Archive of Our Own

Sam's been attending his most recent middle-of-nowhere-town's high school for three days when Rachel Nave sits down next to him in homeroom and offers him a bright smile.

Three days isn't long, maybe, but by now Sam is accustomed to fast transitions and brief stays, so he's good at getting the lay of the land quickly, and so it took him maybe a day—at most—to know that Rachel Nave is one of those girls who is everything to this school. She's not popular in the typical sense, not a cheerleader dating the football player, not the wealthy girl wearing all the new fashion, but she is...kind. She's a bright spot to everyone she meets, and thus, no one has a single bad word to say about her.

She greeted Sam on his first day, welcomed to the school and offered to show him around if he ever needed a friend, and he blushed his way through a statement of thanks, because Rachel is not only kind but lovely, too, with long brown hair and slate gray eyes that suck Sam right in. And she smiled and nodded and then headed off with her friends.

And that was that, the end of their interaction. She has her own life, and Sam is the weird new kid who has his head stuck in a book and—rumor has it—lives in the motel on the edge of town. It's nothing new, for Sam. He's very used to being alone. Isn't much good with people anyway, having been raised by a man who's as antisocial as you can get, so it's often more effort than it's worth to try to connect. No matter how desperate he is sometimes to do just that.

But now here they are, Day Three, and here Rachel is again. Her friends are sitting in their usual seats, and their eyebrows are raised when Sam spares a glance their way. Not hostile, just curious. But the attention has Sam resisting the urge to squirm, a little.

"Hi," Rachel says, her tone just as bright as her smile, and god she's just. She's lovely. "How're you liking our school so far, Sam?"

She looks at him like she genuinely cares about the answer, like it isn't just polite conversation, like his response actually matters to her. It floors him a little. Causes his brain to take an extra second to put together a response.

"It—good," he stammers, and then clears his throat to try to sound less like an idiot. "I mean, yeah, it's nice. Everyone's been—great."

Well, the jocks are assholes and the girls sneer at his ripped jeans and hand-me-down shirts, but that's just high school in general, not really a bar to measure this particular school by. The classes have been interesting and the teachers seem to give a crap about what they're teaching, which is a bar to measure by, and Sam has yet to find this place wanting in that regard. So, yeah, good. For however long he's here, it's not a bad place to be.

"That's great," Rachel says, warm and genuine and, fuck, Sam's face feels so red from her attention. "What's been your favorite class so far? You've kind of been blowing me away in Calc." She laughs, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at herself, and Sam laughs with her, his far more bashful.

And they just...talk. For the whole period. Rachel is so easy to talk to, so encouraging, and in just half an hour she manages to drag all his hidden plans for the future out of him. He has to stare at the desk while he mentions applying to Stanford, because he's so used to thinking of it as a dirty little secret, something shameful, something that has to be kept locked away deep inside of him, but Rachel—

"That's amazing," Rachel says. "God, Sam, can you imagine if you got in? That would be incredible! You have to do that."

She tells him that over and over again, as the weeks pass. They spend a lot of time together, quickly become joined at the hip. She drags him along to group outings, and invites him on study dates, and teases him about when he's going to finally ask her out properly until he manages to stammer out a request to take her to dinner. Her friends seem surprised by how quickly she threw herself into a relationship, her mom equally so, but everyone seems...supportive. Like a normal family's supposed to be, Sam thinks.

They talk about the future, and what they want out of life, and all the things they're eager to do and try and see. And Rachel is never anything short of encouraging, never standing for Sam down-talking himself. She tells him he's special, tells him he deserves so much more than his 'family business', tells him he has to follow his heart no matter what his father says. Tells him it's his life and he has to forge his own path.

"You have to," she says, eyes urgent and locking Sam in place. "Don't do what they want just because they want it. If Stanford accepts you, Sam—don't turn down your chance at a real future."

She's not his first kiss, but she's his first one with someone he thinks he loves instead of just likes, and it all kind of floors him, a little. He can barely believe any of this happened at all. She cradles his face in her hands like he's something precious, and her eyes crinkle at the corners when he asks her to go to prom with him.

She's not his first kiss, but she is his first-first, and she tells him he's hers, too. It's awkward and fumbling and kind of weird, but it's also gentle and warm and fun and safe. He feels safe with her, in her arms, and does his best to make her feel safe, too.

It's a...really good experience. His knowledge of sex comes mainly from Dean, which means he knows a lot about 'banging' and 'fucking' and what he and Rachel do doesn't feel like that at all. And in the afterglow, she lies on his chest and draws aimless symbols on his arm, and tells him, "Someday, when you're a bigshot lawyer, give me a call and tell me about how great your life is, okay? How much better it is, away from your dad's business."

Sam smiles and kisses the crown of her head, and thinks about how damn lucky he is to have stumbled across someone so truly, truly amazing.

"Come on," Dean goads with a smile, lazily tipping up his beer bottle to take another drag. "You've never told me who it was! When'd you have your girly, sweet first time?"

All of a sudden, Sam's good mood washes away from him, smile fading. He takes a sip from his own bottle to try to cover it, but the way Dean's eyebrows twitch together show that his brother's noticed the change.

They've been having a good day. Their most recent case went off without a hitch, and now they're back at the bunker enjoying a quiet night of relaxation. Dean made burgers, and Sam actually ate one, and they've spent the past hour trading stories back and forth. It's been good.

And, honestly, Sam should've expected Dean to ask something like this. Because his brother's right; Sam hasn't ever told Dean about when he lost his virginity, unlike Dean, who has unashamedly described in graphic detail his conquests from high school. There's a lot regarding his sexual history that Sam's never had the inclination to share, but this is one of those bonding things that he should've assumed Dean would eventually want to really know about.

