was fine two minutes ago,” Dylan said again, voice rising. “He was fine.”

“He wasn’t,” Connor said quietly. “He didn’t smile. He didn’t celebrate. He knew.”

Sam’s eyes cracked open. They were fluttered and unfocused, like he was trying to stay tethered. His mouth moved once. Then again. But no sound came.

Dylan leaned in, voice breaking. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. We’re right here, Sammy.”

Sam twitched again. His fingers flexed weakly. Not reaching, just reacting.

His gaze drifted up, past all of them, unfocused and empty. Like he wasn’t seeing them at all.

Then his eyes slipped shut.

Coach Miller’s voice tore across the field: “AED! MEDICS! MOVE!”

Trainers sprinted. The team doctor crashed across the sideline with the defibrillator in hand.

Ryan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Breathing’s shallow. He’s fading.”

“Stay with us, Sammy,” Jake whispered, wiping his face with the back of his wrist. “Don’t you dare leave right now.”

“You’re not allowed,” Dylan said, voice cracking. “Not here.”

Behind them, the stadium had gone quiet.

A whole field of people holding their breath.

Sam lay silent, except for the monitor.

Red. Still red. Still screaming.

____

The stadium was silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

As if the whole place had been vacuum-sealed in panic. No one moved. No one breathed.

Except Dean.

Dean moved.

He didn’t remember getting over the rail. One second, he was clapping, shouting Sam’s name from the bleachers with pride overflowing like a flood, and the next, he was running.

Because Sam had dropped.

Dean had seen it. Seen the way his kid went rigid, then loose, like a switch had flipped inside his spine. One step after the final whistle, and then nothing. Not a fall, a collapse.

And the monitor was red.

Dean hit the turf at a dead sprint, boots digging in like he could outrun time.

The crowd blurred. The lights blurred. Even the sideline melted into white noise. He didn’t hear Bobby calling after him. Didn’t see Coach shout for medics. Didn’t feel the fence bruise his ribs as he cleared it.

There was only one thing in front of him now: his son. Sam, curled on the grass, limp as a ragdoll.

The boys had gotten there first. Jake was crouched beside him, trembling. Dylan hovered protectively at Sam’s shoulder. Connor knelt at his back, frozen mid-breath. Ryan stood like a statue at his feet, one hand still extended like he didn’t know what else to do.

Dean’s voice tore loose, raw and sharp: “MOVE!”

They didn’t hesitate.

Jake scrambled back. Connor shifted. Ryan stepped aside. Dylan didn’t leave, but he moved just enough to let Dean drop in close, hand outstretched, already reaching.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.

His palm cupped the side of Sam’s face. The heat under his fingers was wrong. Damp. Faint. Sam’s skin was too cold where it should've been warm, and too flushed where it should’ve been pink.

The monitor blinked red through the stretch of his jersey.

Dean’s breath stuttered.

He pressed two fingers to Sam’s neck.

Pulse. Too fast.

Sam’s eyelids fluttered.

“Hey,” Dean said, voice fraying. “C’mon, baby. Look at me.”

Sam didn’t respond. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His jaw moved. Then stilled.

Dean leaned in, close enough that their foreheads almost touched.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Someone was shouting nearby. A trainer dropped to the ground. A medic called for a line to be cleared.

Dean didn’t move.

His thumb smoothed across Sam’s cheekbone. “I’m right here. You don’t have to fight it alone.”

The monitor kept blinking. Red. Red. Red.

Dylan’s voice cracked behind him. “It happened so fast.”

Dean didn’t answer. His whole world had narrowed to a single point: the boy under his hands, the twitch of his fingers, the shallow hitch in his breath.

“You don’t get to go quiet on me, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was shaking now. “Not like this. Not after everything. You hear me?”

Sam twitched, a faint curl of his fingers against Dean’s leg.

He turned his head, just for a second, and screamed, voice cracking with desperation. “Where the fuck are the medics?”

Behind him, the medics finally broke through.

“Sir, we’ve got him,” one said, already opening the red kit. “We need room to work.”

Dean looked up, but he didn’t move from Sam’s side. “He’s my son. I’m staying right here.”

The medic hesitated, but something in him must have made itself clear, because he nodded.

Dean lowered his head again, forehead brushing Sam’s curls, one hand on his chest, grounding them both.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “Because I need you to be.”

Sirens hit the air, distant and rising, too real.

And the world caught up.

Dean didn’t flinch. He kept one hand on Sam’s chest, feeling every shallow rise and fall like it was the only thing anchoring the earth in place.

The medic next to him snapped on gloves with a practiced flick. “Monitor’s still red. His oxygen’s low, skin’s losing tone. We need vitals, pads ready.”

“Pulse is erratic,” the second medic said, crouching with the defibrillator already unzipped. “BP’s dropping. It’s close to a critical event.”

“He’s got a heart condition,” Dean said flatly. “Congenital murmur. Monitored since he was seven.”

The first medic didn’t ask for a file. “Understood.”

Oxygen tubing came next. One medic slipped the mask over Sam's face, adjusting it with careful hands. Another clipped fresh leads under his jersey, reading vitals from a small portable unit. The beeping changed pitch: rapid and stuttered.

Dean didn’t look at it.

He watched Sam. His son twitched again, one foot kicking slightly. Not conscious, not gone, but caught somewhere in between.

“You’ve got him?” Dean asked, voice raw.

“We’ve got him,” the woman said. “But we’re not waiting. Ambulance is seconds out.”

Dean exhaled once, shaky. “Good.”

Behind him, the boys hovered just outside the circle. Jake stood with his hands buried in his hair, elbows trembling. Connor sat in the grass, head down, knuckles pressed into his eyes. Ryan paced in tight, controlled lines. Dylan hadn’t moved. He sat right where Dean had first seen him at Sam’s shoulder, his hand still resting there like he was anchoring Sam to the earth by sheer will.

Dean didn’t tell them to go, didn’t tell them to stay. They just were , a ring of quiet desperation, waiting.

Then the siren hit full volume. The ambulance appeared at the edge of the field, lights cutting sharply through the crowd.

Dean stood just as the stretcher rolled over the turf. He didn’t move far, just enough to let them lift Sam, one medic steadying his neck while the other adjusted straps across his torso and thighs.

Sam didn’t stir.

The monitor on his hip blinked red once more, then synced to the machine at the medic’s side.

Dean followed them step by step. As they reached the boundary line, he looked back, just once, and saw the boys watching him go.

Dean turned back, climbed into the ambulance, and never looked away from Sam’s face.

Just before the doors shut behind them with a hollow clunk, Bobby caught Dean by the arm and said something about meeting them there. He nodded faintly, not truly processing the words.

As they pulled away, Dean caught one last flicker of motion through the gap: four boys on the edge of the field, still waiting for their teammate to come back.

____

The sirens split the night open, jagged and too loud against a sky that had gone far too quiet.

Red and white strobes pulsed across the turf, casting long, fractured shadows that didn’t match the shapes they came from. The scoreboard still blinked the final score, stubborn and irrelevant. No one looked at it. No one cared. The win already felt like it belonged to another life.

The celebration hadn’t just ended, it had evaporated.

In the stands, people stood stunned. A few students lifted their phones, then slowly lowered them. Parents pulled their kids close. The roar of victory had collapsed into a rustling fog: confusion, dread, half-whispered questions that trailed off before they finished.

Across the field, players froze mid-step. A water bottle thudded to the grass and rolled. One of the defenders took two uncertain steps forward and stopped, mouth parted. Another boy, someone from the bench who’d been shouting seconds ago, now just stared across the field like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

And still in midfield, the boys stood frozen in the cold glow of ambulance lights.

Same cleats. Same uniforms. But not the same anymore.

Because five minutes ago, Sam had been there.

Laughing. Calling plays. Shoulder-checking Jake with that crooked grin. Letting himself be with them in a way he hadn’t in weeks, like something had finally lifted.

And now the medics were lifting that same body - too limp, too still - onto a stretcher.

Dean climbed into the ambulance without hesitation, one hand wrapped tight around Sam’s wrist as if he let go, the world would fall apart. Bobby caught up just as the last medic reached for the doors. He stepped in, firm and steady, and touched Dean’s arm. The gesture was small, but it made Dean pause.

The boys couldn’t hear what was said. Not over the sirens, not over the distant hum of voices. But they saw the way Bobby leaned in. The way Dean turned toward him, and something passed between them. A look. A weight. A wordless exchange that meant I’ve got him and don’t let go.

Dean nodded once before turning back toward Sam, and Bobby didn’t follow.

The doors shut, the siren flared, and the ambulance peeled away across the grass, tires biting into the turf and leaving nothing behind but silence.

No music. No medals. No closure. Just four teammates left staring at tire tracks and the disappearing scream of lights.

Coach Miller stood off to the side, arms crossed like a fortress. He didn’t send anyone away, didn’t speak. He just waited like the rest of them.

Bobby came back. They heard him before they saw him, the crunch of boots in dead grass, and turned. He moved slowly, like the field wasn’t solid beneath him, hat in one hand, shoulders heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

He didn’t look at them right away. He walked to Coach and exchanged a few low words. The kind that don’t leave the field. Coach said something back, then turned and walked away without looking back.

Then Bobby faced them. He looked at each of them, one by one.

Dylan. Connor. Jake. Ryan.

“He’s on his way to Saint Andrew’s,” Bobby said, voice low but steady, like he was holding something back. “Dean’s riding with him.”

The words hit hard, not loud, but final. A bell tolling after silence.

The boys stood in a loose cluster just past the sideline, jerseys damp with sweat, cleats digging into the torn-up grass. The stadium lights buzzed overhead, too bright against the darkening sky. The crowd was mostly gone now, the cheers long faded, replaced by whispers and distant footsteps on metal bleachers.

Dylan shifted forward a half step, barely breathing. “Cardiac?” he asked, his voice thinner than he meant it to be.

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a nod, jaw clenched. “Best unit in range. He’s been there before. They know his case.”

Connor stood with his arms folded across his chest, but his hands were clenched tightly under his sleeves. “Did they call red?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the gap in the gate where the ambulance had disappeared.

Bobby exhaled slowly, heavy and bone-deep. “I don’t know what they called,” he said. “They didn’t say. But the way they moved? The way Dean looked?” His voice caught slightly. “It was bad. Close.”

That landed harder than any number. Harder than vitals or monitors or triage codes.

Jake didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then his hand twitched, and he reached up, fingers burying into his hair like he could dig the panic out of his scalp. He tugged once, hard, then dropped his arm and gripped the hem of his jersey instead, twisting it in both hands until the fabric stretched tight across his knuckles.

He stared at the ground, jaw set. “Close means they didn’t wait,” he said, voice low and frayed.

“No,” Bobby said. “They didn’t.”

The boys went quiet again, but something had shifted in their stance. Subtle, like breath returning after too long underwater.

Ryan rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Was he awake?”

Bobby hesitated. “Not really. But he was breathing on his own when they loaded him. That counts for something.”

They stood there for a while, not speaking.

Then Ryan murmured, voice low and shaking, “I keep waiting for someone to say it was a cramp. Or fainting. Something simple.”

Jake shook his head, hunched forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You don’t drop like that from a cramp,” he said flatly, eyes locked on the same stretch of grass.

“He passed the ball,” Ryan continued, voice tightening. “And he looked okay. Like he was there. And then he just… wasn’t.”

“Gone,” Dylan said quietly. He stood just behind them now, arms crossed over his chest as if he didn’t hold himself together, something would slip. His voice sounded rough, like he’d run across the field and never caught his breath.

Connor nodded, eyes glassy, unmoving. “I missed the moment,” he said. “I looked down, looked back, and he was already on the ground.”

Jake twisted the bottom of his jersey in both hands, pulling until the seams strained. “It was like he vanished mid-step,” he muttered.

Dylan’s breath hitched, and he dragged a hand over his face. “It doesn’t feel real,” he said, swallowing hard. “We were finally on top. And then it just…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Bobby cleared his throat. “Shock doesn’t wait for a good time,” he said. “It just hits. And it don’t care who’s watching.”

Jake blinked, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “It was supposed to be a good day,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Bobby’s voice stayed steady, but there was something worn in it. “Sometimes the good days are when the body lets go,” he said. “Because it thinks it’s safe.”

None of them spoke.

The echo of the ambulance still lingered somewhere in the back of their minds. The field felt too quiet. The lights felt too bright.

Bobby checked his watch, then looked toward the lot. “I’m heading to the hospital. You can ride with me or follow. Just… keep your heads down when you get there.” His voice gentled. “Dean’s not gonna be ready for company.”

Jake nodded, already stepping toward the gate. “We’re coming.”

Connor and Ryan followed without a word, knuckles white at their sides.

Dylan hesitated just long enough to press a hand briefly to Bobby’s shoulder. A thank you. A brace.

Then he turned toward the car. His voice didn’t crack this time, but it was close.

“He’s family.”

____

The ambulance slammed into the emergency bay like a bullet, red lights strobing across glass and concrete. Dean barely felt the lurch as the wheels locked up. He was standing now - had been for the last few minutes - braced above the gurney, gripping Sam’s wrist like a lifeline, his knuckles white.

The monitor hadn’t gone green, not once. It was still red. Still fast, then slow, then fast again. Still wrong.

Sam hadn’t opened his eyes. He hadn’t moved in three miles.

The medic’s voice was tight, too loud in the metal box. “O2 is still crashing. Pulse is thready. Pressure’s dropping again.”

“Push another bolus,” the second medic snapped, digging for supplies. “We need him up enough to hand off.”

Dean didn’t breathe. His lungs had locked somewhere between collapse and sirens.

He leaned close to Sam’s ear, trying to keep his voice steady - and failing.

“You stay with me, baby. You’re not gonna fade out now. You’re almost there, just a little further.”

Sam didn’t twitch. Not even his fingers.

The ambulance doors flew open, and cold night air rushed in. It didn’t help.

“Go!” someone shouted. “He’s not stable!”

They launched down the ramp, wheels screaming across pavement. Dean jumped out after them, boots hitting the concrete hard. One of the wheels bounced on a crack in the sidewalk, and Sam’s body jolted on the gurney like a ragdoll.

Dean surged forward. “Easy!”

“Fifteen-year-old male,” the medic was already shouting to the on-deck trauma team as they burst through the double doors. “Known cardiac history, post-exertion collapse, non-responsive. Pulse is erratic. Oxygen falling en route.”

Dean’s ears were ringing.

But he kept moving, shoulder to shoulder with the gurney. They were running down the hall now - white walls, ceiling tiles, every overhead light too bright. Too sterile.

“He had valve repair,” Dean said, breath hitching. “When he was seven. His mitral valve. It was severe back then, but they fixed it.”

The nurse beside him was scribbling already. “Surgical history logged. Known murmur?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasped. “They’ve been monitoring it every year. He’s an athlete. He was cleared. He was-” His voice cracked. “He was just playing. He was fine.”

But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

And Dean had seen a lot of things in his life - too much, if he were being honest - but nothing prepared him for the image of Sam unconscious under LED lights, limp and wired and ghost-pale, lips turning the wrong color. Nothing prepared him for the feeling of being this helpless. Not again.

They hit trauma room three in a rush. Curtains flung back, and machines rolled in like soldiers.

