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Part 4
Back to Part Three
Headers in the Master Post.
~~~~~
December 7, 1941
Sam actually likes winter — aside from being cold — because the pace is a lot slower. There are still chores and things to do around the house, but he has more time to read in the winter, because there aren't any crops to plant or tend or harvest. The bulk of farm work is on hold for a few more months.
Church runs over by a bit, with new birth announcements and wedding announcements, and Sam's so hungry by the time they head back home he's sure his stomach thinks his throat's been cut.
"You ate plenty of breakfast," Dean says when Sam mentions this. "Don't tell me you're growing again."
"You just hate that I'm taller'n you, now." Sam pokes around in the pockets of his overcoat, but nothing. Sometimes he'll find some pieces of carrots, or apple — he keeps them handy to feed the horses — but either he ate what was there, or fed them to someone already.
"You're not taller than me." Dean always grumbles the same thing, any time Sam mentions it. It's Dean's version of denial, because the doorway to the kitchen tells the truth in smudged pencil marks. Sam's been about a half an inch taller than Dean for the last couple of months.
"Whatever, shorty." Sam pokes Dean in the side, then jumps out of the truck as soon as Uncle Bobby puts it in park. "Short little legs, betcha can't catch me!"
"Oh, them's fighting words!"
"Don't go scampering off, boys," Uncle Bobby calls. "Dinner's bound to be ready by now." Sam almost stops, thinking of the roast in the oven, with lots of potatoes and carrots and onions, and his mouth waters because the Reverend's wife sent home a dozen fresh-made yeast rolls to go with dinner and he's hungry.
But the urge to tease his older brother is stronger than hunger, at least for the moment, so Sam shouts again, "short legs, can't get me!" And sprints toward the far side of the barn.
"Be back in a minute, Uncle Bobby," Dean calls over his shoulder. "Just gotta grind Sam into the ground."
Bobby's bark of laughter follows them as Dean chases Sam into the barn, and if there's straw in both boys' hair when they reappear in the house ten or fifteen minutes later, stomping snow off their boots, well. They do live on a farm, after all.
~~~~~
Dinner's finished and dishes done, and Sam's just about to start in on the rest of his homework. He's set out a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies (also in the package from the Reverend's wife, and a nice, unexpected surprise), and a big glass of milk, and he's been staring at his English book for half an hour, dreading the essay he needs to write. At least Charles Dickens is easier to understand — most of the time — than Shakespeare. Though Sam knows better than to count chickens before they're hatched; the way his luck runs, it'll be Shakespeare again, come spring.
He's just picked up his pen, and thinks it sure would be nice to have one of those fancy, new ball-point pens (though Uncle Bobby's fond of saying, 'if wishes were horses, beggars would ride'), when there's a frantic knock at the door.
By the time Sam's out of his chair and halfway to the front door, Uncle Bobby's got it open. Dean's hovering in the doorway of the living room, and when Sam looks at him, question in his eyes, he shrugs.
Frank Thompson — Mr. Thompson, their closest neighbor — is standing on the stoop, hat in his hands. Uncle Bobby motions him inside, but he shakes his head abruptly. "Got other houses I got to get to quickly." He looks from Uncle Bobby, to Dean, to Sam, then says, "You all need to turn your wireless on—the Japanese bombed the Pearl Harbor Naval Base this morning."
And just like that, the world turns topsy-turvy, and upside down, and Sam knows nothing will ever be the same again.
~~~~~
December 8, 1941
"School's cancelled," Sam announces, banging the door shut behind him. "Principal Woollsey said for us to all go home and listen to President Roosevelt's speech. He said 'history is happening right now, everything is changing', and we need to pay attention."
Uncle Bobby and Dean are sitting at the kitchen table, the pieces of their hunting rifles spread out in front of them, obviously cleaning them. They look up at Sam's entrance, concerned frowns fading at his explanation.
Sam drops his books and lunch pail onto the floor beside the door, and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee from the ratty pot still simmering on the back burner of the stove. It's strong and bitter at the first sip, and he grimaces. "Dean made this pot, didn't he?"
"Fu—screw you, Sammy." Dean glances over at Uncle Bobby. "Sorry."
"Hmph. I was serious about repeating Sunday school, Boy. Your mouth's only getting worse, I think." Bobby nods toward Sam. "Sure you oughta drink that? Might stunt your growth."
Sam and Dean snort at the same time. "I'm not too worried," Sam says, even while Dean's saying, "I should be so lucky."
That makes Uncle Bobby snort. "What time's the President gonna do his speech?"
Sam stirs milk and sugar into his cup and tastes it once before adding more sugar. "About twelve-thirty, is what Principal Woollsey said." Just thinking about it makes Sam's stomach tighten with anxiety. He's pretty sure he knows what's going to happen — they all know. There's no way the United States can let this go and not retaliate.
"Well, sit yourself down and help us clean the rifles. We'll keep busy until time for the speech, and then we'll just see what happens after. No sense in fretting before we know what's to fret about."
"Yes, Sir." Sam and Dean answer together, long accustomed to Bobby's laid-back approach. Sam settles himself at the table and takes the nearest cleaning rod in hand. It's just past ten in the morning; a little over two hours to go.
It's going to be the longest, and shortest, two hours ever.
