Chapter Text
Sam stood almost perfectly still, the only movement the flexing of his fingers on the edge of his helmet. His cross dangled from his other hand, resting against his knee as he stared out across the field.
State Championships. They’d made it. He’d made it.
He’d made it back.
Beside him Brady was practically vibrating, bouncing on the balls of his feet as a reedy grade-schooler began warbling out the last of the star-spangled banner from center field. The rest of the team stood in a rigid line, gripping their crosses and cradling their helmets beneath their left arms. The blood-red jerseys sparkled in the sunlight, standing out in stark contrast to the black shorts and under armour, the frost-grey field. From the corner of his eye Sam looked them over, proud of each and every one of them.
There was Garland, standing straight, ready to start after a year rebuilding a tweaked knee. Beyond him stood Cole, short and fast as hell. This would be his last game. He was graduating in the spring with Brady after four years on the varsity team. A few places down stood Mark, the wiry little freshmen who had been so stunned to make varsity that he was too terrified to speak to any of the upperclassmen for nearly a month. He’d gotten over that as soon as it became clear he was in the run for high-scorer this season. He had earned his spot on the team so many times over. Keith, Jayden, Dylan, every one of these guys had worked their asses off all year and pushed Sam to be better.
Brady bumped his arm, drawing his attention and offering a tight smile. Sam returned it, hoping Brady could feel the gratitude bleeding off him. They hadn’t talked about it, not even in August. But he knew Brady knew what this game meant. Sam hadn’t been sure in the fall if they would take him back. After the shit he pulled last year he wouldn’t have blamed any of them if they had wanted him off the team for good. Especially Brady. Sam wouldn’t have blamed him if Brady never wanted to talk to him again. But he hadn’t done that. Brady had been the first to encourage him to come back.
And Sam had come back. He was strong, stronger than he’d been in months. He could feel the difference in his muscles, the sure, steady weight of endurance that had replaced the shallow stripe of bottled lightning he’d gotten used to. He was warmed up, his blood pumping and his muscles loose. His head was clear. Not that hollow, buzzing clarity of the last year but the grounded, measured precision he’d worked so hard to get back.
These guys were a huge part of that. The other part was sitting up in the stands, waving in a ridiculous display of enthusiasm whenever Sam happened to look his way.
Dean.
Sam had hurt Brady and the rest of the team but he’d nearly destroyed Dean. It didn’t matter why. It didn’t matter that he’d been trying to make a better life for the both of them. It didn’t matter even the tiniest bit. All his stupid rationalizations, the excuses he made every step of the way to prove to himself that he wasn’t fucking everything up, they meant exactly squat. Because in the end he’d pushed his brother so far away he wasn’t sure if he could ever find his way back to him.
But he’d gotten back.
Mostly because Dean refused to be pushed away. The harder Sam pushed the tighter Dean held on. Sometimes it had felt like Dean was crushing him to death just being in the same room. Sam grimaced as he remembered how he’d fought like hell to throw Dean off, to convince him that he didn’t need a big brother looking over his shoulder every ten seconds just to point out everything he was doing wrong. And just when Sam thought he’d finally severed the last thread of affection between them by being selfish, idiotic, and just plain wrong, that tree had come flying out of the darkness and brought his downward trajectory to a shrieking, jagged halt.
That should have been the end of it. The end of him. But somehow it wasn’t. Somehow, he’d woken up. And Dean had been right there, like it wasn’t even a question. Sam had fallen as far as he could have possibly managed to fall - even clawed his way down into the dirt a few more feet - and Dean had been right there to grab him and yank him back upright again. Like always.
Sam smiled gently as he picked his brother out of the crowd, the garish red and gold paint job doing nothing to disguise him. How Gabe had convinced Dean to let him paint his face Sam would never know. The older Novak was seated in front of Dean with similarly ridiculous war paint, his arm around a pretty blond and pom-poms in his hands. Alfie and Jo were up there too, their Lawrence High sweatshirts getting rare outings as they cheered for him. Ellen was squashed in next to Bobby, waving a giant sign depicting a lion with a brown mane suspiciously similar in style to Sam’s hair. He was willing to bet Alfie had drawn that. Even Castiel was sporting red paint stripes on his cheeks.
Castiel.
Six months ago if anyone had asked Sam if he ever thought he’d be here, standing on the field of the state game, his own private cheering section packed with friends and family and his teammates backing him up, he’d have laughed in their faces. That part of his life was supposed to be over. He’d thrown it all away on Ruby’s stupid promises and his own bitter anger. But somehow he’d done it. He’d scrabbled and fought and slogged his way back, and in the process somehow even managed to gain something new. Castiel. A friend. A better friend than Sam would have said he deserved. Jo, Alfie, Brady and the rest had let Sam back in, remembered who he could be and let him fight to be that again. But Castiel was something new. Cas didn’t need Sam to be what he had been. He wasn’t measuring him up with some idealized memory. With Cas Sam could just be who he was. There was no shadow of a past self to fit into, no shoes to fill. Cas could look at him with brand new eyes and let him know he was still worth something.
Looking out at familiar faces, old and new, Sam felt a soft punch to the chest.
Well, he thought, time to go and prove them all right.