Dean kept pace until a nurse physically blocked him.

“Family?” she asked.

“He’s my son,” Dean said, rough and immediate.

“Then stay close, but stay out of the way.”

He backed against the wall, throat burning, heart pounding in a rhythm that didn’t match the machine’s beeping. That one was worse. Choppy. Staggered.

The trauma team exploded into motion.

“Mask’s secure.”

“BP still dropping. He’s not compensating.”

“Leads on. Get a crash cart in here. We may have to-”

Dean flinched.

No. No. Please no.

“Mitral valve repair,” he said again, louder this time, like it might make a difference. “Seven years old. Dr. Lewis is his primary. He’s on a low-dose ACE inhibitor. No other meds.”

One of the nurses nodded, rapid-fire typing into the terminal beside the bed.

Dean’s eyes were locked on Sam.

His kid.

The same kid who used to crawl into his bed after nightmares. Who once brought him soup in a plastic mug because he thought dads got fevers from sadness. Who had begged to play soccer again after his open heart surgery. Who’d lit up like the Fourth of July when Dean had said yes.

Who’d just played his heart out - literally - and now might not wake up.

“Please,” Dean whispered to no one in particular. To everyone. To whatever was listening. “Don’t take him. Not like this.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t protect him.

“You’re in the way, sir,” someone said, not unkindly, as the crash cart rolled in.

Dean’s feet didn’t work.

The nurse stepped between him and the stretcher. “We’ve got him,” she said, gently but firmly. “But you need to give us room.”

His hand left Sam’s wrist last.

“Don’t let him go,” Dean said, broken and raw and barely holding.

“We won’t,” she promised.

The curtain closed, and Dean was outside.

____

Dean had no idea how long it had been.

Time moved differently in hospital hallways. The air itself seemed to have thickened, slowed down to a crawl. The fluorescent lights hummed above his head like they knew something he didn’t. The scuff of nurses’ shoes against polished tile reset the clock in his brain every time. Start. Stop. Start again. No rhythm. No grounding.

He’d tried sitting. That had lasted all of thirty seconds before his knee started bouncing, chest too tight in his sweatshirt. He’d stood. Paced. Leaned hard against the wall and stared down the corridor like he could will someone to come out and tell him everything was fine. Not just stable, not just under control - fine.

But that wasn’t how hospitals worked.

The curtain finally shifted.

A nurse stepped out. Short brown hair, smudged glasses, a name badge pinned slightly crooked to her scrub top. She looked exhausted, but calm. That was the part that mattered.

Dean moved toward her before she could even say a word.

“He’s still unconscious,” she said gently, hands still gloved, voice low. “But we’ve stabilized him for now. Oxygen levels are holding. His heart rate is regulating with support. He’s breathing on his own again.”

Dean’s lungs unlocked on instinct, but not fully. Not until she added:

“You can come in.”

She held the curtain aside.

Dean moved before she finished the gesture.

The room was quieter than it should’ve been.

Only one sound broke the silence: a steady, mechanical beep. The monitor near the bed blinked in a slow rhythm. It was steady now, almost calm, like it had no idea it had tried to rip Dean open not even an hour ago.

Sam lay in the center of the room, pale blue blanket pulled halfway up his chest. The oxygen tubing curved gently under his nose. Leads trailed across his skin under the gown, small dots of color tethering him to machines Dean couldn’t name. The defibrillator pads were gone now, but medical tape marked where they’d been, a square plastered over his sternum.

He looked still.

Still in that way Dean hated most.

But his color - God, his color was better now. Still pale, but no longer grey. Less ghost, more peach. His hair was damp with sweat, slight curls stuck to his forehead in loose spirals. His lips were dry. His lashes twitched once, then stilled again.

Dean didn’t realize he was holding his breath until it escaped him in a rush.

“Jesus, Sammy…”

He moved toward the chair beside the bed, his legs remembering how to walk before his brain did. His hand hovered above Sam’s wrist, unsure and cautious, before it lowered.

His fingers pressed gently into skin, and he found his son's pulse. Soft. Fragile.

But real.

Dean let his head drop. His shoulders curled forward, elbows braced on his knees. The weight of it all - the field, the sirens, the run, the scream for medics that still echoed in his ribs - it landed.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, hand scrubbing over his face. “You dropped right in front of me. One second you were standing and then-”

He cut himself off. The words weren’t helping.

He let his palm drag down his jaw and glanced up again.

Sam’s mouth was parted slightly. His breathing was quiet. Fragile, but smooth now.

Dean leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed.

“You played so damn good,” he said, voice low, gravel-thick. “Haverford didn’t know what hit ‘em. You were flying out there. I haven’t seen you smile like that in months.”

He swallowed, his throat raw.

“You looked happy.”

He didn’t say the next part. Didn’t say you looked free. Didn’t say you looked like you were finally letting yourself be a kid again . Didn’t say I almost watched it disappear.

Didn’t say I don’t know how to live without you.

Sam’s head tilted slightly, just a fraction.

Dean blinked and sat up straighter. “Sammy?”

Nothing. It was just another twitch. A flicker of some signal trapped deep in the static of his brain.

Dean reached forward, brushed his hand over Sam’s curls - light, steady. His fingers were shaking just a little.

“You don’t have to wake up yet,” he whispered. “Just stay here. That’s all I need.”

The monitor beeped. The oxygen hissed.

The nurse stepped in a few minutes later. Not the ER one, but a new one. She was younger, a clipboard in hand, hair pulled tight in a bun. She nodded once when Dean looked up.

“His vitals are holding. We’re moving him upstairs.”

Dean stood. “Upstairs?”

“Telemetry,” she said. “Cardiac. He’s stable enough to transfer, but he's not clear. The team’s prepping his room now.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “Dr. Lewis?”

“She was called,” the nurse said, checking the chart at the foot of the bed. “She’s his cardiologist?”

Dean nodded. “Since the diagnosis when he was seven.”

“She’ll know what to look for then.” The nurse scribbled something on the chart. “She’ll want a full cardiac echo. Stress imaging. We’re holding labs for now until she gives the go-ahead, but we’ve got a basic panel running. She’ll likely want a 48-hour monitor, maybe longer, maybe even a consult with interventional cardiology depending on what she sees.”

Dean exhaled sharply.

“I know it sounds like a lot,” she added gently. “But it’s the right course. You got him here in time. That monitor he wears? It gave us the window. That was everything.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded.

The bed moved again: fresh linens, new rails, different wheels. Dean followed silently as they pushed Sam down another hallway. Up one elevator. Into another wing.

The lights in the new room were dim. A soft monitor was already waiting.

They settled Sam in with practiced ease. Reconnected the leads, checked the IV, and tucked the blanket high against his chest. A nurse paused to smooth his hair. Another clicked on the wall monitor, confirming lead contact.

And then the room emptied out, leaving only Dean. The beep of the machines. The sound of the vents.

Dean sat again.

The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that left room for thoughts. For memories. For all the worst-case scenarios his brain had kept locked down while things were moving too fast to feel.

But now there was nothing but stillness. Nothing but the steady beep of the monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen. Nothing but the sound of Sam’s breathing - quiet, fragile, real.

It hit him all at once.

The ambulance. The grass under his knees. The cold clamp of Sam’s wrist in his hand while that fucking monitor blinked red. The way Dylan’s voice had cracked when he said, “It happened so fast.”

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knuckles against his lips.

They’d made it. Sam was here. Alive. Stable.

But he’d seen it happen.

That exact second - that awful moment - when Sam’s legs gave out. When he dropped like the life inside him had just switched off. Dean would never forget it. Not in a thousand years. Not in the pit of Hell itself.

It was worse than anything he’d ever seen on a hunt, because this time it was Sam. His kid. Not a victim, not a stranger, not a fight. It was his son . And there had been nothing to fight off. No demon to stab. No thing to shoot. Just a heart that had quietly decided it couldn’t do it anymore.

Dean rubbed both hands down his face, shaking slightly.

You should’ve seen yourself, he wanted to say again. You were so happy. I don’t want that to be the last thing I remember.

He looked up at the bed again.

Sam hadn’t moved, not really, but his fingers weren’t curled as tightly now. His breathing was less shallow. His color was still off, but not scaring him anymore.

Dean reached for his hand again and cradled it in both of his own.

“You’re not gonna miss playoffs over this,” he muttered, voice dry and cracked.“You’re not gonna miss playoffs over this,” he muttered, voice dry and cracked. “Dylan’ll have a fit. Jake’ll probably threaten to sue someone. Ryan’ll start rewriting the team strategy like it’s war. And Connor’ll sit next to your bed and pretend he’s not panicking the whole time.”

The words helped a little. Not because they fixed anything, but because they made things feel real again. Like life was still out there, waiting for them.

His phone buzzed softly in his hoodie pocket.

Dean pulled it out with one hand, thumb smearing across the cracked screen.

BOBBY: We’re in the waiting room. All four of them. Nobody’s leaving.

Dean stared at the message for a long moment.

Of course they were. Of course, Bobby had driven them all the way here. Of course, none of those boys had moved from that field unless they knew Sam would be okay.

They probably watched the ambulance doors close and haven't breathed since.

Before Dean could respond, there was a rustle to his left.

Dean’s head snapped up.

Sam’s fingers twitched - then again. His eyelids fluttered, slow and heavy. For a second, they didn’t open. Then they did.

Half-lidded, unfocused, and fogged with exhaustion and sedation.

But open.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, leaning forward fast. His voice cracked on it. “Hey-hey, baby. I got you.”

Sam’s eyes didn’t track yet. They blinked slowly, lashes fluttering as if the act of keeping them open was too much.

“Don’t push it,” Dean said softly, brushing his knuckles along Sam’s jaw. “Just stay. That’s all. You did good.”

Sam’s lips parted like he might say something, but no sound came.

It didn’t matter because he was awake. Not much, but enough.

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. He looked at his phone again, then back at Sam.

“I’m gonna go grab Uncle Bobby and the boys, alright?” he said, low and gentle. “They’re probably scared shitless.”

Sam didn’t answer, but his eyes shifted like he heard it.

Dean’s voice went quiet. “I’ll be right back, baby. Two minutes. Not going far.”

He let go of Sam’s hand slowly with one last sweep of his thumb across the back of his knuckles.

Then he stood, and for the first time since Sam dropped on the field, Dean let himself take a step away.

____

The Saint Andrew’s ER had the kind of lighting that made them feel like they were stuck in a loop: too bright, too white, humming faintly above scuffed tiles and brittle plastic chairs that hadn’t been replaced since the '90s. The air smelled like antiseptic and over-washed fabric. A muted news station flickered on a mounted TV in the corner, the anchors smiling into the void.

The boys were scattered across the waiting area like debris.

Dylan sat hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands knotted together tight enough to leave lines. His red hoodie was shoved into a ball on the chair beside him. Every so often, his lips moved like he was trying to form a prayer he didn’t remember the words to. His eyes hadn’t left the floor.

Connor had worn a track into the linoleum by the vending machines. Back and forth. His hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, one hand curled into a fist against his jaw. He was whispering numbers: scores, rotations, substitution patterns. Anything that let his brain keep doing something while the rest of him cracked.

Jake had taken over two seats. He wasn’t sleeping, just staring at the ceiling like he might find an answer written in the fluorescent hum. Every few minutes, his foot twitched. Otherwise, he was still.

Ryan sat closest to the ER doors, hunched over with his fingers tangled in the frayed edges of his warm-up jacket. His face was pale and drawn, his mouth tight like he was holding something back with every breath. He hadn’t spoken once since they arrived.

None of them had cried, not fully, but the weight was in their throats, pressing just under the surface.

Coach had come by briefly. A hand on Dylan’s shoulder. A nod toward Jake. “You boys did good.” 

Bobby stood near the hallway, off to the side. His arms were crossed over his chest, cap pulled low. He looked carved from something older than worry. Steady and grounded, waiting for the ground to shake again. He didn’t speak unless he had to.

And then the double doors opened, and Dean stepped through.

He looked like he’d been run through the wringer and back. Jacket twisted. Shirt half-untucked. One knuckle was scraped and swollen like he’d punched a wall. His hair was mussed from running his hands through it, and his face-

His face was wrong.

Not loud-wrong. Not panic-wrong. Just empty.

He looked like a man who’d been holding his breath for two hours straight and only just now remembered how to let it out.

They all stood up, quiet but immediate. Dylan was the first on his feet, but the others weren’t far behind.

Dean stopped a few feet from them and scrubbed a hand over his face like he could wipe the whole night away.

“He’s holding on,” he said, voice low and ruined. “They’ve got him on oxygen. His heart monitor flagged a rhythm collapse, worse than anything since the surgery. The cardiologist said it could've a stress overload, adrenaline crash. He didn’t black out from contact. He just… went down.”

Silence cracked through the room like glass.

Dylan took a breath that sounded like it hurt. “Is he awake?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Sort of. He said my name. Tried to talk. They’ve got a full panel running now. They’re being cautious.” He exhaled, voice thin. “He’s in and out. Not really tracking yet.”

Jake let out a breath like a shudder. Connor gripped the back of a chair like he was afraid his knees might give. Ryan finally moved and pressed both palms over his eyes like the room had gotten too bright.

Dean looked at them, and the hollow behind his eyes softened.

“You were with him,” he said. “You got to him fast. You stayed. I saw you.”

None of them spoke, but the grief behind their silence said we should’ve seen it sooner.

Dean’s jaw worked like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling. “I should’ve pulled him after the first half. I knew he was running too hot. I just…” He blinked hard. “He looked happy.”

Bobby finally moved, stepped close, and put a firm hand on Dean’s back. Dean closed his eyes for a second.

“You can see him,” Dean said, voice rough. “But no crowding, no yelling, and for God’s sake, don’t try to make him laugh.”

He paused. The silence stretched long enough for all of them to brace. Dean looked down for a second, then back up. “He looks rough. Paler than usual. Oxygen, IV, the works. He’s… not all there yet.”

Dylan nodded first, eyes steady.

Jake swallowed hard. “We’ll be good.”

Dean met each of their eyes in turn. His voice softened, but didn’t shake. “He’ll know you’re there. Even if he can’t say it.”

Then he turned, motioning them down the hall.  “Come on.”

____

The hallway outside Room 209 was too quiet. Heavy and hushed, like even the walls were holding their breath.

Dean walked ahead, each of his steps measured.

The boys followed behind.

Dylan kept the closest, fists buried in his hoodie sleeves, jaw locked tight. He hadn’t spoken since the ambulance left. Connor moved like his joints didn’t belong to him, shoulders squared, every step mechanical, but his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. Jake’s eyes were hollow, his cleats tapping softly with every step, uneven, like he couldn’t make himself walk right. Ryan trailed behind them all, arms wrapped across his chest.

Bobby brought up the rear, quiet and steady, grief carved deep into the lines of his face.

Dean reached the door and opened it with his shoulder.

The light inside was dim, soft gold filtering through a shaded wall lamp. It didn’t feel warm; it felt like someone had tried to soften the edges of a room that had already seen too much.

Machines hummed in a quiet chorus: the hiss of oxygen, the drip of fluids, the steady beep of the monitor. A rhythm built out of dread and necessity.