~~~~~
December 8, 1941, 12:30p.m.
"Quit fartin' around and get in here—it's almost time!" Uncle Bobby sounds about as pissed off as he's ever sounded, and Sam glances over at the doorway anxiously.
"Dean—"
"Here, I'm here." Dean settles heavily onto the sofa beside Sam, and it's only Uncle Bobby's presence that keeps Sam from reaching out for him.
"Finally," is all Uncle Bobby says, but he turns the radio on and fiddles with the dial until the local station stops fizzling with static, and the radio announcer's voice fills the room.
"—was Tommy Dorsey and his band. And now ladies and gentlemen, all you good folks listening to us at home, we bring you the President of the United States:
Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, Members of the Senate, and of the House of Representatives:
Yesterday, December 7th, 1941 — a date which will live in infamy — the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.
The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleagues delivered to our Secretary of State a formal reply to a recent American message. And while this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or of armed attack.
It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time, the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.
Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong. Last night, Japanese forces attacked Guam. Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night, the Japanese attacked Wake Island. And this morning, the Japanese attacked Midway Island. Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area.
The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation. As commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.
But always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory. I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us.
Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger. With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph — so help us God.
I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.
They listen to President Roosevelt's speech in silence, horrified at what's happened, and what's going to happen, next. It's quiet in the living room, when the speech is over, the radio announcer telling them that they will break into programming with any updates, and then it's back to soft music. The only other sounds are the crackle of the logs in the fireplace, and Buster's snores.
"I want to enlist," Dean says suddenly, and to Sam it seems like his voice echoes loudly in the near-silence of the room.
"Dean—" Sam says his name, then stops, not sure what else to say. He looks helplessly over to Uncle Bobby, but Bobby's nodding.
"I understand, Son." He draws a breath in and lets it out in a sigh. "I was a bit younger'n you when I joined the Army. Got sent overseas almost immediately, since they needed troops over there. Was proud to do my part for freedom."
"Yeah." Dean swallows, and Sam can't look away from the movement, like his brain is trying to latch on to something — anything — to distract it from Dean's leaving oh God Dean's leaving. "That's — that's what I want to do. Help out, do my part." Dean shoots Sam a look that somehow says please understand, I need to do this and all Sam can do is nod his head, a quick, jerking motion.
"When?" He manages, trying to swallow the thick lump of anger and fear clogging up his throat.
"After Christmas," Dean says finally, staring off into space. "January." He focuses back on Sam and gives him a weak smile. "Bootcamp for a birthday present, how 'bout that?"
Sam doesn't think it's much of a joke, so he just nods again, trying to ignore the cold beginning to slither through him. The more he thinks about Dean leaving, the colder he feels, and finally he lurches to his feet, needing to get outside, away from all this.
"I’m gonna go—make sure the barn doors are shut tight," he mumbles, and stumbles from the room. Behind him he hears Dean say his name, and Uncle Bobby murmur something in reply, but Sam doesn't turn back. He can't. If he does, he'll lose what little composure he still has.
~~~~~
Outside is bitter cold, but the air feels good on Sam's face. He stands by the corner of the house for a few minutes, taking deep breaths until he thinks he's got a handle on things, and then he goes to the barn. He's still not ready to go back inside; not ready to have to smile and pretend like everything's okay. He understands that Dean feels like he needs to help, to do something. But beyond the ache of Dean leaving is a terror that something will happen to Dean.
The barn is warm inside, shut up tight and snug against the bitter winter winds, and the livestock seem content, if the lowing from the cows and the quiet whinnies from the horses is anything to go by. Sam throws down a handful of corn for the roosting birds and makes his way over to the horses' stalls. He spends some time scritching noses and patting flanks, enjoying the quiet warmth of the barn. Shadow and Smoke press close against him, almost like they understand he needs the comfort.
Standing squashed in between two grown horses gets uncomfortable after a while, so Sam pets them once more, then pushes out from between them. The pitchfork is leaning right where Dean left it last night, so Sam takes it up and starts filling the mangers. Shadow stomps his foot and huffs out a breath when Sam bangs the pitchfork against the wall, and Sam scowls.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm just…mad, okay? Didn't mean to upset you."
He's talking to the horse. Because he's too much of a coward to go in and tell Dean that he's mad and hurt and angry and scared.
Shadow doesn't answer — Sam's pretty sure Shadow answering him would be the scariest thing in the world — just snorts out another breath. Kind of an equine version of rolling his eyes.
"Smart aleck," Sam mutters.
Troughs filled, Sam heads up to the hayloft and finds a quilt left over from last summer. He wraps himself up in it and curls up against a bale of hay and closes his eyes. Maybe he's dreaming, and in a little while he'll wake himself up from it and everything, including the attack on Pearl Harbor, will be nothing but a bad memory.
~~~~~
He wakes a short while later — the sun hasn't moved much, so he probably didn't sleep more than a half an hour — to the warmth of Dean's embrace, arms tight around him, and the heat of Dean's mouth against his. Sam curls in closer to his brother gratefully; snug as the barn is, up here away from the animals and their added heat, it's chilly—and he's gone beyond cold.
"You okay?" Dean asks finally, one last quick kiss to Sam's mouth before drawing away. He smoothes Sam's hair back off his forehead and presses another kiss there.
