Chapter Text
It's been years since Sam Winchester has seen his twin. Ryland, always the prodigy academically, had left when they were just 14; given a full ride scholarship and a promising future in microbiology. He was already earning his pHD by the time Sam had been accepted into Stanford.
Dad hated that. He'd always believed Ry was a coward, and wasn't quiet about those opinions. When Ryland told him about his scholarship offer, about his science teacher offering to help with travel and guardianship issues, Dad was furious.
Ryland left anyways. Dissapeared the next morning, leaving only a note and a phone number to call. John threw both away, packed his remaining two sons into the Impala, and drove away.
Sam kept that phone number, having dug it out of the trash. It covered in ketchup and grease stains and crumpled to hell and back, but the writing was legible enough.
Dad,
I know you think I'm a coward, and you're probably right. But I have a chance here, a real chance to have a normal life and do what I want to do. I'm not cut out for hunting. For the 'Family Buisness'. Heck, I get scared watching Scooby-Doo sometimes.
I don't have the bravery gene you seem to have.
So I'm taking this opportunity. For once I'm going to be brave and take this chance at a real life.
Sam and Dean,
You've always looked out for me, and for that I'm eternally grateful. I couldn't be more happy to have two older brothers (though only by 18 minutes, Sam! Thats not even a significant amount of time!).
I'm sorry I left without a goodbye, but I hope you understand that I had to. I'm no good at goodbyes.
I promise I'll do my best to do good in the world, just like you said Dean. Even if I can't do all the punching and the shooting and the killing, I know I can still do good and help people. Maybe I'll finally do some grounded scientific research into our theory about alien life, Sam! Then astronauts and NASA can broaden their horizons and we find life in outer space. Maybe they're friendly. Maybe they can help Earth just like you guys do.
I'm rambling again. I didn't know you could ramble in a letter but here I am.
Thank you both, for everything. Please call. I'd love to hear from you guys.
Love,
Ryland Winchester Campbell Grace
555-555-5555
---
Sam re-reads the note, now stained even more after being carried around in a ratty old wallet for years. He's memorized the words already, the phone number is cemented in his mind. He'd kept in touch with Ryland through both of their college years, and even visited him once or twice during his stay at Stanford when Ry had become a teacher after the UNESCO incident (Dean found that one extremely funny, much to Ryland's chagrin).
So, while it wasn't unusual for them to drop out of communication every now and then, there was a pit of anxiety rolling in Sam's stomach as he looked at the letter, his phone, and the last time he and Ryland had spoken.
/last call : 4 months ago/
Not a long time, all things considered, but something just didn't feel right. Sam had learned to trust his gut when it came to Ryland. Dean called it some "Freaky Twin Telepathy Bullshit," but it's been scarily accurate at sensing when the other twin is in danger.
Not that they'd ever told Dad about it. Knowing him and his hatred for anything even vaguely supernatural, it probably would not have ended well at all.
A wave of vague sickness tears Sam out of his thoughts as he quickly looks away from the words on the letter, folding it up and placing it back in his wallet. He looks up and out the window of the Impala to fend off the mild carsickness that came from reading in a moving vehicle. Maybe the bad feeling in his gut was just carsickness. He sure hoped so. After the last few months, dealing with visions and most recently Andy Gallagher and his twin, they couldn't afford another life-alterring event.
Watching the horizon helps ease the nausea a bit, but a mild headache begins to build in it's place. To add insult to injury, Dean decides now is the perfect time to crank up the volume on the stereo, AC/DC's Back in Black now blasting loud enough to deafen an elephant. His brother's scratchy and frankly painful sounding attempt at a sing-along was doing nothing to better the experience.
"Dean, can you please turn it down?!" Sam half-shouts over the music, hands lifting to try and shield his ears from the assault of sound.
Dean gives him a shit-eating grin. "What's that Sammy? You want me to turn it up?"
"What!? No! You know that's not what I said!"
"Your wish is my command!" Dean cranks the volume dial until the Impala is actively vibrating with the sound waves of the music. The pain in Sam's head spikes as something warm drips over his upper lip.
Wait, what?
He lifts his hand to wipe at the feeling, and his hand comes away with a streak of red. Shit.
"Dean!" He yells, glaring. He didn't know that sound could give you a nosebleed, this was ridiculous!
Dean glances over, smirk morphing into a concerned frown as he takes in the red slowly dripping down his brother's face.
"Oh shit..." He reaches over and turns the volume all the way down until the music was little more than background noise. "You okay there, Sammy?"
Headache now pounding, Sam digs around in the glovebox, pushing past silver bullets and salt to find a packet of tissues. "I'm fine, just keep the music down, would you?"
Dean looks at him suspiciously. "This isn't another one of your... vision psychic things, is it?"
Sam takes a tissue out and pushes it against his nose, stemming the bleeding for now. "I don't think so, it's probably just a migraine mixed with dehydration. Just keep the music down for a bit? Please?" He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, trying to let his brain rest from... whatever this is.
"Yeah... sure." An awkward silence settles between them, music still softly playing in the background.
Letting the small vibrations of the Impala rattle trough him, Sam tried to drift off, hoping that he could sleep away the headache. The nosebleed had practically stopped, but a small trickle kept him from fully relaxing.
I don't want to die! Don't send me off to die! Please!
The voice is faint, yet unmistakable. Sam, half asleep in the passenger seat of the Impala, jerks fully awake as a new bout of pain lances through his skull.
"Sammy? You alright?" Dean glances towards him, a flicker of concern evident in his voice.
"Yeah, I jus-" Carl, I can't do it. No! Don't do it! Please! Ryland... his desparate voice is grating through his brain, dragging pins and needles with it. There's a flash of a yellow raincoat, men in soldier's uniforms, a fence, and his brother face-down in the grass.
Then it's over.
"Sammy?"
Sam glances over at his brother, eyes wide, head cradled in his hands. He hadn't even noticed he'd doubled over. Blood flowed down his face in red rivulets, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.
"I think Ry's in trouble."