And in the center of it all, curled small beneath the blankets, was Sam.

He looked… not right.

Not hurt, exactly, but vacated. Too still. A shade too pale. His curls were damp, stuck to his forehead. The cannula framed his face, but his lips were dry, parted with shallow breaths. One arm was half-flung from the blankets, IV tape wrinkled and fraying.

Dean moved without thinking. He dragged the chair closer and sat, brushing Sam’s hair back with shaking fingers. “Hey, baby,” he murmured. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Sam didn’t answer. His eyes fluttered once, then again, slow and dazed. He wasn't truly there, drifting in and out, but something behind his eyes tried to hold on.

Dean swallowed. “They’re here,” he said softly. “The boys. They came.”

No nod, no smile, but there was another flicker behind his eyes. A slow blink that wasn’t nothing.

Dean turned toward the door. “C’mon in. Easy.”

They filed in like they were walking into a chapel.

Jake hovered near the window, arms wrapped tight around himself. Ryan crouched at the foot of the bed, one hand pressed into the blanket like he needed to feel it anchored. Connor dropped into the chair across from Dean, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on the monitor like it might betray them. 

Dylan came last. He moved forward slowly until he saw Sam up close, and then he stopped, like he’d run out of breath.

No one spoke. For a long time, they just stood there and watched Sam breathe.

The oxygen hissed. The monitor ticked on.

Then Ryan’s voice, cracked and small, broke the silence. “You look like hell, man.”

Sam didn’t answer. Didn’t smile. He just blinked again, slower this time.

Connor cleared his throat, rough and raw. “You scared us so bad, Sam.”

Dean didn’t move his hand from where it rested against his son’s cheek. “He hears you. He’s in there.”

Beneath the blanket, Sam’s hand twitched, just once. A flutter, reaching without direction.

Dylan saw it. Without hesitating, he stepped forward and took it in both hands. “I got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Right here, Sam. You don’t have to say anything.”

Sam’s fingers curled weakly into his. A barely-there grip, but it was real.

“You can sit,” Dean said, glancing around. “He’s not all the way back yet. But he knows.”

Dylan didn’t sit.

He stayed where he was, cradling Sam’s hand like it was the last thread connecting them both to the present.

Sam’s eyelids fluttered. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no sound came. It was just the shape of breath. The shape of effort.

Dean leaned close. “We’re here, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “You did good. You did real good.”

Sam’s gaze wandered to the edge of the bed, then back to Dylan, then up toward the ceiling.

His body didn’t move, but he didn’t let go.

Dean looked at the boys. “He tried to ask about the game in the ambulance. Tried to say something.”

Connor wiped his face on his sleeve. “Did you tell him we won?”

Jake gave a quiet, broken laugh. “Barely.”

Ryan murmured, “He gave us the shot. We just didn’t waste it.”

Dean smiled faintly, eyes glassy. “He’ll be proud. He already is.”

____

The hospital’s side lot was too quiet, like the night had jammed in the middle of a breath and couldn’t quite exhale. The overhead lights buzzed low and orange, casting long shadows across damp concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a siren flickered, then vanished.

They’d been asked to step out while the doctors ran more tests. So they waited outside, pressed close, orbiting each other without speaking.

Connor stood rigid against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Ryan paced slow laps along the curb, hoodie drawn up over his mouth, hands buried deep in his sleeves. Jake stood a few feet away, breathing like it hurt, fingers curled into fists, knuckles going white.

Dylan couldn’t stop. He carved uneven diagonals through the lot, pacing sharply, agitated. One hand fisted in the back of his hair, the other twitching restlessly at his side like it needed something to do, someone to protect.

Then-

“I knew it was bad,” he snapped, sharp and sudden, his voice cracking through the stillness like a thrown punch. “Don’t stand there like I didn’t know.”

Jake’s head snapped around. “We’re not.”

“Yes, you are.” Dylan spun to face him, eyes wild. “You think I wasn’t paying attention? That I didn’t see it coming?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jake shot back. “But you weren’t here.”

“I was, Jake!” Dylan’s voice climbed. “Every phone call. Every late-night text. Every ‘I’m fine’ he sent, I got those too! You think that didn’t eat me alive?”

Jake took a step forward, eyes narrowing. “Then you should’ve come home!”

“I couldn’t!” Dylan barked. “And what would I have done? Watched him pretend everything was fine? Sat there while he lied to my face?”

Jake’s voice dropped low, tight with anger. “At least then he wouldn’t have been lying alone.”

Dylan’s whole body jolted at that. “I knew he wasn’t okay, and I didn’t stop it, and now he’s-” His voice broke hard, like it hit barbed wire on the way out. “Now he’s upstairs and I don’t know if he’s gonna wake up-”

“Hey!” Connor cut in, stepping between them, hands up. “That’s enough-”

But Jake shouldered past him. “You said he turned a corner. You believed him.”

“So did you!” Dylan snapped, voice cracking. “You wanted it to be true just as much as I did. Don’t act like you didn’t.”

“I was here! ” Jake shouted. “We were all here, and none of us saw it, and now-”

“Now he’s unconscious!” Dylan roared. “Now he’s broken, and we let it happen! ”

They were nearly nose to nose now. Neither moving, both shaking.

A small sound cut through the fight. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to slice it clean.

Ryan dropped to the curb, arms braced on his knees, head down and shoulders tight. “I keep seeing it.”

His voice didn’t break, but it cracked something else.

Jake’s breath caught mid-rage. Connor’s spine went rigid.

“What?” Connor asked, voice gentler now.

Ryan lifted his head. His eyes were dry, but they looked carved out, hollow and sharp around the edges.

“The way he dropped,” Ryan said. “Like one second he was there, and the next he was gone.”

Jake swore softly under his breath, staggering back a step, like Ryan’s words had landed harder than Dylan’s fists ever could.

Connor didn’t say anything at all. He just moved, fast and instinctively, and dropped beside Ryan on the curb. 

Jake stood frozen a beat longer before following. He sat down with a grunt, elbows on his knees, mouth set in a hard line.

Dylan stood in the middle of it all, breathing like he’d sprinted through fire. He looked at Ryan, and something changed. His shoulders dropped. His fists unclenched. Instincts overtook every ounce of fury.

He crossed the lot in two steps and crouched down beside Ryan, one knee hitting the concrete with a soft scrape.

“C’mere, Ry,” Dylan murmured, voice stripped raw.

Ryan didn’t resist. He leaned in like he didn’t trust the world to hold him up anymore, but he trusted Dylan.

Dylan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in.

Tight. Protective. Fierce.

He pressed a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head - gentle, automatic, unshakable. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you, bubba.”

No one spoke after that.

They just stayed there, close and quiet. Breathing the same too-cold night air, like it was the only thing tethering them to the world.

Dylan kept Ryan pulled against his chest, one arm locked around him, the other hand curled gently and steadily against the back of his head. Ryan wasn’t crying, but his whole body was tight and silent and trembling in a way that made Dylan ache. 

Dylan let it happen. Took all of it. Held on tighter.

And then he felt Jake shift beside them. Dylan looked over and saw the way Jake’s shoulder was brushing his. The way he hadn’t quite leaned in, but hadn’t pulled away either.

So Dylan moved first. He shifted his arm across Jake’s back. Jake flinched, like the touch startled something loose, then sank into it. Dylan tightened his grip and held him too.

Connor hadn’t spoken since he dropped beside Ryan. He’d planted himself there like a wall, shoulder pressed to Ryan’s other side, elbows on his knees, spine like rebar. But now, Dylan saw the tension rolling under his skin. Saw the twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers were clenched tight around the edge of his sleeves like they were the only thing keeping him from breaking.

Dylan reached out and hooked his hand behind Connor’s neck.

“Hey,” he said, low and firm. “Get in here.”

Connor closed his eyes, exhaled like someone’d just released the pressure valve, and leaned in.

Dylan pulled his arm around him, too.

And there it was.

The four of them collapsed together on the curb like a single living thing. Ryan tucked into Dylan’s chest. Jake half-folded against his side. Connor braced against his shoulder.

Dylan sat in the middle of it all, arms wrapped around them, grounding them without needing to speak.

He could feel their breathing, hear it in the quiet. Unsteady, uneven, real.

And he held them.

Because if this was the only thing he could do tonight, then by God, he was going to do it.

He bowed his head over Ryan, eyes closed. Pressed his cheek to soft brown hair and squeezed just a little tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again. “All of you.”

And he did. He had them.

Right there, in the orange-glow silence of a hospital parking lot, with grief curled under their skin and fear pressed into their bones, Dylan didn’t move.

He just held on.

____

Dean hadn’t planned to find them.

He hadn’t even planned to leave the building. But after the last check-in with the nurse, after hearing the quiet rise and fall of Sam’s breathing and seeing the green glow of the monitor holding steady, something inside Dean had started to fray. 

Resting. That’s what they’d called it. Resting. But even that word felt too fragile, too much like a lie they were trying to make true by saying it softly.

So he’d slipped out quietly. Left Sam with Bobby. 

He just needed a breath. Something cold and sharp and real to balance out the quiet hum of antiseptic and forced hope inside that room. He’d thought maybe he’d grab the sweatshirt from the trunk, walk to the end of the lot, and back. Anything that wouldn’t make him feel like he was waiting to shatter.

As he turned the corner past the ambulance bay, his footsteps slowed.

There, under the tall orange glow of the parking lot lamp, four shapes sat clustered together on the curb.

They weren’t talking or moving. They weren’t collapsed, but they were gathered. Pressed into each other in that quiet, worn-out way that said they’d already been through the storm.

Dean stopped just shy of the light. He looked at them - four hunched backs and drawn shoulders, still breathing the same space.

His chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how small they looked like this. How young. How scraped down to the nerve.

Dylan shifted first. Not to look up, just to slide his hand subtly across Connor’s shoulder, anchoring him again without a word.

Jake rubbed the side of his thumb across a scar on his knuckle. Ryan didn’t lift his head. Connor exhaled slowly.

Dean felt like he was intruding on something delicate, something hard-won.

He stepped closer, careful not to startle.

Jake clocked him first with a flick of the eyes. Dylan followed, lifting his head, gaze sharp but steady.

Dean paused at the edge of their little circle.

“You boys warm enough out here?” he asked, voice low and even.

Dylan gave a tired nod. “We’re good.” His voice was hoarse, like he’d been yelling earlier, but it held.

Connor straightened slightly. “We just-” He rubbed a hand over his face, voice thick. “They needed to run more tests. Asked us to give them space.”

Dean nodded once. “Right. Got it.”

No one offered to explain more. No one shifted or offered up awkward small talk to fill the gap. That, more than anything, told Dean how deep this ran.

So he moved forward, quiet and steady, and sat down on the curb beside them without waiting for permission. The cement was cold through his jeans. He didn’t care.

For a long while, no one said a thing.

The distant hum of the ER’s ventilation system filled the air. But here, outside under the weak glow of the parking lights, time had thinned out.

Then Ryan’s voice broke through the quiet. It was cracked, worn raw at the edges. “We saw it happening.”

Dean glanced toward him. Ryan hadn’t moved, hadn’t even lifted his head, but the weight of the words landed like a confession.

Jake let out a long, bitter breath. “All of us. We saw it. Just… not all at once. We got pieces. He wouldn’t let any of us see the whole thing.”

Dylan didn’t move. “He told me he was fine every time I asked. I knew it was a lie, but I wanted to believe I could help from where I was. I tried. I called, texted, and talked through Connor half the time, but it wasn’t enough. Not from that far.”

Connor inhaled a shaky breath. “He kept us all at arm’s length. We knew something was off, but every time we tried to reach in, he’d pivot. Change the subject. Deny it. Shift the spotlight.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. He does that.”

They all looked at him, just a little.

Dean let the silence stretch before speaking again. “You think you should’ve caught it sooner. Fought harder. Kicked down the walls instead of just knocking.”

None of them answered, but none of them looked away either.

Dean’s hands rubbed slowly over his jeans, calloused fingers fidgeting at the edge of his knee. “I’ve been there. Trust me.”

He let the words settle, then added, quieter, “When Sam was seven, I knew something wasn’t right. He was off. Quieter than usual. Tired. Occasional dizzy spells. Said his chest got fluttery sometimes. He was drawing all the time, reading a lot.” 

Dean’s voice dipped. “We thought it was anxiety, maybe, or a bad cold. We had a doctor’s appointment set up for later that week. I figured we had time.”

They listened. Still, but locked in.

Dean exhaled. “Then one night, right before dinner, he was sitting at the table, coloring. He just… collapsed. No warning. No sound. Just gone. I thought- I thought that was it.”

His voice caught for a second.

Jake’s expression twisted. Ryan wiped his face quietly.

“Bobby drove us to the hospital,” Dean continued quietly. “We couldn’t wait for an ambulance. I sat in the backseat, holding Sam the whole way, trying to keep him awake, keep him breathing. His head was against my chest, and I just kept talking. Kept telling him he was okay. That I was right there.”

He swallowed hard.

“They ran the tests. Gave us the diagnosis. Monitors. Meds. I was twenty-one. Thought I knew how to spot the signs by then. But I didn’t. Not fast enough.”

Dylan’s voice came low. “So what did you do?”

Dean looked at him. “I stayed. I learned how to see better. How to listen when he didn’t talk. How to wait out the silence until he was ready to let someone in. Because if there’s one thing I know about that kid, it's that if he’s not ready, you sure as hell can’t make him move. He’ll sit in silence ‘til the world ends if it means staying on his own terms.”

The boys went quiet again, but this time, the silence didn’t press down. It steadied something.

“He’s asleep now,” Dean offered. “Resting, not in pain. They’re monitoring the rhythm, adjusting meds. Said his heart rate should stabilize on its own tonight.”

Jake’s voice cracked. “Are you sure?”

Dean nodded once. “Stable. I made them repeat it twice.”

Dylan sat back a little and exhaled like he hadn’t since Dean walked up.

Dean looked around the group. At the grief worn into their shoulders, the anger still clinging to the backs of their throats.

“You were there,” he said. “You moved fast. You didn’t freeze. You did everything right. He’s still here because of that.”

Dean nudged Dylan’s shoulder gently as he stood. “Come on. Let’s go back up.”

Jake stood first. “He’ll want to see us.”

Ryan rose last, tugging his sleeves over his hands. “He’ll know.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He will.”

They followed Dean back across the lot and through the automatic doors without needing to be told. Past the hum of the vending machines, the polished tile, the late-night quiet of the nurse’s station where monitors blinked softly in the dark. Into the elevator, then down the hall, their footsteps muted but steady.

The silence had shifted. It wasn’t the raw, brittle silence from before; it wasn’t heavy with blame. It was quieter, steadier. Like shared breath. Like something stitched back together.

Outside Sam’s room, Dean slowed. He turned, studying them one by one. They were still pale, still wrecked, but they were standing. Still here.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything. Just being there? That’s what matters.”

They nodded.

Dean pushed the door open.

The room was dim, just the soft blue-green wash of the monitor screen glowing against the walls. Sam was curled slightly on his side, blanket drawn to his shoulders, IV line taped to one arm. A thin oxygen tube still nestled under his nose. His breathing was steady now, not deep, but consistent. Real.