If Dean had asked five years ago, Sam's reaction right now would be a lot different. He'd be a little resistant, maybe, but he'd also be smiling, and filled with warmth from a good memory. And he'd be able to tell Dean about that girl in that no nothing town, the one who encouraged him to shoot for the stars and made him feel like he was the most amazing guy to walk the earth. He would've handled Dean's ribbing about his 'girly' first time, because it would be good-natured, and it would still remain a perfect memory.

Now, though. Now is post-Lucifer. Now is post-Lucifer revealing to Sam just how controlled his entire life was, how Azazel and his crew had Sam on a leash every step of the way. Now, Sam knows that all those words from Rachel's mouth about leaving the family business had nothing to do with supporting Sam's dreams and everything to do with manipulating him away from his father and brother. Now, Sam knows there was an innocent girl screaming inside her own head as Sam raped her.

"That might be a story for another day," Sam says with an awkward laugh, looking away from his brother. "It's gonna ruin the good mood we've got goin' on."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see Dean's features turn serious, his expression grave. Sam's gut twists. Well, looks like he's ruined it already. Good on you, Sam.

"Did someone hurt you, Sammy?" Dean asks quietly, and Sam's head snaps over to look at him with wide eyes.

He opens his mouth to say no, to tell Dean it's not like that, but the words...won't quite come out. Because some part of him can accept that they wouldn't be true. That maybe Rachel—the real Rachel—was raped that night, but in a way, Sam was, too. That the entire memory makes him feel dirty and used and like his skin doesn't fit right, and that's not how someone feels when they've had consensual sex. That's not how he does feel about consensual sex he's had.

"I..." Sam flounders, and looks away again when he finds his eyes stinging. "It's—it's not—" He clears his throat, and can see something fracturing in Dean's face as he fails to give a real response. "It's not what you're thinking, not...really. Yeah, no. I wasn't—forced, or anything. It's just..." He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

"Do you remember Brady?" he asks quietly. "The Horsemen's stable boy? The...my—friend from college?" He pauses, but not long enough for Dean to actually respond before barreling onward. "Well, turns out he wasn't the only devil on my shoulder. Apparently Azazel had demons watching me my entire life, manipulating me every step of the way. My grade school teacher, my best friend, my..." He takes a shuddering breath. "My first love."

A sharp inhale, and then silence. The quiet feels stifling, and eventually Sam can't take it anymore. His eyes open again, and he stares at the wall as he starts to babble.

"Her name was Rachel," he says. "We went to prom together. Dated for—for two months before that, maybe? She was so amazing. Encouraged me to go after the world. I—I loved her. I really did. And losing my virginity to her was—was amazing. It was an amazing experience. It was like all those sappy movies, seriously. And...and before the Apocalypse, I would've told you that story feeling really great. But now I know..." He clears his throat. "So, yeah. Some poor girl was locked inside her own body because Azazel wanted to wiggle around in my brain."

"Shit, Sammy," Dean says, voice thick.

Sam gives a short, agreeing nod. Then finds himself saying, "I've been in love three times in my life. And I got to find out years after the fact that two of them were actually Azazel's demons."

Dean curses under his breath, swipes a hand down his face. "Brady," he realizes. "He wasn't just a friend."

Sam smiles without humor. "He was not," he agrees, taking a long drag from his beer. "It started after he got clean, so it—it really was just always the demon. Every time we fucked, every kiss, it was a goddamn demon. Just like Rachel." He laughs bitterly. "I mean, my relationship with Brady was—was not like Rachel's. He was..." Sharp edges, wicked tongue, hurting Sam as much as loving him. Eventually, breaking up was nearly as much of a relief as it was heartbreaking.

And then Brady, in what at the time seemed like a peace offering, a wish to be friends again after their relationship ended in flames, introduced him to Jess. And the rest, as they say, is history.

When Sam fails to go on, not having it in him to dig into that can of worms with Dean right now, Dean admits, "I don't even know what to say." And Sam sighs because yeah, he doesn't either.

So he says, "Me either," because really, what else is there to say? That this is fucked up? Yeah, no shit. That Sam shouldn't have had to experience it? Yeah, no fucking shit.

But it did happen. It did happen, and so much more. Mr. Bensman, and Doug, and Meg, and Ruby, and Lucifer. And Gadreel, and the angels, and the demons, and the fucking hunters, and just—just—just Jesus fucking Christ just about everybody. It all happened to Sam. All keeps happening to Sam. Over and over again, it just keeps happening—

Sam can't let himself get angry about it. He used to be...God, he used to get so angry. But since the Cage, since his soullessness, he just doesn't have it in him. Or maybe is afraid to have it in him. After everything Lucifer used his rage for—and everything everyone used his goddamn rage for—does he really want to give anyone else a foothold in his brain like that?

No, no he doesn't. Which means doing his best to just let things lie.

Even if he knows tonight, after he retires to his room, he's going to be taking a very long, very hot shower. And when he eventually gets to sleep, his dreams are not going to be kind to him.

Dean gets Sam another beer, and Sam drinks it, and the pair of them sit in the library of their new home and listen to scratchy music coming in through the speakers Dean bought last week. And it isn't comfort, exactly, can't be when Sam feels as terrible as he does right now, but it's something close. And for now, with his brother, it's enough.

Sam Winchester, this is your life. Azazel's gang, watching you since you were a rugrat. Jerking you around like a dog. On a leash.

Sam's hands curl into fists, rage sparking, and he lets out a slow, shuddering breath.

He's fine. It's all fine.