Sam shrugs. "I will be," he says, and closes his eyes when Dean leans in and rests his forehead against Sam's. He waits the space of a few heartbeats, then asks, "are you…sure?"
Dean's breath is warm against Sam's face when he exhales, bittersweet with coffee and strawberry preserves. He sighs again and Sam wants to burrow into him, figure out a way to keep him here forever. To keep him forever, period.
"Yeah, I am. It feels like…something I need to do." He hesitates, and tightens his hold on Sam. "I'm coming home, Sammy, I swear. I promised you I wouldn't leave like dad did…and I won't. It's not forever."
"Feels like it," Sam mumbles. The words stick in his throat, held tight by the tears he refuses to let out.
"It's not," Dean says again. He leans back and cups Sam's chin, thumb smoothing over Sam's lips. "I won't leave you. I'll be back, and we—we can. We can figure out, things. Can figure out…maybe go somewhere. Like you want."
Sam's breath catches in his chest, love and hope and sorrow clenching tight. "Just come back," he says. "I don't care about anything else, okay? Just come back. Come back to me."
"I will." Dean nods, and leans in to brush a kiss over Sam's mouth. "I swear I will, Sam." He wipes away the stray tears Sam couldn't keep back, and sucks them off his thumb before pushing himself up. "C'mon. It's cold out here, and you'll get sick. Uncle Bobby's heating up some soup for lunch, and we're waiting for word from Washington." He holds his hand out and Sam uses it to leverage up off the floor. He doesn't want to leave here, doesn't want to go back inside and hear the radio announcer tell them they're going to war.
But, he thinks, this is just the beginning of having to accept things he doesn't want to do.
~~~~~
Shortly after 4pm — hours spent alternately sitting or pacing, both boys and Bobby full of nervous energy — the radio announcer breaks through the afternoon broadcast once again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word that President Roosevelt has signed the Declaration of War. We are at war with Japan. I say again, we are now officially at war with the country of Japan. There will be more news to follow, as we have updates. God Bless America."
Sam tries to blink away the stinging in his eyes; he's not going to cry. He isn't . He's not a baby, and he knows Dean isn't leaving him, he's only doing what he feels he needs to do. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
~~~~~
February 1942
Dean enlists the Monday after his birthday—there's no movie this year, for the first time Sam can remember. The day after that he gets his orders for boot camp — Camp Shelby, outside Hattiesburg, Mississippi — and that's when Sam begins to realize this isn't just a bad dream and he's not going to wake from it any time soon.
The orders include reporting for duty no later than six p.m. ("1800 hours, Sammy, guess I need to start thinking like a soldier, huh?") on Saturday, the 7th of February. Dean's going to take the bus since Mississippi is so far away Sam's eyes cross thinking about it, and Uncle Bobby's beat-up truck wouldn't likely survive the trip. It'll take almost four days, even by bus, with so many miles to cover.
The night before Dean leaves, he and Sam sneak out of the house and go to the barn. It's bitterly cold outside, wind whipping and howling, driving little bits of snow so hard they feel like icicles when they hit bare skin. Inside the barn is warm, and up in the hayloft they make a nest out of blankets and quilts, surrounded by bales of hay.
Later, when Sam can think about it and be rational, he knows they made love. Not fucking, not sex, but love. They take their time, stripping down and touching each other slowly, carefully. Sam kisses every freckle he can find on Dean's chest and stomach and makes him come with his mouth and his fingers. Then he turns Dean over and spreads his legs and licks downward from his shoulders to his ass, tonguing the small muscled opening until it's slick and loose while Dean writhes and groans beneath him.
"I'm going to miss you," he mumbles, shifting up to cover his brother's body. He presses his face against the back of Dean's neck and bites down, sucks a bruise into the tender, fair skin. It'll be hidden beneath Dean's collar from Uncle Bobby, and anyone else who sees it will just assume Dean's got a girl back home.
The hysteria that wants out bubbles up Sam's throat, and he bites again, answering Dean's growl with one of his own.
Dean pants out words, nonsense and real, when Sam enters him slow, so slowly, eyes closed as he tries to memorize the way Dean feels under him and around him.
He wants to say don't forget me and don't stop loving me, but Sam promised himself he would be as strong as possible, put on a brave face, all that jazz. He knows Dean isn't going to forget him, and he's not going to stop loving him. He's just going to be so far away for so long it makes Sam ache.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, tightening around him. "Sammy." His voice is rough, hoarse, like he's been yelling for hours into the wind. Sam hears the fear and uncertainty there; feels the love in the way Dean takes him, holds him, keeps him.
"Love you, Dean. So much." Sam shifts backward until he's sitting on his haunches, drawing Dean with him. He keeps his arms tight around Dean and rocks his hips until Dean's groaning, head back against Sam, face drawn up in pleasure.
He strokes Dean's dick slowly, long, teasing strokes that Dean thrusts upward and into before sinking back down onto Sam's shaft.
They keep the rhythm slow, easy, losing themselves in the motion, in the sensation, in each other. Sam wants to draw it out for as long as possible; wishes they could stay like this until the sun comes up.
He increases his strokes gradually, until Dean's begging wordlessly, breathlessly, hips hitching forward and back impatiently. Sam laughs, low and ragged, and sucks another bruise into his throat.
"More?"