His hand lay open on the blanket. It was twitching faintly, like he was dreaming.

The boys moved with a quiet precision that Dean didn’t think they’d planned. Jake sank onto the floor by the foot of the bed, back to the wall, knees up like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. Connor dragged the rolling stool in close and leaned forward until his forearms rested lightly against the edge of the mattress. Ryan took the armchair, but instead of sprawling, he turned it slightly, angling himself to keep watch.

Dylan, slower than the others, circled to the far side of the bed. He hesitated, then reached down and took Sam’s hand.

Sam’s fingers stilled. Dean felt it like a knock in his chest.

He lingered in the doorway, taking them in. Not just their movements, but what it meant. They didn’t scatter across the room or keep their distance. They circled him closely. Without even meaning to, they formed a perimeter around Sam like they were shoring up a wall he couldn’t hold up himself.

Dean’s throat tightened.

He remembered when it used to be just him and Bobby. The hospital nights. The beeping monitors. The too-quiet breath that felt like it might stop if Dean blinked too long.

And now there was this.

These boys weren’t just teammates. They were something else. They were ballast. Memory. Evidence of the life Sam had built beyond Dean’s reach. And yet, somehow, they’d never felt like a threat to it. Not once.

They were family. Sam’s family. And now Dean’s, whether they knew it or not.

A murmur outside the room pulled Dean’s gaze. Through the narrow hallway window, he saw Bobby standing next to Dr. Lewis. She held a chart, unread for the moment. Bobby’s arms were folded, his shoulders rounded in the kind of fatigue that came from years of doing this exact dance. 

Dean let out a slow breath, one hand gripping the doorframe. He looked back into the room.

Sam didn’t stir, but Dean saw the ease in his brow. The way his mouth slackened just slightly, like he could feel them near even in sleep. Like his body had finally stopped bracing for whatever came next.

Dean stepped back from the door.

He didn’t have to hover, not tonight. His kid was surrounded, held together by more than machines or medication. By boys who knew how to yell and fight and cry and still come back. Who knew how to show up, even when it hurt. Who hadn’t run.

Dean pressed a hand briefly over his ribs.

His kid was safe.

He turned away from the door and let the door close behind him.

____

None of them spoke at first after Dean and Bobby stepped out. The room had been too quiet for too long, the kind of quiet that settled deep in the ribs and made every movement feel too loud.

Dylan sat still, holding Sam’s hand in both of his like it was an anchor. Whether it was for Sam or himself, he didn’t know. Maybe both.

Jake broke the silence first. He rubbed his hands together like he was trying to start a fire in his palms. His voice cracked a little when he spoke.

“Okay, so. Two guys got into it over chicken nuggets at lunch yesterday,” he said. “I’m talking cafeteria throwdown. One of them used a tray like a shield.”

From the armchair, Ryan let out a tired snort. “The lunch lady just stood there. She was probably waiting for one of them to get a red card.”

Jake shook his head, lips twitching toward something that might’ve been a smile on a better day. “Sam, buddy, you missed it to study in the library 'cause you're a good little dork. You would’ve lost your mind, though. Kid went full WWE and lost a shoe halfway through.”

Sam didn’t stir. His breathing stayed steady. The monitor kept pulsing green, like the machine believed harder than any of them could.

Ryan leaned in closer to the bed, elbows on the mattress. “Remember that dumb raccoon video you made me watch? The one with the hoodie and the pushups? Yeah. I found another one. It’s worse. It’s horrifying. You’d be obsessed.”

There was no response, but they kept going.

Connor spoke next, his voice quiet but dry: “Coach says you’re still our starting center mid. So don’t get any ideas about using this to skip drills. If you fake a coma to get out of leg day, I’m reporting you to the universe.”

Dylan almost smiled at that. 

They were trying so hard. He could hear it in their voices - the edges still frayed, the cracks underneath every joke. They were scared, all of them, and none of them would say it out loud unless Sam made it through.

From his seat, Dylan hadn’t moved much. He just sat, hands wrapped around Sam’s like he was bracing for impact.

Please, he thought. Just once. Just come back.

Sam’s fingers twitched. Small and subtle, but unmistakable.

Dylan’s head snapped up.

Jake was already leaning forward. “Sammy?”

Ryan froze. “That wasn’t nothing. That was real.”

Connor moved in closer. “We’re here, man. It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything. Just… stay.”

Sam’s breathing didn’t change, but the twitch came again.

Then came a whisper, barely a sound. “Dy…”

Dylan surged forward like something had grabbed him by the spine.

“I’m here,” he said, already so close his forehead almost touched Sam’s. “I’m right here, Sammy.”

His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it.

Sam didn’t open his eyes, but his mouth moved again.  “Didn’t… go…”

The words were slurred, barely shaped, but Dylan understood. He felt his chest go tight.

“He’s saying I didn’t leave,” he said softly. “That I stayed.”

Of course he had. There wasn’t a version of the world where Dylan wouldn’t have stayed. Even if Sam never woke up again, he still would’ve sat right there holding his hand until the damn walls caved in.

He let go of Sam’s hand briefly, just long enough to brush the curls back from his forehead and press a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

“Scared the fuck out of us,” Dylan whispered. “Don’t do that again.”

They stayed quiet after that, just breathing in the moment like it might disappear if they moved too fast.

Then Dylan leaned back slightly, voice softer now. “He was the quietest kid at tryouts,” he started. “I thought he was somebody’s little brother who wandered onto the field.”

Jake huffed. “And then he hit that spin move and left three guys flat on their backs. Coach didn’t even blink, just nodded like he’d been expecting it.”

Ryan smiled faintly.

Connor spoke, still watching the monitor. “No one expected him to hold the midfield. Not freshman year. Not like that.”

Dylan nodded. “I was captain. I thought I’d have to carry him.” He glanced down at Sam, still resting. “But Sam played like he was born on that field. Like nothing could touch him.”

Jake shifted, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed the back of his neck. “He didn’t brag. Didn’t try to win people over. Just showed up and did the work. And somehow he mattered. Right away.”

He paused.

“I was an asshole about it,” he added. “First few weeks? Yeah. Total dick.”

Ryan huffed in amused agreement.

Jake shrugged a little. “I didn’t get it. He was quiet. Smart in that freaky ‘I’ve already done the homework you forgot existed’ way. I thought he’d fold the second someone pushed him.”

His eyes flicked toward Sam, then back down.

“Turns out, he’s tougher than all of us. And yeah, I’m still kind of an asshole.” He snorted faintly. “But now I’m an asshole who loves the kid.”

Dylan blinked, throat catching again. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Jake said it all: Yeah. Me too.

Connor nodded once, eyes down. Ryan let out a quiet exhale through his nose. No jokes, just quiet agreement.

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy anymore.

“He fell asleep on my shoulder during the Lincoln trip,” Ryan said finally. “Said he didn’t sleep much the night before. I didn’t move the whole ride back.”

Connor smirked. “That’s why your neck was wrecked at practice.”

Ryan shrugged. “Worth it.”

Sam stirred again. Not much, but enough.

Connor reached out, squeezed Sam’s arm gently through the blanket. “We’re here,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Dylan brushed his thumb over Sam’s knuckles, his voice steady now.

“Little brother,” he said. “You took years off our lives, you little shit.”

Jake leaned back. “You don’t get to do that again. Just so we’re clear.”

Ryan smiled faintly. “But you come back, yeah? In your own time. We’ll be here.”

Dylan didn’t speak again. He just held Sam’s hand and waited.

____

Dean had only stepped away to check in with Dr. Lewis and grab a minute to himself before going back in. But when he returned to Sam’s room, Bobby trailing just behind him, he paused in the doorway when he heard their voices.

He watched as Dylan leaned in closer to his kid.

“You hear all this, little brother?” he murmured, thumb brushing over Sam’s knuckles. “Always had to make an entrance.”

Dean’s chest tightened.

He hadn’t expected it, that word. The ease of it. The way Dylan said it, like it had always belonged to him, like it wasn’t borrowed or fragile or too-big-for-his-mouth. 

He said it like it was just the truth.

Little brother.

Dean’s fingers clenched around the chart in his hand before he set it on the counter. Bobby stepped up just behind his shoulder and said nothing.

Dean still didn’t interrupt. He just watched.

Dylan’s voice was steady, coaxing. “You’ve got a lot of people in this room who need you to fight your way back, you hear me? So don’t pull any of that fade-into-the-dark nonsense. That’s my move, and you’re not stealing it.”

Connor snorted faintly. “He already did. Better, too.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “It’s not a competition. But if it was? Sam would win on sheer dramatics.”

Ryan murmured, “He’d deny it the whole time. Then hit us with some guilt-tripping philosophical quote like we should’ve seen it coming.”

The laughter was soft. Tired, but real.

Dean finally moved fully into the room, his steps slow. He didn’t say anything right away, pulling the spare chair closer and sitting. He reached out and found Sam’s free hand, cradling it gently in his own.

Bobby lingered in the corner now, hat in his hand, gaze lowered but warm.

Dean looked at Sam. At the soft, unfocused stillness in his face as he slept. 

Then he looked at the boys. Their grief still clung to them, worn in the set of their shoulders and the way they blinked too often, but they were here. They were trying.

Trying mattered.

He watched Dylan again. Watched the way he held Sam’s hand with care, not like he was afraid of breaking something, but like he was protecting it.

And that word. That title. What it meant.

Dean could’ve carried big brother forever. He had been doing it so long it felt welded to his bones. Even as his role in Sam's life shifted and grew over the years, that title was a part of him. But tonight, watching Dylan hold Sam’s hand and call him that without hesitation, Dean found he was glad to share it.

He leaned back, eyes never leaving Sam.

“Alright, bug,” he murmured. “You’ve got a whole damn room pulling for you. So don’t be late.”

The monitor stayed green. The oxygen hissed on.

And the room stayed full.

____

The light was soft when Sam stirred again.

It wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot, but this one felt different. He didn’t just surface and slip back under. 

This time, the shift was slower, a little clearer. Like his mind was trying to find the pieces and line them up again.

Dean was still in the chair.

He hadn’t moved except to lean forward, elbows on his knees, one hand resting loosely on the edge of the mattress. When Sam’s lashes fluttered again and his head tilted slightly toward the sound of the monitor, Dean leaned closer.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice low but steady. “You with me?”

Sam’s eyes opened. Not all the way, but enough to squint at the ceiling. Then at Dean.

His mouth worked for a second, dry and sluggish. “Hurts,” he mumbled.

Dean nodded gently, brushing the hair off Sam’s forehead. “I know, baby boy. You’ve been through it.”

Sam blinked. His gaze drifted sideways to the monitor, tracking the beeping like it meant something he couldn’t name. He didn’t ask where he was. He didn’t ask what happened. His next breath was shallow but intentional.

“We win?” he rasped.

Dean huffed a soft breath, part relief, part disbelief. “Yeah. You won. Three to one. You gave them hell, kid.”

Sam gave the faintest nod, like that was enough. Like that was all he needed to know.

Then: “The guys… they okay?”

Dean smiled. “They’re good. All four of them. They’re with Uncle Bobby getting food. Gave you some space to rest. You had them scared out of their minds.”

Sam’s brow furrowed faintly, like he was trying to picture it. “Jake… yell?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Loudest I’ve ever heard him.”

A thin smile ghosted across Sam’s mouth. His lips parted again, a question half-formed.

Dean leaned in. “What is it?”

Sam blinked once, heavy and slow. “Was Dylan here?” His voice caught slightly on the name.

Dean reached out, thumb gently brushing the edge of the nasal cannula. “Yeah, kiddo. Dylan was here. He came back for the game.”

Sam’s eyes drifted, unfocused. “I didn’t… I don’t think I saw him.”

“You did,” Dean said gently. "Maybe not clearly, but he was there. He never left.”

Sam’s fingers twitched slightly where Dean’s hand rested on his. He blinked again, longer this time, and let out a soft exhale like the effort had taken everything he had.

Dean leaned closer, keeping his hand steady. “Get some more rest. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

A soft knock came at the door.

Dean glanced up as Dr. Lewis stepped in. Her expression softened the moment she saw Sam’s eyes open, even just a little.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a hush. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“He’s barely hanging on to it,” Dean murmured. “But he’s with us.”

Dr. Lewis smiled faintly. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

She stepped in and gave Sam a gentle look. “Hey there, champ. Don’t try to talk. Just listen.”

Sam’s eyes drifted toward her. He blinked once.

Dr. Lewis turned to the monitor and noted the readings, then adjusted the blanket slightly over Sam’s chest. “Still running steady. That’s what we like to see.”

Dean stayed close. “He said it hurts.”

“He’s sore. Muscles, chest wall, and probably his head, too. That kind of collapse, it’s a shock to the whole system.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. “You think he’s out of danger?”

“We’re not spiking alarms anymore,” she said. “But he’s fragile. Overdid it, pushed through symptoms he should’ve reported. He’s young, which helps. And stubborn, which is probably why he’s still awake.”

Dean huffed quietly. “Don’t I know it.”

Dr. Lewis stepped back and met his eyes. “Echo’s still on for this afternoon. I’ll send someone when they're ready.”

Dean nodded. “Thanks.”

As she left, Dean turned back to Sam, whose eyelids had dropped again.

“I know you’re tired,” he murmured. “But I’m right here. You’re not doing this alone.”

Sam didn’t answer, but his hand turned slightly under Dean’s, just enough to press back.

Dean smiled faintly. “That’s my boy.”

He settled back in the chair. 

The machines hummed. The monitor ticked. And Sam, finally, slept without slipping too far.

____

The door creaked open slowly, hesitantly, like whoever was behind it wasn’t sure they were allowed inside. Or maybe they were afraid of what they’d find.

Dad and Uncle Bobby were somewhere nearby talking with Dr. Lewis, Sam thought. Or hoped. It was hard to tell with how the room blurred at the edges.

Sam turned his head toward the sound. It took effort. His neck was stiff, the cannula tugged against his cheek, and the monitor leads pulled faintly where they clung to his chest. But he didn’t care. 

The door opened wider.

The weight in the room changed immediately. He didn’t need to see them to know who it was. He knew that silence. The kind that only existed when all five of them were together and they didn’t have to say anything to feel everything.

Jake entered first, shoulders hunched, his eyes darting like they were braced for the worst. Then Connor, close behind, was tense and still. Ryan came next, face pale and drawn, his steps soft like he was trying not to disturb the air. And then Dylan, last through the door, hoodie pushed back, a Styrofoam cup clutched in both hands like it was anchoring him.

They stopped a few feet into the room, unsure. Not frozen, but quiet. Backlit by the hallway. Blurred at the edges by Sam’s exhaustion.

But they were there.

His throat was raw. Everything inside him felt bruised. Still, he forced his lips to move, his voice barely a breath.

“…All of you.”

For a heartbeat, no one answered.

Then Jake let out a sound that cracked right down the middle, part laugh and part sob. His hand came up to his face like he didn’t know what else to do with it. “Yeah, man. We’re here. All of us.”

Connor’s breath hitched. He took half a step forward and just stood there, arms crossed tightly. “You see us?”

Sam gave the smallest nod he could manage. “Didn’t think I would.”

Ryan’s eyes were already wet. He lowered himself into the chair like his legs had finally given out. “You look awful, but I’ll take it.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Sam’s mouth. “You guys… look worse.”

Jake choked out a laugh, eyes still shining. “Okay, he’s definitely alive.”

“I cried with dignity,” Ryan muttered, sniffing.

“I didn’t,” Connor said quietly. “Lost it in the hallway. Almost punched a trash can.”

Dylan hadn’t spoken yet. He stepped to the far side of the bed and placed the cup down with both hands. His eyes never left Sam.

Sam turned his head again, slow and deliberate. He caught Dylan’s gaze.

“You’re still here,” he whispered.

Dylan’s voice, when it came, was low and steady but full of ache. “Yeah. We never left.”

Sam’s breath caught. It stuttered in his chest and escaped on the edge of a tremble. The ache wasn’t sharp; it was full. Heavy. His eyes burned, not from pain, not exactly, but from pressure. From something rising that he couldn’t name, let alone contain.

He stayed suspended in that strange space where the world felt distant, but everyone in it felt too close. The light pressed too hard on the edges of his vision. Every sound rang louder than it should. His body was lead, but the air was too thin.

And still, he felt them.

Their voices. Their breathing. The shape of them in the room. It wrapped around him like a net made of presence. Of not being alone.

His fingers twitched before he knew he was moving them. They worked their way free of the blanket, slow and clumsy, until his hand hovered in the air, palm up.

Dylan saw it first. He stepped in automatically, voice low and careful. “You need something?”

Sam gave the smallest shake of his head. Then, with great effort, he turned his eyes toward him.

He held his gaze. Didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

Not once.

His hand stayed up, trembling and suspended, and his eyes didn’t so much ask as plead.

“You mean me?” Dylan asked, barely audible.

Sam’s lips parted. No sound came out, but he gave the tiniest nod. Slow. Sure. A breath more than a movement.

Dylan’s breath caught.

He stepped forward, wrapped both hands gently around Sam’s, and sank into the empty chair.

“Okay,” he said softly, voice cracking. “Then I’m here.”

Sam exhaled, long and uneven, something inside him finally coming undone. His shoulders trembled. His fingers curled, light and fragile, into Dylan’s.

And didn’t let go.

“You stayed,” he said.

It barely came out, more breath than voice, but Dylan heard it.

“Of course I did,” he whispered.

Sam didn’t look around, but he didn’t have to. He felt the quiet inhale when Connor turned toward the wall. The way Jake dropped into the nearest chair too fast, like his knees stopped working. The tiny sound Ryan made as he clutched the armrest tighter than before.

No one said a word, but none of them moved.

Sam’s eyes filled, slow and hot, and that trembling crawled back into his mouth. He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to, because Dylan’s hands didn’t let go.

And the quiet wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full. Of breath. Of waiting. Of them.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Sam let himself feel it.

Not the pain.

The holding.

Sam tried to open his eyes again. They obeyed, but only just. Everything was hazy, like someone had turned the contrast too low. But there they were. 

His hand twitched.

Sleep pulled at him like a tide, but he fought it. He was tired of fading, tired of slipping out of his skin. He needed to hold on. To know .

Dylan noticed. 

“Hey,” he whispered, voice too kind. “It’s okay. You can rest.”

Sam blinked hard. 

No. Not yet.

He shook his head.

Connor’s voice came next, quieter, wary. “Why not?”

Sam swallowed. His throat burned, but the words forced their way out. “Feels safer out here. With you.”

Jake moved fast. The scrape of his shoes on the floorboard was loud in the quiet, too sharp. “We’re here,” he said quickly, urgently. “You’re safe.”

Sam believed him. Or wanted to. But his hands were still shaking.

Ryan’s voice followed, steadier than he expected. “You’re not alone.”

That one hit.

Not alone.

His voice cracked. “Promise?”

Dylan didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I promise. We all do.”

Sam’s chest clenched with something not quite relief, but close. It still didn’t feel real. He wanted proof. Something solid. Something to hold.

He squeezed Dylan’s hand. Dylan squeezed back.

His vision fuzzed out again for a second, but the weight of their presence kept him tethered.

He tried to swallow. His lips were dry. “I don’t remember falling.”

His heart picked up at the memory, or lack of it. All he remembered was the ground. The static. The door that had been wide open inside him.

Jake stepped closer. “You passed the ball.”

He frowned faintly. “To you?”

Jake shook his head, and Connor answered instead. “To me.”

Sam blinked, trying to play it in his head like a tape. “Was it… good?”

That mattered more than it should have. But it did matter. He needed to know he’d done something. That it wasn’t all collapse.

Dylan’s voice reached him again, softer this time. “It was perfect.”

Sam stared at the ceiling. “I was try- trying to stay up.”

Ryan’s reply came like a shield. “We know.”

He wanted to say more, but it all tangled in his throat. All the weight he’d carried the last few weeks, pretending he was okay. Pretending it wasn’t building. That he didn’t feel the static growing louder every time he looked over his shoulder.

His lips moved before he fully meant them to.

“Should’ve… said something…” The words were slurred, thin and frayed at the edges. “I… felt it…”

Connor moved closer, voice suddenly sharp with urgency. “No. Don’t go there. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Sam didn’t argue. He turned his face slightly toward Dylan, as if his head had become too heavy to move any further. His eyes blinked slowly, unfocused.

“…Did I mess it up?”

The words barely made it past his throat.

That was the thought still curling around his ribs: not the hit, not the vision, but the quiet ache that maybe he’d let them down. That maybe all they’d remember was the fall.

Jake’s voice dropped, low and certain. “You didn’t break anything, Sam. You held it together until it broke around you.”

The words hit something raw.

His body trembled under the blanket, but not from pain. It was everything breaking open inside him. The guilt. The static. The sheer exhaustion of holding so much alone for so long.

And now this.

His chest lifted once with a slow, ragged breath.

And then, finally, he let go.

____

Jake found Dylan by the loading dock.

The air out here was colder than it had any right to be in April. Spring might’ve been on the calendar, but winter was still in the wind, sliding under the thin corners of Jake’s sweatshirt, biting at his ears and the bridge of his nose. He’d checked Sam’s room first, and when there was no sign of him, Jake figured Dylan had just stepped out for water or to stretch his legs. But ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. That restless pressure in Jake’s chest, something tight and coiled, had started pushing him down the hall before he even realized he’d gotten up.

He told himself it was just to check.

The glow from the hospital’s lights didn’t reach this far. The lot beyond the dock was a stretch of shadow. The only light came in uneven flickers: orange, brief, curling into black.

It took Jake a second to process what he was looking at.

Dylan. Hood up, back to the wall, shoulders hunched. One hand hanging loose at his side, the other holding a cigarette between two fingers like it belonged there - easy, practiced, no fumbling. Like the muscle memory had never left. He took a slow pull, ember flaring bright enough to cut his face into sharp edges for a heartbeat before fading again.

Jake knew about the past. About the years before, about the parties and the bad habits and the nights that blurred into each other. About the way he’d quit cold when he decided to clean up his act. 

He knew Dylan used to smoke, but he’d never seen it.

Seeing it now was jarring. Like stumbling across an old, half-buried photograph of someone you thought you knew, only to realize there were whole chapters you’d never witnessed. It made something uncomfortable shift in his chest.

The ash trembled in the breeze.

Jake didn’t call out. He stepped into the half-light and stopped a few feet away, letting his sneakers scuff just enough to make his presence known.

Dylan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look over, staring straight ahead like the dark might stare back.

“I thought you quit,” Jake said finally, voice low enough not to bounce off the brick.

Slow exhale, smoke curling away. “I did.”

A pause.

 “Just… not tonight.”

Jake let that settle. He didn’t know what tonight meant exactly, but he could guess.

He moved closer, shoulder brushing the same patch of wall Dylan leaned on, and shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket.

The cold seeped in fast, but Jake stayed put. The air between them was heavier than the wind, thick with something unsaid. Dylan’s kind of heavy never came with shaking hands or fast words. It just settled in, slow and quiet, until you barely noticed how much space it took up.

Jake noticed.

They didn’t talk for a while. The only sound was the low hiss of the cigarette burning down and the faint hum of the hospital’s heating units somewhere above them. Jake stared at the cracked asphalt of the dock and tried not to picture Sam under those wires again.

Eventually, he broke the quiet. Not with what he wanted to ask, but with something smaller. “Bobby’s taking us back to the field soon. Says we can grab our cars, go home, shower.”

Dylan’s eyes didn’t leave the dark.

Jake went on, “We’re crashing at Connor’s. His dad’s out of town again.” His tone was easy, but the fact that he didn’t have to explain what “again” meant said enough. “You should come. We’ll probably end up ordering enough pizza to bankrupt the guy.”

The ember on the cigarette flared one more time before Dylan said, barely above the wind, “We’ll see.”

Jake glanced toward the hospital windows, their glow cutting against the dark. “Sam’s out for the night. Finally.”

That got the smallest nod.

Jake smirked faintly. “Come on. You at least have to go home to shower. Dean’ll kill you if you go in there smelling like smoke.”

That earned him a sharper exhale - half amusement, half warning - but Dylan let the cigarette drop, crushing the ember under his shoe. He didn’t light another.

Jake waited until Dylan’s hood fell back slightly in the breeze before turning toward the hospital. Dylan fell into step beside him without a word.

The walk back was quiet, but not the kind that made Jake’s chest feel tight. Not anymore.

____

Dr. Lewis stood at the foot of the bed the next morning with her tablet in hand, and Sam could already feel the tight coil under his ribs. The kind of pressure that came from knowing something he couldn’t explain and waiting for someone to ask anyway.

He lay in the hospital bed, half-propped on too-firm pillows, oxygen cannula brushing against his cheek, and wires itching beneath his gown. He’d stopped noticing the discomfort hours ago, though, and what lingered now was shame. Not just because he’d collapsed, but because he knew why.

And it wasn’t anything she’d find on that tablet.

His dad sat beside him. He was quiet, but close enough that Sam could feel the readiness in him. Like if this went sideways, he’d catch it before it broke.

Dr. Lewis exhaled. “We’ve gone over everything, Sam. Dozens of times. Leading up to the collapse, your vitals were solid. Your rhythm was steady. There were no spikes in heart rate. The monitor was reading clean.”

Sam nodded faintly. He knew. He’d seen it in real time. He'd watched the green light blink steadily, right up until the last moment, as his body betrayed him from the inside out.

“But you went down,” she said, tone edged with frustration. Not at him, but at the absence of answers. “Collapsed mid-run with no physical trigger, no contact. It wasn’t your heart. Not from what we can see.”

Sam stared at the blanket. He didn’t speak.

“The echo looks the same as it did six months ago. No valve issues, no signs of stress damage. If anything, you’re more stable now than you were after the Minnesota incident.”

Her voice softened. “And that’s the problem. There’s no explanation, Sam. Not medically.”

The words hit harder than he expected, somehow worse than a diagnosis. Because this wasn’t something he could treat or track. It wasn’t in the numbers.

It was in him. In the things he didn’t talk about.

“We’re calling it a stress event because that’s all we can justify,” she continued. “But I want to be clear: I don’t believe this was psychological. You didn’t panic. You didn’t hyperventilate. You just… stopped.”

Sam’s hands tightened on the blanket.

She tapped her tablet closed. “You’ve been pushing hard; that much is obvious at least. So, for now, we're doing a full monitor protocol for the inevitable future. Two weeks of rest. That means no practice, no school, and no exertion. We’ll keep watching your heart, but I can’t explain what happened.”

Dad asked the next question. “So what does that mean?”

“It means we treat what we can see,” she said. “And hope the rest doesn’t repeat.”

Sam’s throat tightened. His voice came out dry. “Can I still play?”

It was too soon to ask, he knew that. But he needed to say it.

Dr. Lewis looked at him carefully. “If your vitals stay clean, I won't have a reason to say no. So yes, after the rest period. But it’s not just my call.” Her eyes drifted. “It’s your dad’s.”

Sam felt the air shift. Dad’s hand landed on his shin, warm and steady.

“I’ll be back to check in before shift change,” Dr. Lewis said. “For now, sleep. Eat when you can. We’ll keep a close eye on the data.”

She left with the soft swish of the door, and for a moment, all Sam could hear was the hiss of the oxygen and the rhythmic beep of the monitor.

Dad stayed silent, hand still resting against Sam’s shin. The touch said I’m here louder than words could.

Sam’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You gonna say it?”

Dad tilted his head. “Say what?”

“That I scared you. That I’m grounded. That I’m done.”

Dad huffed a low, tired breath. “Scared the hell out of me? Yeah. But grounded? No. We don’t do that when we’re still figuring out what happened.”

Sam blinked slowly. “So… what now?”

“Now?” Dad leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Now we rest. Then we talk. At home, when you’re stronger.”

Sam nodded, then hesitated. His fingers fiddled with the blanket seam. “What if it happens again?”

Dad’s answer was steady. “Then we deal with it. Like we always do. Together.”

Sam exhaled, shaky and quiet. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”

“I know,” Dad said. “But baby, you’ve been white-knuckling through something all season. And not just on the field.”

Sam’s eyes slid away.

Dad didn’t press. He just kept his voice low. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Sam nodded again, slower this time. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with his heart. Not really.

Because deep down, he knew the truth.

It wasn’t adrenaline. It wasn’t cardiac strain. It wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was them.

The dreams. The visions. The hallway. The voice. The way the static had built up until it drowned everything else out. The moment before everything collapsed inside him.

That’s what dragged him down, and no monitor could catch it.

Sam swallowed hard. He didn’t say any of that, not yet.

But he would.

Because his dad had seen this before, and if there was anyone who’d believe him without question, it was the man sitting in the chair beside his bed.

“Hey,” Dad said, thumb brushing gently against his shin. “Still with me?”

Sam nodded. “Just thinking.”

Dad gave him a look. “Dangerous habit.”

Sam smiled faintly.

Then, quieter: “I’ll tell you.”

His dad’s expression didn’t shift, but his hand gave the smallest squeeze. “Whenever you’re ready, kiddo.”

And Sam believed him. Even if the static was still there in the back of his mind, whispering like a storm on the edge of sleep, he wasn’t alone in it anymore.

____

Later, the quiet in the room had changed.

Sam didn’t say much after Dr. Lewis’ visit. But when the boys came back with their arms full of greasy boxes, it felt almost normal. Like nothing had broken at all.

The pizza was terrible. It was greasy, overcooked, and somehow both too salty and too bland at once. But it was warm, and it smelled like home. Or maybe that was just the way the boys brought it in: loud, cluttered, and unapologetically themselves, like the hospital room was just another post-game hangout spot instead of what it was.

Sam sat propped in the hospital bed, tray table pulled in front of him. The oxygen line was gone now, though his voice still rasped a little if he talked too long. The monitor beeped steadily behind him. His IV was nestled in the crook of his arm, and he could sit upright without help.

He could laugh, too. Something he hadn’t done in weeks. Months, maybe.

And he was doing it now, around a mouthful of comically bad pepperoni.

“I think this crust is a war crime,” he muttered.

Jake grinned from where he’d claimed the floor, paper plate on his knee. “Still better than cafeteria meatloaf.”