"God, Sam. You're killing me." Dean shudders in Sam's arms. "Yes, more. Please."
"Don't have to beg me, Dean. Never." Sam licks over the bruise he just made, and tips them forward. Dean grunts and catches himself on his hands, and gives Sam a look over his shoulder that makes Sam's blood boil in his veins.
He pounds into Dean then, setting a fast, furious rhythm that has them both gasping. Sam reaches around to stroke Dean, working him until Dean's stiffening, dick swelling within Sam's grasp. He comes hot and sticky over Sam's fingers, panting through each spasm. His panting turns to groans when Sam thrusts in and holds, emptying himself inside Dean in several long pulses. He sobs as he comes, dry sobs that clog up his throat, choking him. Beneath him, Dean shakes like Sam, but like Sam, his eyes are dry, too.
"I wish you weren't leaving," Sam says later, when they're curled together under the blankets, the straw prickly beneath them.
"Sam—"
"No, I know. Just. I'll." He swallows hard, then forces a smile. "I'll miss you. Shorty."
"You're a little shit, you know that?" Dean draws Sam nearer and kisses him. "I'm gonna miss you too, Sam. Thinking—about. About not...seeing you. Kinda feels like I'm empty inside."
"Yeah," Sam says, softly. "I feel empty, too."
They lay silent for a while, breathing in each other's air. Dean shifts so his hand rests over Sam's heart. "I'll write. Every day I can."
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he won't actually cry. That would be beyond embarrassing. "And you'll come back." He's not going to make it a question.
"I promise, Sammy."
"I'll be waiting," Sam says, lacing his fingers with Dean's. "No matter how long it takes."
"You should get some sleep," Dean says after a while.
"What about you?"
"Got four days on a bus to sleep. 'M not worried about sleeping."
Sam shakes his head and shifts closer, tangling his legs with Dean's. "I don't want to waste—I got plenty of time to sleep, later, too."
Dean gives him a small smile. "We just gonna lay here and stare at each other all night, then?"
"Yeah, I guess we are." Sam smiles, too, just a twitch of his mouth.
"Okay, then. Glad we got that settled." Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's mouth. "Be good while I'm gone, huh?"
Sam kisses Dean's thumb, then sucks the tip into his mouth. "You be good while you're gone, too."
That startles a laugh out of Dean, and he reaches out and tugs Sam in close, so close there's hardly room for air between them, and presses his face to Sam's neck. "You're such a brat, Sammy. This…I gotta do this, but God, it hurts to leave you. I hope you know…I wouldn't, if I didn't…if I didn't think it was something that's right. I just—" He makes a face, Sam feels it against his neck, and his voice is thick with frustration.
"Dean." Sam takes Dean's face in his hands and kisses him, stilling the flow of words. "I get it, okay? It hurts…but I get it. You're not…like Dad. You're coming back."
"Damn straight." He gives Sam a wobbly smile. "Let's go back inside, okay? I'm freezing my ass off, out here. Let me have one last night in a real bed." With you is unspoken, but Sam hears it anyway, and smiles and nods.
~~~~~
Morning comes far, far too early.
It's ordinary in that the morning chores still need to be done, and breakfast cooked and eaten. Sam tries a couple bites of flapjacks and ends up gagging on them before giving up. Dean pushes his food around his plate, and even Uncle Bobby doesn't eat like he usually does. In the end, Buster gets a heck of a treat when everyone scrapes their plates into his bowl.
Then it's time to head in to town to the bus depot, so Dean can get his ticket to Hattiesburg. Uncle Bobby hands him money for the ticket and some extra cash so he has a little bit on-hand, and Sam gives him the packet of sandwiches he put together while Dean was shaving and dressing.
Sam goes with Bobby to drop Dean at the bus depot in Wall, and it's all he can do to keep a grip on himself. He tells himself over and over that he's not going to cry; he won't embarrass himself, or the others like that. But it's a near thing inside the depot when Dean turns from the counter, ticket in hand, his face blank.
They said their goodbyes early this morning, between kisses and touches that brothers should never share. Sam feels like his heart's been scooped out of his chest, leaving him empty and hollow inside, and he knows Dean feels the same way. He wishes he could have one last kiss; wishes he could taste the bitter flavor of coffee and the sweet of maple syrup on Dean's tongue, but squashes that down. No more kisses now, until the war is over and Dean's come home.
The loudspeaker squawks to life, announcing Dean's bus is boarding, and this is it. Time's up.
"Well," Uncle Bobby says, stepping forward, arms open to hug Dean. "Reckon this is it, Son. You take care, y'hear? Write when you can, let us know you're safe and sound."
"I will." Dean hugs Bobby tight. "Bye, Uncle Bobby." He turns to Sam and every word Sam wants to say to Dean is shining there in Dean's eyes, liquid and glittering. "Sammy?"
Sam launches himself into Dean's arms and squeezes hard, like he can keep Dean here through force of will, if he tries hard enough. "Be safe," he whispers. "Come home." I love you.
"You too," Dean says roughly. He squeezes back once, then releases Sam and turns to grab his duffle. "I'll write as soon as I can."
Sam nods; if he says anything at all, opens his mouth even a tiny bit, he'll start crying.
They wait until Dean's on the bus before heading back to the truck, and if Uncle Bobby notices Sam's cheeks are damp, he's kind enough not to say anything about it.