Connor sprawled in the vinyl chair, legs swinging where they dangled over the side. “If I die of pizza poisoning, you’re getting benched again.”

“You’re already benched,” Ryan pointed out, raising an eyebrow in Sam’s direction.

Sam swallowed. The laughter thinned in his chest, fading to something quieter. “Yeah. I am.”

The mood dipped. Not all the way to serious, but the air changed. Ryan looked down at his plate. Jake stopped mid-fold with his crust. Dylan didn’t move, but his eyes cut toward Sam, already waiting.

Sam picked at the edge of his crust, rolling it between his fingers. “Dr. Lewis said two weeks. Full rest. No training. No contact. No school.” He paused. “After that… it’s my dad’s call.”

They were quiet.

Then Connor sat up and reached for the napkin pile like it was a legal document stash. “Okay,” he said, clicking a pen dramatically. “New contract. Terms of Sam’s Return.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Article I,” Connor declared, scrawling across the top, “Sam agrees to no more collapsing in front of stadium crowds unless it’s for dramatic effect.”

“Rude,” Sam muttered.

“Article II,” Jake added, taking the pen, “We install one of those child backpack leashes. No wandering. Ever.”

Ryan gagged. “Gross. Article III: Jake’s banned from inspirational speeches unless Sam signs a waiver.”

Jake gasped. “Betrayal!”

“Article IV,” Dylan said, accepting the pen and scribbling something with a grin, “Connor signs off on all hero plays, Ryan brings snacks, and I handle sarcasm distribution.”

Sam took the napkin when they offered it, reading their messy signatures and the ridiculous clauses with fingers that trembled only a little. Then, in careful block letters beneath the rest, he wrote:

Article V: No matter what happens, I’m not alone.

The silence afterward was soft and real. When Sam looked up, they were all watching him. And for the first time since the static had started, he didn’t feel like a ghost in his own life.

But even with the laughter creeping back in, even with the napkin passed around like a sacred text, something inside Sam still twisted.

He stared down at the tray. “I’m sorry.” It came out quietly. Sam didn’t look up. “For before. For the season. For… everything.”

Connor shifted in the chair. Jake stopped fussing with his crust. Ryan froze mid-reach for a second slice.

Sam went on. “You all knew something was off, and I knew it, too. But instead of saying anything, I kept brushing you off. Saying I was tired. Saying it was nothing.” He swallowed. “I kept trying to outrun it. I thought if I pushed hard enough, it would go quiet.”

His voice cracked. “I thought if I was good enough, if I played hard enough, it wouldn’t catch up.”

No one rushed to interrupt him. No one tried to fix it.

Sam looked up then. “I shut you out. I pushed you away, and you didn’t deserve that. Any of you.”

Jake shook his head. “You didn’t owe us perfect, man.”

Ryan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We were worried, yeah. But we didn’t want answers. We just wanted you. ”

Connor nodded in agreement. “You don’t have to go to pieces for us to show up. That’s not how this works.”

Dylan’s voice came last, quiet and sure. “You didn’t lose us, Sam. We were never going anywhere.”

Sam blinked fast, eyes stinging. He wiped his face with the side of his wrist.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Jake cleared his throat like it hurt. “So you’re signing the contract, right? Article V’s my favorite.”

Sam managed a watery laugh. “Yeah. I’m signing it.”

He scrawled his name on the grease-splotched napkin and set it back on the tray like it meant more than any medical chart.

The noise came back, soft and familiar. Stories, complaints, laughter that didn’t have to be loud to feel real. But Sam stayed quiet, fingers toying with the edge of the napkin.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke up. “I don’t remember much of the game.”

Everything stopped again. Sam didn’t mean to say it, but now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back.

“I remember the whistle. Warmups. Dylan in the stands.” His voice dipped. “But after that? It’s all static. Gone. Like my brain checked out before my body did.”

He looked at them, expression open, raw. “Except one part.”

They waited.

“I remember looking up and seeing you all surround me.” His voice caught. “And I felt like me again.”

Jake sat back, arms folded tight. “You were you, Sam. We all saw it.”

Connor nodded. “You were reading the field like you had eyes in the back of your head.”

“You called a Haverford defender ‘tap shoes,’” Ryan added. “He tripped over himself.”

Sam blinked. “I said that?”

Jake grinned. “Loudly. Coach almost fell over.”

Dylan leaned in, voice steady. “You were playing like you loved it again. And we hadn’t seen that in a while.”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. “I think that’s what scared me the most. That I felt okay, right before everything fell apart.”

Dylan reached across the tray and gave his wrist a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t fall apart, Sammy. You just ran out of road. We’ll help you find the next one.”

Connor nodded. “No more walking the line alone.”

Ryan leaned in, voice low. “You’re not a risk. You’re our little brother.”

Jake grabbed the napkin and added a new line in sharp, slanted print.

Article VI: Sam’s still our center mid. Just with a full-time backup squad.

Sam laughed. Then exhaled, slow and full.

____

The light in the hospital was too clean, too sharp for a Sunday morning. Sam blinked against it as a nurse unhooked the last of his monitors. The sticky residue from the leads clung to his skin like a fading bruise. His discharge papers rustled somewhere near his knees, where his dad was filling them out. Uncle Bobby was muttering about hospital cafeteria coffee. 

They wheeled him out because protocol said so. Sam hated every second of it. He could walk. His legs worked, but Dad had shot him a look when he started to protest. The kind that said don’t . So he sat and kept his hands on his knees.

The car ride was quiet. Sam leaned his head against the window and watched the trees blur past, the world green and gold and impossibly bright. His heart felt slow. Steady. Like it was trying to relearn rhythm.

When they pulled into the driveway, the house looked the same. Same porch. Same cracked front step. Same dent in the garage door from when Jake accidentally kicked a soccer ball too hard last summer.

But stepping inside felt like crossing some invisible line.

Home.

Rumsfeld’s collar jingled as he padded up, tail wagging like it was about to fly off his body. Sam dropped to his knees in the entryway and buried his face in soft fur. No one said anything.

His bed was freshly made. A water bottle on the nightstand. Extra blankets folded at the foot.

When Sam sat down, Dad stood in the doorway. His arms were crossed, his eyes tired, and his voice low.

“When you’re ready,” he said, “we’ll talk.”

Sam nodded.

He was still tired. Still sore.

But he wasn’t afraid of what came next.

____

The house was quiet.

Not the kind of brittle, edge-of-a-storm quiet Sam had lived in for months, not the kind that made his skin prickle and his heartbeat stutter in anticipation. This was real quiet. Home quiet. The low hum of the heater pushing against spring-cold air, the slow tick of the hallway clock, and the occasional creak of the old house settling into its bones.

Sam sat curled on the end of the couch, a throw blanket draped across his lap, Rumsfeld snoring softly at his feet. The glow of his heart monitor blinked faintly through the fabric of his hoodie. Across the room, Dad sat in the recliner, nursing a mug that had long gone lukewarm. Uncle Bobby was at the kitchen table, his glasses perched low on his nose as he stared blankly at a crossword puzzle he’d stopped pretending to fill out.

They hadn’t said much since dinner.

Grilled cheese, soup, and apples, sliced the way Dad always used to do when Sam was little. He’d eaten quietly, slowly, trying not to flinch every time his spoon scraped his bowl. Every now and then, he'd caught Dad watching him. Not hovering, but present. Focused. Waiting.

Now the silence stretched between them like an invitation.

Dad cleared his throat. “So.”

Sam’s shoulders tightened. He set his tea down carefully and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers knotted in the hem of his hoodie.

Then, softly, “I’m not okay.”

Dad didn’t flinch. Didn’t jump to comfort. He just nodded once and waited.

Sam’s voice trembled. “It’s not just my heart.”

The words dropped into the quiet like stones into deep water. Uncle Bobby didn’t look up, but the pen stilled in his hand.

“It’s in my head,” Sam went on, low and halting. “The visions. They’re back. Or... waking up again. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not like before. It’s not just dreams. It’s... static. Pressure. Noise that builds until it crushes everything else out.”

He wiped his palms on his jeans. “It started before the season. Flickers, mostly. Heat behind my eyes. Nausea. Little moments where the world twisted wrong and snapped back. I thought… I thought maybe I was imagining it.”

Dad leaned forward, mug resting on his knees now. “But it kept going.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s throat closed up around the word. “It got worse. I could feel it all the time. I could feel it during warm-ups. It got louder, like my body could still move, but my mind was slipping sideways. And I kept telling myself it would stop. That if I kept pushing, it’d burn out again like before.”

He looked up, finally, and his voice cracked wide open.

“But it didn’t.”

Uncle Bobby was standing now, and he moved a little closer. He didn’t interrupt.

“I knew I was spiraling,” Sam admitted. “I knew I was pulling away. Every time one of you looked at me too long, I felt like you were gonna see it. That you’d know something was wrong. So I got better at hiding it. I tried to hide it.”

Dad’s face was lined with something that wasn’t just worry.

Sam went on, hoarse now. “I shut you out. I shut the boys out. I shut Dylan out. I shut out everyone who asked if I was okay. And I kept pushing harder, because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Because if I let go, I thought the static would swallow me whole.”

He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “And then it did. ”

The words hung there, raw and exposed.

Dad stood slowly and crossed to the couch, sitting beside him without a word. His hand found Sam’s shoulder, warm and steady.

Sam kept talking, quieter now. “It wasn’t my heart, not really. I mean, I know it looked like it. But that day, during the game... it wasn’t pain that dropped me. It was the vision. It came so fast I couldn’t brace for it, and then- then I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I was screaming on the inside, and everything on the outside said I was fine.”

He trembled. “And I knew it was coming. I just didn’t tell anyone.”

His dad didn’t say why not. He didn’t have to.

Sam shook his head, voice breaking again. “I didn’t want to be the kid with the weird brain again. The one who scares people. I didn’t want either of you looking at me like I was gonna break. I didn’t want the team to think I was losing it.”

“You weren’t,” Uncle Bobby said, walking over now. His voice was quiet but firm. “You were overwhelmed. That ain’t weakness, Sam. That’s human.”

Sam let out a breath that shuddered through his whole body.

“I felt so alone,” he whispered. “I was surrounded by people, and I still felt like I was drowning in a space no one else could touch.”

Dad’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him in gently.

“You’re not alone, sweetheart,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”

Sam leaned into him, exhausted in a way sleep didn’t touch. He felt Uncle Bobby crouch beside the couch and heard the old man’s knees crack.

“You’re ours, kid,” Uncle Bobby said. “We’ve carried you through worse, and we’ll do it again. Whatever these powers are, whatever’s coming, we'll face it together.”

Dad nodded. “We’ll call Missouri. We’ll come up with a plan. But right now? You don’t have to fight anything. Just be here with us.”

Sam closed his eyes. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Dad murmured, brushing a hand through his hair. “Me too.”

There was a long silence. Then Sam spoke again, his voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the hum of the heater.

“It’s always the same hallway.”

Dad stilled beside him. Uncle Bobby looked up slowly.

Sam kept his eyes closed. “That’s what I see. In the visions. It's not always clear, but it’s there. A long hallway. The floor’s tile. The lights flicker. There’s a door at the end, just barely cracked open. And behind it is this… pressure. Like something’s waiting. Like if I get too close, it’ll swallow me.”

Uncle Bobby’s voice was low. “You ever get through the door?”

Sam shook his head. “No. But I get closer every time. And each time, it’s like my body knows before I do. My heart starts pounding, my head fills with static, and I feel… trapped. Like I’m walking toward something I’m not ready to face.”

He looked up at his dad, eyes glassy. “I don’t know what’s behind the door, but I think it's something I’m afraid of.”

Dad’s jaw tightened. He pulled Sam in closer, wrapping both arms around him this time.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, voice thick. “We’ll find out what it means. That hallway, that door, whatever’s at the end of it, you don’t face it alone. You hear me?”

Sam nodded into his shoulder.

Uncle Bobby rested a hand on Sam’s knee. “You ever seen anything else? Symbols, sounds, anything you could draw for us?”

“Sometimes I hear a voice,” Sam admitted. “It muffled. It’s always when the door starts to open. I try to call back, but I can’t move. I just stand there and listen, and then I wake up in a sweat with my ears ringing.”

Dad’s hand curled protectively around the back of Sam’s head. “You should’ve told us sooner.”

“I know,” Sam whispered. “I wanted to. I just…”

“You thought you had to carry it alone,” Uncle Bobby said. “Just like always.”

Sam didn’t argue.

Dad pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Next time you see that hallway? You don’t walk it alone. We’ll help you figure out what it means. Missouri will help, too. And if there’s something behind that door, we’ll face it together.”

Sam hesitated, then reached for the sketchpad on the coffee table. The one he hadn’t touched in weeks.

His fingers trembled as he flipped it open, turned to a blank page, and began to draw. It wasn't much, just the shape of the hallway. The door. A shadow pressing in behind it.

He didn’t look up when he passed it to Dad, but his voice was steadier than it had been all night.

“I want to understand it. All of it.”

____

Dean sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, Missouri’s theory notes fanned out like a séance gone wrong. Sam’s medical records formed a wall in front of him, pages worn and curling at the corners. Post-its dotted everything like breadcrumbs: precursor? latent trigger? dream-state loop?

He should’ve been in bed. Sam was, Dean had checked twice. Four times. The kid was curled in tight, heart monitor blinking its soft, slow rhythm from the nightstand like it was trying to reassure them all. Dean had stood in the doorway just long enough to make sure Sam’s chest rose steadily and that the nightmare lines had smoothed from his forehead.

Still, he couldn’t shake it.

He stared at the yellowing printout in front of him, the one where Sam had described his first vision when he was fourteen. And then the next one. And the one after that. All written in the same squished handwriting, like maybe if he made himself small enough, no one would notice what was unraveling.

The chair opposite him scraped quietly as Bobby sat down with a heavy exhale, a glass of whiskey in hand. He looked at the mess on the table and then at Dean.

“You ain’t gonna logic this out, son.”

Dean's jaw flexed as he looked through another string of timestamped notes and theory scribbles. He stared for a long moment, then spoke without looking up.

“He didn’t tell me.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

Dean finally looked up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something sharper. “He didn’t tell me, Bobby. He didn’t tell anyone. Not when they started. Not when they got worse. He carried it. Alone.”

The silence after that was thick.

“I thought we were past that,” Dean said, voice rough. “I thought he knew. I thought I made it clear he didn’t have to go through this stuff alone anymore. That he could tell me. That I’d believe him.”

Bobby’s mouth tugged sideways. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“You remember bein’ fifteen?” he asked.

Dean blinked.

Bobby sipped his drink, then gestured with it. “I do. I remember a certain pain-in-the-ass teenager who tried to patch up a sprained wrist with duct tape so his little brother wouldn’t find out he’d fallen off the roof.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

“You didn’t want the kid to worry,” Bobby went on. “Didn’t want anyone to know you weren’t as invincible as you made yourself out to be. Sound familiar?”

Dean exhaled through his nose, leaning back in the chair like the weight of the memory hit between his ribs.

“Sam’s got some of that in him,” Bobby said, gentler now. “The part that’d rather take it on the chin than watch somebody else get scared. He learned it from somewhere.”