Part Five
Headers in the Master Post.
December 7, 1941
Sam actually likes winter — aside from being cold — because the pace is a lot slower. There are still chores and things to do around the house, but he has more time to read in the winter, because there aren't any crops to plant or tend or harvest. The bulk of farm work is on hold for a few more months.
Church runs over by a bit, with new birth announcements and wedding announcements, and Sam's so hungry by the time they head back home he's sure his stomach thinks his throat's been cut.
"You ate plenty of breakfast," Dean says when Sam mentions this. "Don't tell me you're growing again."
"You just hate that I'm taller'n you, now." Sam pokes around in the pockets of his overcoat, but nothing. Sometimes he'll find some pieces of carrots, or apple — he keeps them handy to feed the horses — but either he ate what was there, or fed them to someone already.
"You're not taller than me." Dean always grumbles the same thing, any time Sam mentions it. It's Dean's version of denial, because the doorway to the kitchen tells the truth in smudged pencil marks. Sam's been about a half an inch taller than Dean for the last couple of months.
"Whatever, shorty." Sam pokes Dean in the side, then jumps out of the truck as soon as Uncle Bobby puts it in park. "Short little legs, betcha can't catch me!"
"Oh, them's fighting words!"
"Don't go scampering off, boys," Uncle Bobby calls. "Dinner's bound to be ready by now." Sam almost stops, thinking of the roast in the oven, with lots of potatoes and carrots and onions, and his mouth waters because the Reverend's wife sent home a dozen fresh-made yeast rolls to go with dinner and he's hungry.
But the urge to tease his older brother is stronger than hunger, at least for the moment, so Sam shouts again, "short legs, can't get me!" And sprints toward the far side of the barn.
"Be back in a minute, Uncle Bobby," Dean calls over his shoulder. "Just gotta grind Sam into the ground."
Bobby's bark of laughter follows them as Dean chases Sam into the barn, and if there's straw in both boys' hair when they reappear in the house ten or fifteen minutes later, stomping snow off their boots, well. They do live on a farm, after all.
Dinner's finished and dishes done, and Sam's just about to start in on the rest of his homework. He's set out a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies (also in the package from the Reverend's wife, and a nice, unexpected surprise), and a big glass of milk, and he's been staring at his English book for half an hour, dreading the essay he needs to write. At least Charles Dickens is easier to understand — most of the time — than Shakespeare. Though Sam knows better than to count chickens before they're hatched; the way his luck runs, it'll be Shakespeare again, come spring.
He's just picked up his pen, and thinks it sure would be nice to have one of those fancy, new ball-point pens (though Uncle Bobby's fond of saying, 'if wishes were horses, beggars would ride'), when there's a frantic knock at the door.
By the time Sam's out of his chair and halfway to the front door, Uncle Bobby's got it open. Dean's hovering in the doorway of the living room, and when Sam looks at him, question in his eyes, he shrugs.
Frank Thompson — Mr. Thompson, their closest neighbor — is standing on the stoop, hat in his hands. Uncle Bobby motions him inside, but he shakes his head abruptly. "Got other houses I got to get to quickly." He looks from Uncle Bobby, to Dean, to Sam, then says, "You all need to turn your wireless on—the Japanese bombed the Pearl Harbor Naval Base this morning."
And just like that, the world turns topsy-turvy, and upside down, and Sam knows nothing will ever be the same again.
December 8, 1941
"School's cancelled," Sam announces, banging the door shut behind him. "Principal Woollsey said for us to all go home and listen to President Roosevelt's speech. He said 'history is happening right now, everything is changing', and we need to pay attention."
Uncle Bobby and Dean are sitting at the kitchen table, the pieces of their hunting rifles spread out in front of them, obviously cleaning them. They look up at Sam's entrance, concerned frowns fading at his explanation.
Sam drops his books and lunch pail onto the floor beside the door, and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee from the ratty pot still simmering on the back burner of the stove. It's strong and bitter at the first sip, and he grimaces. "Dean made this pot, didn't he?"
"Fu—screw you, Sammy." Dean glances over at Uncle Bobby. "Sorry."
"Hmph. I was serious about repeating Sunday school, Boy. Your mouth's only getting worse, I think." Bobby nods toward Sam. "Sure you oughta drink that? Might stunt your growth."
Sam and Dean snort at the same time. "I'm not too worried," Sam says, even while Dean's saying, "I should be so lucky."
That makes Uncle Bobby snort. "What time's the President gonna do his speech?"
Sam stirs milk and sugar into his cup and tastes it once before adding more sugar. "About twelve-thirty, is what Principal Woollsey said." Just thinking about it makes Sam's stomach tighten with anxiety. He's pretty sure he knows what's going to happen — they all know. There's no way the United States can let this go and not retaliate.
"Well, sit yourself down and help us clean the rifles. We'll keep busy until time for the speech, and then we'll just see what happens after. No sense in fretting before we know what's to fret about."
"Yes, Sir." Sam and Dean answer together, long accustomed to Bobby's laid-back approach. Sam settles himself at the table and takes the nearest cleaning rod in hand. It's just past ten in the morning; a little over two hours to go.
It's going to be the longest, and shortest, two hours ever.