Dean stared down at the notes again. At Sam’s scrawled handwriting. At the little static-sketch doodle in the margin of the latest log.

“I just hate that he thought he had to,” Dean said, quiet and hurt. “That he didn’t think I’d understand.”

“You’d understand just fine,” Bobby said. “But you’d hurt. He knows that too.”

Dean closed the laptop.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he said.

Bobby sighed. “No such thing as fixing, Dean. Not with this kind of thing. You manage it. You walk with him through it. That’s the job.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a long while after that. He tapped the pen against the side of the mug, eyes flicking over the mess of timelines and notes, but not seeing them.

Bobby watched him, then leaned back with a quiet grunt, nursing his whiskey. The light above them buzzed faintly. Somewhere outside, a branch scratched against the house like a nervous habit.

After a beat, Bobby spoke again.

“You know, your daddy…” He paused, rolling the glass between his hands. “He wasn’t wired the same.”

Dean glanced up, wary. Bobby didn’t soften it.

“I remember when you were about fourteen, almost fifteen. Took a spill on a hunt not long after I met you. You'd cracked a rib badly, worse than you let on. Sam was a baby, barely old enough to sit up. You told me later John still made you hike back three miles to the car while he carried the weapons case and barked orders like nothin’ was wrong.”

Dean’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I tried to patch you up the best I could,” Bobby continued. “You were as pale as a ghost. Could barely breathe. John stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, saying, ‘He’ll toughen up.’”

Dean looked away. Down at his hands. At the grease that was still faintly visible under his nails.

Bobby’s voice dropped. “Sam’s different, thank God, but he’s still your kid. And he’s still got that Winchester wiring that thinks protecting you means hiding the parts that scare him most.”

Dean let out a shaky breath. “Yeah, well. He shouldn’t have to.”

“No. He shouldn’t. But neither should you’ve had to at his age.” Bobby’s voice softened. “And you still did.”

Dean scrubbed both hands down his face, then rested his elbows on the table, forehead against his palms.

“I don’t want to be him,” he muttered.

“You’re not.”

Dean looked up.

Bobby held his gaze. “You listen. You stay. You fight for that boy like it’s breathin’. You ain’t never walked away. And you sure as hell never told him to ‘toughen up.’”

Dean swallowed hard, throat tight.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

And he picked the pen back up.

____

Dad's phone sat in the center of the coffee table, speaker turned on. Missouri’s voice crackled faintly through the line, warm and steady even through the static, like it carried something older than electricity.

Sam sat folded in on himself at one end of the couch, legs drawn up under him, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands so tight the fabric pinched. He kept his eyes on the phone but didn’t really see it, just a dark blur in a haze of low light and nerves.

His dad sat to his right, solid and quiet, his arm draped behind the cushions, knee knocking gently into Sam’s like a quiet reminder: here . He hadn’t said much since they dialed Missouri, but he didn’t need to. His presence was weight enough, warm and steady like a heartbeat pressed close.

Uncle Bobby was on Sam’s other side, arms crossed over his chest, legs planted like he was expecting the house to fall in and was ready to catch it. He wasn’t touching Sam, not exactly, but his shoulder was close enough to lean into if the ground shifted.

Sam didn’t know if he wanted to lean in or disappear.

His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

“Can you hear me, sweetheart?” Missouri’s voice asked gently from the speaker.

Sam nodded before realizing that she couldn't see it. “Yeah. I can,” he said, voice smaller than he meant it to be.

“Mmhmm. Good,” she said, like she could feel the edges of his hesitation. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been seeing?”

His heart skittered. The instinct to say nothing flared hot and immediate. It was an old habit, sharp-edged and heavy with shame, but his dad didn’t let him sit in it long. He gave him a small nudge with his shoulder, nothing forceful, just enough to say I’m here. You can do this.

So Sam started talking.

The words came slowly at first, pulled like thread from a knot, one breath at a time. He told her about the hallway: how it was always the same length, the same sound, like walking through a TV station that had gone off-air. The lights flickered but never quite died. The walls hummed like they were breathing. And at the end, always, was the door.

Warped. Heavy. Silent.

Except it wasn’t. Not really. Sometimes it throbbed like it had a pulse. Sometimes he heard things behind it. A voice, maybe. Or a low sound like static in the bones.

He told her about the pressure in his chest, like trying to hold his breath underwater for too long. About the way his head ached when he tried not to think about it, and the times his heart fluttered like it was scared of something he didn’t know how to name. About the nosebleeds. The weird flashes. The sense of something building inside him that he didn’t know where to put.

He stopped when he ran out of courage.

The silence after was sharp and strange. He almost wanted her to say it sounded crazy. That it wasn’t anything.

But Missouri’s voice came soft, certain. “That ain’t a vision, sugar. Not really.”

Sam blinked, shoulders tightening. “What?”

“It’s not the future or a warning. That hallway, that door, that’s you. It’s your mind trying to protect you. To contain something you weren’t ready to face.”

Sam’s breath caught like someone had yanked it out of him. His stomach flipped.

Dad leaned forward slightly. “You mean it’s not real?”

“Oh, it’s real,” Missouri said. “Just not in the way you think. That hallway is your thread, baby. Your psychic current. It’s tangled up something fierce from stress and fear, and from you trying to shut it out. And when a gift like yours gets twisted like that, it doesn’t go quiet. It pushes back. Starts speaking in dreams. In pulses. In pain.”

Sam looked down at his knees. His hands were clenched so tightly in his sleeves that the fabric was twisting. The monitor clipped to his waistband gave a soft, steady beep like it was trying to be gentle.

Uncle Bobby let out a long breath beside him, rubbing at his beard. “That's why the kid’s been havin’ the chest pain and flashes?”

“Exactly,” Missouri said. “His body’s been trying to speak louder than his denial.”

Sam winced, shame curling in tight and hot beneath his ribs. “I didn’t mean to deny it,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t want it to be back. I didn't want to be broken.”

There was a long pause on the line.

“I know,” Missouri said finally, voice softer now, velvet and sad. “But you’re not broken, Sam, you’re sensitive. You feel things deeply. And when you try to carry it alone, it gets too heavy for one thread to bear.”

His hand crept toward the edge of the heart monitor, fingers ghosting over the plastic clip like maybe he could pretend it wasn’t there. But he didn’t unclip it. He held it for a second like it might explain something he couldn’t.

Dad noticed. His hand came to rest on Sam’s shoulder, warm and sure.

Sam swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

Missouri’s voice came through again, gentle but unwavering. “It’s time to stop locking that door, baby. It’s not about forcing it open, it’s about untangling it, like pulling thread through a needle.”

Sam nodded before he realized he had. The motion was small. Fragile. But it felt… right. Like breathing again after holding it for too long.

Dad’s voice came next, low and firm. “We’ll do it together.”

Missouri hummed. “That’s how the thread heals. Not alone.”

Sam let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

He let himself lean a little into his dad’s side.

____

The hallway outside his bedroom creaked when Uncle Bobby went to bed, floorboards groaning under the weight of someone who never quite learned how to walk quietly. Dad had already checked in twice after helping him up the stair, pretending to look for laundry, for his wallet, for anything. But Sam knew he was just checking him , like maybe the thread Missouri had talked about would suddenly snap, like the static might come surging back.

But it hadn’t. Not yet.

Sam sat cross-legged on top of the blankets, his monitor light blinking soft and steady against his hip.

The phone in his lap buzzed once.

He answered quickly, before it could wake anyone else. “Hi.”

“Hey there, baby,” Missouri said. “You ready to try something?”

Sam hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good. I want you to lie back for me. Get comfortable. Put the phone on speaker and set it beside you.”

Sam obeyed, lying down slowly, careful not to tug the monitor cable. He set the phone on his pillow, screen dimming beside his cheek. His heart thudded gently beneath the layers of fabric and quiet.

“All right,” Missouri said. “I want you to close your eyes.”

He did.

“Take a deep breath in through your nose. Hold it for a beat. Then let it out through your mouth.”

Sam obeyed. The exhale trembled, but not too much.

“Again. Good. Now, picture the hallway.”

His stomach twisted. He didn’t want to.

“You’re not going alone,” Missouri said, like she felt him hesitate. “Look beside you. Who’s there?”

The picture formed before he could stop it: his dad standing tall beside him in that worn flannel and tired eyes, hand already reaching out like he’d been waiting. And behind him, Uncle Bobby, arms crossed and jaw set like he’d take on the whole house if it so much as blinked wrong.

“They’re here,” Sam whispered.

“Of course they are. You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

He took a step forward in his mind. The hallway stretched before them, long and flickering, but the lights didn’t buzz as loudly this time. The walls weren’t as tight. The static didn’t scream in his ears.

“Take another breath,” Missouri murmured. “Let the fear pass through. You don’t have to hold it.”

Sam did.

The air in the hallway felt warmer now. The flickers steadied with each step. The door at the end was still there, still pulsing faintly like it had a heartbeat of its own, but it wasn’t as loud. It didn’t loom the way it used to. It just… waited.

He didn’t move toward it.

Missouri’s voice was soft as the wind. “You don’t need to open it. Not yet. Just know it’s there. That you’re allowed to get close without going through.”

Sam nodded, forehead brushing the pillow. He didn’t realize he’d turned, that he'd started crying, until he felt the damp on his cheeks.

“It’s okay, baby. That’s your thread, remembering how to be safe again.”

He stood there in the dream-space, his dad’s hand in his, Uncle Bobby’s presence behind him like bedrock.

He’d been so sure that hallway would swallow him. But now…

Now it just felt quiet. Familiar. Like something inside him had been waiting for him to come back.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was dark and soft. The monitor blinked once, calm and steady.

He picked up the phone, voice hoarse and barely there.

“It didn’t feel like a dream this time,” he whispered. “It felt like home.”

Missouri smiled through the line. He could hear it.

“Good,” she said. “That’s where the thread starts.”

____

Dean padded down the hallway barefoot, the floor cold under his soles, the kind of chill that slipped through old houses no matter how warm the blankets were. He hadn’t meant to get back up. He’d told himself Sam was fine. Told himself Missouri had him. Told himself to sleep.

But the light was still on under Sam’s door.

So here he was. Again.

He didn’t knock, just eased the door open with his fingers pressed to the frame so the hinge wouldn’t creak. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the heart monitor’s little screen and the distant spill of hallway light. The air smelled faintly of laundry soap and old paperbacks. Safe things.

Sam was curled sideways on the bed, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting lightly on top of the blankets. His hair was a mess; flattened on one side, curls sticking up at odd angles on the other. The phone was still beside him, the screen dark now, face down like he’d finished the call and let it be.

But what caught Dean wasn’t the monitor’s blink or the way the wires hadn’t tangled.

It was the expression on Sam’s face.

Not tense. Not twisted up the way it usually got when he slept. No lines between his brows. No tight jaw. His breathing was slow, even, and-

Dean leaned against the doorframe, hand tightening just slightly around the edge.

Sam was smiling.

Just barely. A tiny little curve, like whatever he was dreaming about, wasn’t something chasing him for once. It didn’t look forced. Didn’t look haunted.

It looked like peace.

Dean swallowed hard.

He hadn’t seen that smile in sleep in weeks.

He watched for a few more seconds, letting the quiet sit. Then stepped inside, moving slowly, and gently adjusted the blanket where it had slipped off Sam’s hip. His hand hovered just a second longer than necessary, brushing faintly against the monitor. Still steady.

Still here.

Dean looked around the room. His hoodie was folded on the desk chair. Monty the moose had migrated from the pillow to the shelf but was still nearby. The notebook Missouri had sent peeked out from under the bed, the page corners bent.

Dean exhaled.

“Good job,” he whispered, barely audible, before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “My brave boy.”

Then he clicked off the bedside lamp, left the door open just enough, and padded back down the hallway. Quiet this time, like maybe the house didn’t need to hold its breath anymore.

____

The knock came just after seven.

It wasn’t urgent, but it wasn’t casual either. Just a short rhythm followed by silence, like someone rehearsed it and still wasn’t sure.

His dad opened the door without a word. On the porch stood four boys in mismatched hoodies and scuffed sneakers, shoulders drawn close like they weren’t sure they belonged.

Dad only stepped back. “Shoes off,” he said. “Blankets are clean. Don’t let Jake near the thermostat.”

That was enough.

They filed in like they’d been summoned, not invited. Grocery bags rustled - snacks, juice, something that might’ve been a board game.

In the living room, Sam was curled on the couch. He was propped up on one end with a fleece blanket draped over his lap, pale but upright. He was in one of his dad's old faded band shirts, the short sleeves exposing the hospital band that still circled around his wrist. The monitor blinked green on the table beside him. He was alert, if quiet. Watching.

He looked up as they entered, gaze locking onto them with something between relief and disbelief.

Jake dropped a bag of chips on the table and brandished a DVD case like a trophy. “Movie night?”

Sam squinted at the cover. “Didn’t we already watch that?”

Connor was already throwing pillows on the floor. “Twice.”

Jake shrugged. “It’s tradition.”

Sam exhaled a faint laugh. “You and your dumb traditions.”

But he didn’t say no.

Ryan claimed his corner of the rug with two throw blankets and a bottle of chocolate milk. Jake took the recliner, upside down for some reason. Connor parked himself on the floor with a soda and a half-finished granola bar right next to Ryan. Dylan moved quietly to the couch, settling on the floor in front of where Sam sat, a bottle of Gatorade already uncapped in his hand.

He offered it to Sam without a word, and he accepted it with a tired nod, taking a small sip.

The movie started. Voices overlapped. Jake kept making commentary like he was on a podcast no one subscribed to. Ryan tried to analyze the physics of Elastigirl’s bike. Connor argued that the government wouldn’t actually let superheroes keep living in secret. 

Sam leaned in, dry as ever. “So basically,” he said between sips, “you all just hate joy.”

Jake gasped. “I’m sorry, is that sass I hear from the medical couch?”

Sam gave him a mock-serious look. “The couch has opinions. Deal with it.”

They laughed, and for a while it felt normal. Not fake-normal, not trying-too-hard normal. A glimpse of what used to be. What could still be.

Dylan leaned back against the couch frame, legs crossed, half-watching the movie and half-watching Sam.

Sam had drawn the blanket tighter around his shoulders, but it wasn’t helping much. His fingers, still wrapped around the bottle, had gone a little pale. His shoulders were hunched, not from pain, but cold.

Dylan didn’t speak. He just tugged his hoodie up over his head in one smooth motion, then carefully draped it over Sam’s shoulders. Sam blinked at him, confused for a second, until Dylan gently shifted the sleeves into place, making sure the bottle didn’t spill.

The sweatshirt was warm. It smelled like laundry and grass and something grounding. Team huddles and hallway jokes and the unmistakable echo of safety.

Sam didn’t protest. He pulled his arms through the sleeves slowly, grateful. The hoodie, already oversized on Dylan, swallowed him whole.

Dylan just offered him a faint half-smile and leaned back into his spot on the floor.

“Movie night,” Jake repeated. “The only cure for real life.”

Sam didn’t answer that time. He was already sagging a little into the couch, Gatorade resting on his lap, hoodie sleeves bunched around his fists.

“You’re gonna spill that,” Dylan murmured.

Sam blinked, slow and hazy. “Huh?”

“The drink. Gimme.”

Sam made a face, but let Dylan take the bottle from his hands. He set it on the table, then settled back against the couch frame again, shoulder brushing Sam’s hip.

The voices around him had started to blur, but Sam could still pick them out if he tried.

They were watching something dumb. Or maybe not dumb. Sam couldn’t remember. His eyes were half-lidded, the couch cushion warm against the side of his face. Dylan’s hoodie was heavy on his shoulders, sleeves too long and bunched around his hands like he was still a little kid.

Dylan hadn’t moved. Every once in a while, he’d shift or lean forward to grab something, and Sam would register the motion without opening his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he’d been half-asleep like this. Didn’t care.

The movie hummed in the background, the others still arguing gently about superhero physics like it mattered. Sam blinked once. Then again. Slower this time.

He felt warm. Not just body warm. All the way in his ribs warm.

His voice came before his thoughts did. “Did you go back to school?”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but Dylan answered anyway. “What?”

Sam didn’t lift his head. “Since I got back. I haven't seen you.”

There was a beat of quiet, the TV filling in the silence.

Then Dylan said, softer this time, “Nah. I’ve been here.”

Sam let out a quiet breath, one that had been caught behind his ribs for too long.

“Figured,” he murmured. “‘Cause… big brother stuff.”

The words tumbled out, unfiltered. Too sleepy to censor, too safe to care.

No one reacted, at least not in a way Sam noticed, and he didn’t open his eyes to find out.

He just breathed in again, the smell of hoodie cotton and Gatorade and home still thick in the air, and let himself drift.

The last thing he registered was Dylan gently pulling the blanket higher around his shoulders.

____

Dylan didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Sam’s voice had been quiet, barely more than a mumble, but Dylan heard it as clear as anything.

It hit him like a punch wrapped in cotton. Soft. Slow. Absolutely devastating.

For a second, he thought maybe the others hadn’t heard. Maybe it had been too quiet. Maybe it could just be his to keep.

But when he looked up, the room had stilled.

Jake had stopped mid-reach toward the popcorn, one hand hovering over the bowl like he’d forgotten what he was doing. Ryan was half-curled under a blanket at the edge of the rug, but his eyes had lifted. He was watching, soft and knowing. Connor sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, a soda can balanced on one knee, his gaze steady on the couch.

None of them said anything. Dylan didn’t want them to.

He swallowed hard, blinking too fast. The back of his throat burned in that awful, quiet way, like something full and sharp had taken up space behind his ribs.

On the couch, Sam was already drifting, face turned toward the cushions, breath evening out. The hoodie was almost comically large on him, one hand fisted in the sleeve near his chest. He looked young again. Not scared, not panicked, just small. Tired.

Safe, like he finally believed it again.

Dylan reached up and gently tugged the blanket a little higher. His hands moved slow and practiced. He didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

Then he leaned back against the couch frame, arms draped over his knees, and let the weight of it settle.

He didn’t mean for his hand to tighten around the Gatorade bottle in his lap. Didn’t mean for his chest to shake. He tried to keep his breathing even. Tried not to let his shoulders give anything away.

But of course they saw.

Ryan was the first to speak, barely above a whisper, like breaking the quiet would shatter something sacred. “I'm glad he said it again.”

Dylan didn’t look at him.

Connor shifted, his voice just as soft. “He meant it.”

Jake didn’t say anything. Instead, he passed the popcorn bowl without a word. Then leaned forward and offered Dylan the Gatorade cap he hadn’t realized he’d dropped.

Dylan took it and turned it over in his hands once. Pressed his thumbs into the edge.

“I didn’t think he’d say it again,” he admitted quietly. “Not after everything.”

Connor shook his head. “It never stopped being true.”

Dylan closed his eyes for half a second. Not long, but just long enough to pull the pieces back into place.

“He didn’t even realize he said it,” he murmured. “It just… came out.”

Ryan’s voice was almost a hum. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

The movie played on, sound filling in the cracks they didn’t know they had. On screen, Elastigirl chased a train. Jake resumed his quiet commentary, this time softer, toned down like he knew the moment wasn’t over.

Connor leaned his head back against the couch and stretched his legs across the floor. Ryan settled deeper into his blanket nest.

Dylan stayed where he was, just by Sam’s shoulder.

He watched the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The way his grip stayed locked on the hoodie sleeve. The faint twitch of his fingers, as if he were holding something even in sleep.

It wasn’t the first time Sam had said it, but it was the first time in a long time that Dylan let himself believe it might still stick.

____

Dad had to run into town for groceries - something about the freezer being “violently empty” - and Uncle Bobby was elbows-deep in trying to fix a pipe in the garage that had started making a noise like a dying animal.

Which left Sam alone on the couch with a blanket, a hot water bottle, and a fading headache he hadn’t mentioned out loud.

And Jake.

Jake, who had somehow wandered into the house with the rest of them yesterday like he’d always belonged there, and today had gotten left behind while the others went on a snack run.

Now he stood at the edge of the living room, awkward and motionless, like he wasn’t sure whether to sit down, offer medical assistance, or quietly exit out the nearest window.

Sam blinked up at him from under the blanket. “You okay?”

Jake scoffed, arms crossing tightly over his chest as if that made him less emotionally available. “I’m not the one who collapsed on the field like an overly dramatic Victorian ghost.”

Sam huffed, but it didn’t have much strength behind it. “Wasn’t that dramatic.”

Jake lifted a brow and stepped closer, his voice going theatrical. “You straight-up swayed like you were about to deliver your final monologue.”

“Dude.”

He raised one hand, deadpan. “All I’m saying is, if you’re gonna scare the shit out of us, at least commit to the bit and clutch your chest next time. Give us something to work with.”

Sam rolled his eyes - slowly, because it still made his head feel floaty sometimes - but he didn’t argue. The edge of the couch was warm where the blanket bunched around his legs. He tugged it up a little higher, letting the conversation settle around him like extra layers.

Jake made a show of shuffling forward and dropping into the armchair with exaggerated care, like he suspected the furniture might bite.

“So. This is what we’re doing, huh?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the blanket, the quiet, the hot water bottle. “Recovering quietly?”

Sam gave a small nod. “Pretty much.”

Jake nodded solemnly, hands clasped in front of him like he was about to begin a eulogy. “Cool. I’m great at silence.”

Three seconds passed.

Jake launched back into conversation. “Okay, but like, real talk. How do you do it?”

Sam turned his head slightly, frowning. “Do what?”

Jake shrugged, his legs stretching out in front of him like they didn’t quite belong to his body. “Keep it together. When your ribs hurt and your head’s doing… whatever it does. And people are expecting you to lead. And your monitor’s beeping. And your dad looks like he’s about to tear down the bleachers with his bare hands. How?”

Sam blinked. His throat went dry. He hadn’t realized Jake had seen all that.

“I don’t always keep it together,” he said after a beat, voice low. “I just try not to fall apart where anyone can see.”

Jake nodded, slowly, like he understood it more than he wanted to. Then leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “That’s dumb,” he said flatly.

Sam lifted a brow. “Thanks?”

“No, seriously,” Jake said, gesturing vaguely. “That’s, like, impressively stupid. You think we’d care? If you cracked a little?”

Sam hesitated. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket.

Jake leaned back again, staring at the ceiling now like it might help him find the words. 

“I mean, yeah, we joke and yell and throw gum wrappers, but you’re not just the guy who plays through pain or makes the last pass.”  His voice dropped a notch. “You’re the guy who makes us want to try. Even when we suck. Even when Coach is possessed by drill demons.”

Sam didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The words were caught somewhere between his ribs and his breath.

Jake shrugged again, more to himself this time.

“I dunno. I just think… if you ever need to not be okay, you can do that here. With us.” He paused, then added, “With me, even. I’ll only mock you a little.”

Sam’s mouth twitched. “You kinda suck at this.”

“I’m trying to be emotionally available,” Jake snapped. “It’s not my natural state!”

And somehow, that broke it.

Sam snorted. Then he laughed. Really laughed, soft and breathless, until he had to curl into the pillow because it made his ribs ache.

Jake grinned across the space between them, eyes bright. “There. Mission accomplished. I win.”

Sam exhaled, still smiling. “Win what?”

“The Sam Winchester Emotional Recovery Games, obviously.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Correct.”

They sat in silence after that. Not the heavy kind - not the kind that weighed on his chest - but the warm, worn-in kind that filled a room without asking anything in return.

Jake didn’t fidget. Sam didn’t pretend not to be tired.

Eventually, Sam let his eyes fall closed again, cheek tucked into the side of the pillow.

“Hey, Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“…Thanks. For not being weird about stuff.”

Jake snorted. “You say that like I’m not deeply weird about literally everything.”

Sam didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled.

____

The front door swung open right as Sam was adjusting the heart monitor lead under his sweatshirt. 

Jake entered first, already complaining. “He started practice with triangle passing. Triangle passing.”

Connor followed, kicking his shoes off with practiced aim. “Coach says it builds foundational rhythm.”

“Coach says a lot of things when Sam’s not around,” Ryan added, trailing in with a bag of Gatorades. “None of them are helpful.”

Sam blinked up from his corner of the couch, blanket over his knees, a mug of tea in both hands. “You guys know I’m not dead, right?”

Jake pointed at him. “We don’t trust anything anymore.”

“Literally,” Connor agreed, sliding into the chair next to the TV. “Coach moved the whiteboard to the wrong side of the locker room, and I almost cried.”

Sam fought back a laugh. “What, is that like a sacred spot?”

“It’s not just a whiteboard,” Ryan said. “It’s where you stand.”

Sam blinked. “You don’t have to leave it blank.”

“We didn’t,” Jake muttered. “We stared at it for fifteen minutes like it was a haunted Ouija board.”

The front door creaked again, and Dylan stepped in. “Are you guys being weird without me?”

“We’re being lost without Sam,” Jake corrected. “Coach tried to make Ryan call midfield shifts. He panicked and just said everyone’s names really loud.”

Ryan threw a pillow at him. “I did fine.”

“You called me Jacob.”

“That’s your name!”

Sam smiled into his mug as Dylan nudged through the door, a takeout bag in one hand and a drink tray balanced in the other, kicking the door closed with his foot.

“You’re here early,” Sam said, surprised but not unhappy.

“Figured I’d try and beat the stampede. Obviously, that didn't work,” Dylan replied, setting the food down on the coffee table. “Also, I brought fries.”

Jake stared for a second. “Didn’t Coach ask you to come to the game tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said, handing out drinks without looking up. “Told him I’ll be watching it from here.”

Sam turned toward him, brows slightly raised.

Dylan met his eyes, calm and certain, his lips tugging up in a small grin.

Sam didn’t say anything, but he shifted a little so Dylan had more space on the couch.

Connor shook his head. “Honestly? Practice was a mess.”

“We’ve been running the wrong shape all week,” Ryan said. “Like Coach is trying to force a 4-3-3 when it clearly wants to be a 4-2-3-1.”

Jake flopped down at the foot of the couch. “He keeps trying to replace you with structure. Have you ever seen someone try to spreadsheet leadership?”

Connor added, “He made us assign roles. Literal roles. Jake’s was ‘energy.’”

“I am energy,” Jake said with full confidence.

Ryan shrugged. “Mine was ‘quiet strategist.’”

Connor nodded. “And mine was ‘tempo enforcer.’ Which I think means I glare at people who slow down.”

Sam blinked slowly. “Is that... helping?”

The three of them answered at once:

“No.”

“Not at all.”

“Absolute garbage.”

Sam felt like he might laugh again, but instead he tucked his legs up under the blanket and exhaled a slow, steady breath. “You’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out when you’re back,” Jake said, tossing another fry into his mouth. “Speaking of which, uh- do you know when that is yet?”

Sam hesitated, then shook his head slightly. “Not yet. I’m feeling better, but…” His eyes flicked toward Dylan for a second, then back down to his mug. “I haven’t talked with my dad about it. Not really.”

The room went a little quieter.

Connor nodded like he understood. “You’ll know when it’s time.”

Ryan added, “Don’t rush it. Even if we’re flailing.”

Sam gave a faint smile. “Thanks.”

Jake threw a fry at Ryan. “Speak for yourself, I’m thriving.”

Ryan caught it with his mouth. “Coach benched you for tripping over a cone,” he said through his chewing.

“Thrive in chaos, baby.”

Dylan chuckled and reached out, gently taking the now-empty tea mug from Sam’s hands before it could tip. Sam leaned his head back against the couch, eyes heavy but not gone yet.

Outside, the sky was inching toward dusk. But inside, the boys were already home. And no one was asking Sam to move faster than he could.

____

The living room smelled like whatever weird candle Uncle Bobby insisted helped with “focus.” Sam wasn’t sure if sage and pine had any magical properties, but it masked the faint antiseptic scent that still clung to the monitor clipped at his waist. It made the place smell less like nerves. Less like the inside of a hospital room.

He sat cross-legged on the couch, monitor tucked under his hoodie, laptop balanced on the coffee table. The livestream loaded slowly, buffering over the image of Vermillion’s soccer field: flat, a little muddy, framed by bleachers and the kind of wind that didn’t care who it hit. The commentary had already started and was somehow both too loud and too vague, voices fumbling over names Sam knew like the back of his hand.

“You sure this is gonna work?” Uncle Bobby asked from the recliner, squinting at the spinning circle in the corner of the screen like it had personally insulted him.

“Dad said it worked last time,” Sam said, adjusting the angle of the screen and trying to ignore how fast his heart was already beating. “Mostly.”

From the kitchen, his dad returned with a bowl of popcorn that looked over-salted even by Dean Winchester's standards. “If it crashes, I’m driving us to Vermillion myself.”

“No one’s driving two hours just to watch Jake trip over his shoelaces,” Dylan called, pulling the front door shut behind him with his elbow. He already looked more at ease in this house than most people ever did. He dropped a plastic grocery bag on the table like it contained tactical gear.

“Supplies,” he declared. “Coach would be proud.”

Out spilled a mess of candy bars, sour gummy worms, and a bottle of Gatorade so bright it could probably glow in the dark.

Dad raised an eyebrow. “You feeding him sugar before kickoff?”

“It’s not like he’s on the field,” Dylan said, toeing off his shoes and dropping onto the couch beside Sam. “He can handle a Snickers.”

“Dad,” Sam mumbled, already blushing. “It’s fine.”

Dad held up both hands in surrender, retreating to the arm of the couch with a quiet, amused exhale. Uncle Bobby grunted something that sounded suspiciously like soft parenting , but he didn’t argue. He just reached for the paper like he wasn’t already invested.

The screen flickered, then finally blinked to life. The feed settled on Vermillion’s field, the camera zoomed out too far, and tilted slightly to the left. Sam leaned forward without thinking, scanning the twenty scattered boys in warm-up formations.

“There,” Dylan pointed. “That’s Connor, over by the sideline. Jake’s the one tying his shoe. Again.”

Sam smiled before he could stop himself. “Ryan’s in the goal.”

His chest buzzed. Not from the monitor, not from anxiety exactly, but from something else. Something like longing. Something like being on the edge of something he loved but couldn't quite reach.

“You nervous?” Dylan asked, softer now.