December 8, 1941, 12:30p.m.
"Quit fartin' around and get in here—it's almost time!" Uncle Bobby sounds about as pissed off as he's ever sounded, and Sam glances over at the doorway anxiously.
"Dean—"
"Here, I'm here." Dean settles heavily onto the sofa beside Sam, and it's only Uncle Bobby's presence that keeps Sam from reaching out for him.
"Finally," is all Uncle Bobby says, but he turns the radio on and fiddles with the dial until the local station stops fizzling with static, and the radio announcer's voice fills the room.
"—was Tommy Dorsey and his band. And now ladies and gentlemen, all you good folks listening to us at home, we bring you the President of the United States:
Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, Members of the Senate, and of the House of Representatives:
Yesterday, December 7th, 1941 — a date which will live in infamy — the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.
The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleagues delivered to our Secretary of State a formal reply to a recent American message. And while this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or of armed attack.
It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time, the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.
Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong. Last night, Japanese forces attacked Guam. Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night, the Japanese attacked Wake Island. And this morning, the Japanese attacked Midway Island. Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area.
The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation. As commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.
But always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory. I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us.
Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger. With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph — so help us God.
I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.
They listen to President Roosevelt's speech in silence, horrified at what's happened, and what's going to happen, next. It's quiet in the living room, when the speech is over, the radio announcer telling them that they will break into programming with any updates, and then it's back to soft music. The only other sounds are the crackle of the logs in the fireplace, and Buster's snores.
"I want to enlist," Dean says suddenly, and to Sam it seems like his voice echoes loudly in the near-silence of the room.
"Dean—" Sam says his name, then stops, not sure what else to say. He looks helplessly over to Uncle Bobby, but Bobby's nodding.
"I understand, Son." He draws a breath in and lets it out in a sigh. "I was a bit younger'n you when I joined the Army. Got sent overseas almost immediately, since they needed troops over there. Was proud to do my part for freedom."
"Yeah." Dean swallows, and Sam can't look away from the movement, like his brain is trying to latch on to something — anything — to distract it from Dean's leaving oh God Dean's leaving. "That's — that's what I want to do. Help out, do my part." Dean shoots Sam a look that somehow says please understand, I need to do this and all Sam can do is nod his head, a quick, jerking motion.
"When?" He manages, trying to swallow the thick lump of anger and fear clogging up his throat.
"After Christmas," Dean says finally, staring off into space. "January." He focuses back on Sam and gives him a weak smile. "Bootcamp for a birthday present, how 'bout that?"
Sam doesn't think it's much of a joke, so he just nods again, trying to ignore the cold beginning to slither through him. The more he thinks about Dean leaving, the colder he feels, and finally he lurches to his feet, needing to get outside, away from all this.
"I’m gonna go—make sure the barn doors are shut tight," he mumbles, and stumbles from the room. Behind him he hears Dean say his name, and Uncle Bobby murmur something in reply, but Sam doesn't turn back. He can't. If he does, he'll lose what little composure he still has.
Outside is bitter cold, but the air feels good on Sam's face. He stands by the corner of the house for a few minutes, taking deep breaths until he thinks he's got a handle on things, and then he goes to the barn. He's still not ready to go back inside; not ready to have to smile and pretend like everything's okay. He understands that Dean feels like he needs to help, to do something. But beyond the ache of Dean leaving is a terror that something will happen to Dean.
The barn is warm inside, shut up tight and snug against the bitter winter winds, and the livestock seem content, if the lowing from the cows and the quiet whinnies from the horses is anything to go by. Sam throws down a handful of corn for the roosting birds and makes his way over to the horses' stalls. He spends some time scritching noses and patting flanks, enjoying the quiet warmth of the barn. Shadow and Smoke press close against him, almost like they understand he needs the comfort.
Standing squashed in between two grown horses gets uncomfortable after a while, so Sam pets them once more, then pushes out from between them. The pitchfork is leaning right where Dean left it last night, so Sam takes it up and starts filling the mangers. Shadow stomps his foot and huffs out a breath when Sam bangs the pitchfork against the wall, and Sam scowls.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm just…mad, okay? Didn't mean to upset you."
He's talking to the horse. Because he's too much of a coward to go in and tell Dean that he's mad and hurt and angry and scared.
Shadow doesn't answer — Sam's pretty sure Shadow answering him would be the scariest thing in the world — just snorts out another breath. Kind of an equine version of rolling his eyes.
"Smart aleck," Sam mutters.
Troughs filled, Sam heads up to the hayloft and finds a quilt left over from last summer. He wraps himself up in it and curls up against a bale of hay and closes his eyes. Maybe he's dreaming, and in a little while he'll wake himself up from it and everything, including the attack on Pearl Harbor, will be nothing but a bad memory.
He wakes a short while later — the sun hasn't moved much, so he probably didn't sleep more than a half an hour — to the warmth of Dean's embrace, arms tight around him, and the heat of Dean's mouth against his. Sam curls in closer to his brother gratefully; snug as the barn is, up here away from the animals and their added heat, it's chilly—and he's gone beyond cold.
"You okay?" Dean asks finally, one last quick kiss to Sam's mouth before drawing away. He smoothes Sam's hair back off his forehead and presses another kiss there.
Sam shrugs. "I will be," he says, and closes his eyes when Dean leans in and rests his forehead against Sam's. He waits the space of a few heartbeats, then asks, "are you…sure?"
Dean's breath is warm against Sam's face when he exhales, bittersweet with coffee and strawberry preserves. He sighs again and Sam wants to burrow into him, figure out a way to keep him here forever. To keep him forever, period.
"Yeah, I am. It feels like…something I need to do." He hesitates, and tightens his hold on Sam. "I'm coming home, Sammy, I swear. I promised you I wouldn't leave like dad did…and I won't. It's not forever."
"Feels like it," Sam mumbles. The words stick in his throat, held tight by the tears he refuses to let out.
"It's not," Dean says again. He leans back and cups Sam's chin, thumb smoothing over Sam's lips. "I won't leave you. I'll be back, and we—we can. We can figure out, things. Can figure out…maybe go somewhere. Like you want."
Sam's breath catches in his chest, love and hope and sorrow clenching tight. "Just come back," he says. "I don't care about anything else, okay? Just come back. Come back to me."
"I will." Dean nods, and leans in to brush a kiss over Sam's mouth. "I swear I will, Sam." He wipes away the stray tears Sam couldn't keep back, and sucks them off his thumb before pushing himself up. "C'mon. It's cold out here, and you'll get sick. Uncle Bobby's heating up some soup for lunch, and we're waiting for word from Washington." He holds his hand out and Sam uses it to leverage up off the floor. He doesn't want to leave here, doesn't want to go back inside and hear the radio announcer tell them they're going to war.
But, he thinks, this is just the beginning of having to accept things he doesn't want to do.
Shortly after 4pm — hours spent alternately sitting or pacing, both boys and Bobby full of nervous energy — the radio announcer breaks through the afternoon broadcast once again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word that President Roosevelt has signed the Declaration of War. We are at war with Japan. I say again, we are now officially at war with the country of Japan. There will be more news to follow, as we have updates. God Bless America."
Sam tries to blink away the stinging in his eyes; he's not going to cry. He isn't . He's not a baby, and he knows Dean isn't leaving him, he's only doing what he feels he needs to do. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
February 1942
Dean enlists the Monday after his birthday—there's no movie this year, for the first time Sam can remember. The day after that he gets his orders for boot camp — Camp Shelby, outside Hattiesburg, Mississippi — and that's when Sam begins to realize this isn't just a bad dream and he's not going to wake from it any time soon.
The orders include reporting for duty no later than six p.m. ("1800 hours, Sammy, guess I need to start thinking like a soldier, huh?") on Saturday, the 7th of February. Dean's going to take the bus since Mississippi is so far away Sam's eyes cross thinking about it, and Uncle Bobby's beat-up truck wouldn't likely survive the trip. It'll take almost four days, even by bus, with so many miles to cover.
The night before Dean leaves, he and Sam sneak out of the house and go to the barn. It's bitterly cold outside, wind whipping and howling, driving little bits of snow so hard they feel like icicles when they hit bare skin. Inside the barn is warm, and up in the hayloft they make a nest out of blankets and quilts, surrounded by bales of hay.
Later, when Sam can think about it and be rational, he knows they made love. Not fucking, not sex, but love. They take their time, stripping down and touching each other slowly, carefully. Sam kisses every freckle he can find on Dean's chest and stomach and makes him come with his mouth and his fingers. Then he turns Dean over and spreads his legs and licks downward from his shoulders to his ass, tonguing the small muscled opening until it's slick and loose while Dean writhes and groans beneath him.
"I'm going to miss you," he mumbles, shifting up to cover his brother's body. He presses his face against the back of Dean's neck and bites down, sucks a bruise into the tender, fair skin. It'll be hidden beneath Dean's collar from Uncle Bobby, and anyone else who sees it will just assume Dean's got a girl back home.
The hysteria that wants out bubbles up Sam's throat, and he bites again, answering Dean's growl with one of his own.
Dean pants out words, nonsense and real, when Sam enters him slow, so slowly, eyes closed as he tries to memorize the way Dean feels under him and around him.
He wants to say don't forget me and don't stop loving me, but Sam promised himself he would be as strong as possible, put on a brave face, all that jazz. He knows Dean isn't going to forget him, and he's not going to stop loving him. He's just going to be so far away for so long it makes Sam ache.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, tightening around him. "Sammy." His voice is rough, hoarse, like he's been yelling for hours into the wind. Sam hears the fear and uncertainty there; feels the love in the way Dean takes him, holds him, keeps him.
"Love you, Dean. So much." Sam shifts backward until he's sitting on his haunches, drawing Dean with him. He keeps his arms tight around Dean and rocks his hips until Dean's groaning, head back against Sam, face drawn up in pleasure.
He strokes Dean's dick slowly, long, teasing strokes that Dean thrusts upward and into before sinking back down onto Sam's shaft.
They keep the rhythm slow, easy, losing themselves in the motion, in the sensation, in each other. Sam wants to draw it out for as long as possible; wishes they could stay like this until the sun comes up.
He increases his strokes gradually, until Dean's begging wordlessly, breathlessly, hips hitching forward and back impatiently. Sam laughs, low and ragged, and sucks another bruise into his throat.
"More?"
"God, Sam. You're killing me." Dean shudders in Sam's arms. "Yes, more. Please."
"Don't have to beg me, Dean. Never." Sam licks over the bruise he just made, and tips them forward. Dean grunts and catches himself on his hands, and gives Sam a look over his shoulder that makes Sam's blood boil in his veins.
He pounds into Dean then, setting a fast, furious rhythm that has them both gasping. Sam reaches around to stroke Dean, working him until Dean's stiffening, dick swelling within Sam's grasp. He comes hot and sticky over Sam's fingers, panting through each spasm. His panting turns to groans when Sam thrusts in and holds, emptying himself inside Dean in several long pulses. He sobs as he comes, dry sobs that clog up his throat, choking him. Beneath him, Dean shakes like Sam, but like Sam, his eyes are dry, too.
"I wish you weren't leaving," Sam says later, when they're curled together under the blankets, the straw prickly beneath them.
"Sam—"
"No, I know. Just. I'll." He swallows hard, then forces a smile. "I'll miss you. Shorty."
"You're a little shit, you know that?" Dean draws Sam nearer and kisses him. "I'm gonna miss you too, Sam. Thinking—about. About not...seeing you. Kinda feels like I'm empty inside."
"Yeah," Sam says, softly. "I feel empty, too."
They lay silent for a while, breathing in each other's air. Dean shifts so his hand rests over Sam's heart. "I'll write. Every day I can."
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he won't actually cry. That would be beyond embarrassing. "And you'll come back." He's not going to make it a question.
"I promise, Sammy."
"I'll be waiting," Sam says, lacing his fingers with Dean's. "No matter how long it takes."
"You should get some sleep," Dean says after a while.
"What about you?"
"Got four days on a bus to sleep. 'M not worried about sleeping."
Sam shakes his head and shifts closer, tangling his legs with Dean's. "I don't want to waste—I got plenty of time to sleep, later, too."
Dean gives him a small smile. "We just gonna lay here and stare at each other all night, then?"
"Yeah, I guess we are." Sam smiles, too, just a twitch of his mouth.
"Okay, then. Glad we got that settled." Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's mouth. "Be good while I'm gone, huh?"
Sam kisses Dean's thumb, then sucks the tip into his mouth. "You be good while you're gone, too."
That startles a laugh out of Dean, and he reaches out and tugs Sam in close, so close there's hardly room for air between them, and presses his face to Sam's neck. "You're such a brat, Sammy. This…I gotta do this, but God, it hurts to leave you. I hope you know…I wouldn't, if I didn't…if I didn't think it was something that's right. I just—" He makes a face, Sam feels it against his neck, and his voice is thick with frustration.
"Dean." Sam takes Dean's face in his hands and kisses him, stilling the flow of words. "I get it, okay? It hurts…but I get it. You're not…like Dad. You're coming back."
"Damn straight." He gives Sam a wobbly smile. "Let's go back inside, okay? I'm freezing my ass off, out here. Let me have one last night in a real bed." With you is unspoken, but Sam hears it anyway, and smiles and nods.
Morning comes far, far too early.
It's ordinary in that the morning chores still need to be done, and breakfast cooked and eaten. Sam tries a couple bites of flapjacks and ends up gagging on them before giving up. Dean pushes his food around his plate, and even Uncle Bobby doesn't eat like he usually does. In the end, Buster gets a heck of a treat when everyone scrapes their plates into his bowl.
Then it's time to head in to town to the bus depot, so Dean can get his ticket to Hattiesburg. Uncle Bobby hands him money for the ticket and some extra cash so he has a little bit on-hand, and Sam gives him the packet of sandwiches he put together while Dean was shaving and dressing.
Sam goes with Bobby to drop Dean at the bus depot in Wall, and it's all he can do to keep a grip on himself. He tells himself over and over that he's not going to cry; he won't embarrass himself, or the others like that. But it's a near thing inside the depot when Dean turns from the counter, ticket in hand, his face blank.
They said their goodbyes early this morning, between kisses and touches that brothers should never share. Sam feels like his heart's been scooped out of his chest, leaving him empty and hollow inside, and he knows Dean feels the same way. He wishes he could have one last kiss; wishes he could taste the bitter flavor of coffee and the sweet of maple syrup on Dean's tongue, but squashes that down. No more kisses now, until the war is over and Dean's come home.
The loudspeaker squawks to life, announcing Dean's bus is boarding, and this is it. Time's up.
"Well," Uncle Bobby says, stepping forward, arms open to hug Dean. "Reckon this is it, Son. You take care, y'hear? Write when you can, let us know you're safe and sound."
"I will." Dean hugs Bobby tight. "Bye, Uncle Bobby." He turns to Sam and every word Sam wants to say to Dean is shining there in Dean's eyes, liquid and glittering. "Sammy?"
Sam launches himself into Dean's arms and squeezes hard, like he can keep Dean here through force of will, if he tries hard enough. "Be safe," he whispers. "Come home." I love you.
"You too," Dean says roughly. He squeezes back once, then releases Sam and turns to grab his duffle. "I'll write as soon as I can."
Sam nods; if he says anything at all, opens his mouth even a tiny bit, he'll start crying.
They wait until Dean's on the bus before heading back to the truck, and if Uncle Bobby notices Sam's cheeks are damp, he's kind enough not to say anything about it.
Part Five