![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Part 5
Back to Part Four
Headers in the Master Post.
~~~~~
February 8, 1942,
Dear Sam and Uncle Bobby:
We're not going to be allowed mail out (but you can write to me) for the first four weeks of training, but our drill instructor said we can write one letter to let our families know we got here all right. So, I got here all right. It was a long trip on the bus, and I didn't think my legs were ever going to straighten out completely. We're in barracks right now, twelve of us to a room. No indoor latrines, except for some sinks for shaving, and a shower. There's eleven other guys in my squad, three of 'em are married and brought their families with them — they're staying in town since there aren't any family quarters here on post. We start the day early with reveille, four-thirty a.m. — oh-dark-thirty, our D.I. calls it. Calisthenics, then running or marching (and sometimes both). Weapons training, more calisthenics, more marching. Everything is 'Yes, Drill Sergeant' or 'No, Drill Sergeant', and learning ranks and how to address officers (and don't ever call an NCO "Sir", unless you want to do a LOT of pushups). Chow isn't too bad, but yours is better, Sam. Still, plenty to eat and a lot of time outside running around. Some of the guys hate it, but minus the livestock and crops, it's not a lot different from a normal day, for me. There's four squads to a unit, and within our unit there's a guy from Minot, and another from Rapid City, so I'm not the only Dakota territory fella.
Okay, Drill Instructor says we gotta wrap it up. I'll write again when I can, but it probably won't be until training is over.
Love to you both,
Dean
~~~~~
May 2, 1942,
Dear Sam:
Happy birthday, Sammy. Sweet sixteen! Can't say you've never been kissed though, can you?
I miss you like crazy, kiddo. It's nuts over here, with soldiers everywhere — we're all kind of lumped together, Army, Air Force, Navy, Marines, they just call all of us soldiers. I guess probably there's not too many Navy guys onshore, and I don't know about the Marines. Lotta Army green and brown, though.
The folks I've met over here so far are nice enough, though we don't spend a lot of time with the local populations. Mostly to barter for food to supplement the rations we get from the mess hall. C-rats suck, I just want to say. Kind of like old Miss Edna's goulash. Yeah, like that. (There's a packet of Tabasco sauce in every single meal packet. They're that bad.)
Right now we're sleeping in makeshift barracks—they're basically like huge tents. Like the church used for the revival meetings in the summer? Only not as nice as those. These are ugly and smell like mold and dirty socks (like YOUR dirty socks!). We have camp cots and some blankets, and I got lucky and got a pillow, though I've put my head on softer bricks, I think. It's rained a lot, lately, so everything's damp, which makes the mold smell that much worse.
I actually miss getting up to feed the livestock. Did you guys get all the planting done okay? Uncle Bobby said he might hire someone, or maybe a couple of the Thompson kids could come help. I hate like hell that I'm not there to help, Sam. I really hope you and Uncle Bobby understand why I felt like I needed to do this.
Speaking of missing things—I miss doing that thing in the mornings that we always did. You know the one, right? And call me crazy, but I even miss you putting your ICY COLD FEET on my feet.
Take care of yourself, and take care of Uncle Bobby.
Love,
Your brother, Dean
~~~~~
May 23, 1942
Dear Dean—
I know that thing in the mornings you're talking about, and I miss it, too.
I miss YOU, man. It's not the same here, without you. At all. Me and Uncle Bobby got all the planting done; Jeremy and Tony Thompson came over and helped after school. I skipped a week (or two? I don't remember, now), but made the work up no problem. (We're studying Shakespeare. Again. Don't the teachers have anything new to teach us? Honestly. At least this year it's something neat — The Merchant of Venice, and Hamlet. Romeo and Juliet last year was awful.)
Thanks for the birthday wishes, by the way.
I'm kind of thinking about college, when I finish up high school. Maybe being a lawyer. I know you like farming and stuff, and you're good at it. But Dean, I don't want to do it for the rest of my life, at least not without having something to back me up. What do you think? God, I wish you were here, so I could talk to you about this stuff.
Oh—You remember Terry Drummond, right? He enlisted, too. He ships out in a couple weeks, his momma said. I saw her at the general store a few days ago. He got married last fall, to Anne Thompson, and she's gonna have a baby. So she's pretty upset, I reckon.
Buster died. He got sick not long after you left; Uncle Bobby said mostly it was just that he was an old dog, and I know that. But I miss him.
I'll bet Europe is cool. I'd like to visit, someday. The war can't last forever, right?
Please be careful. Remember to duck, okay? I miss you.
Love you,
Sammy
~~~~~
June 13, 1942
Hey, Sammy—
By the time you get this letter, it's probably going to be the end of June or maybe even July. I write every night that I can, even when I'm waiting for a letter from you, but it's usually only a few minutes before I have to turn in. Don't get a whole lot of sleep, so I have to take it when I can. So these letters are probably going to ramble around a lot, maybe seem like they don't make sense. (And I can hear you thinking how I don't make sense anyway—shut it, Brat.)
We've been in Belgium, and they have got wicked good chocolates here. One of the guys I hang around with — his name is Delbert, the poor guy, so we call him Del, or just call 'him by his last name — got himself a girl in town, and she gets him cocoa so we can have cocoa in our coffee in the morning. Makes it taste almost decent.
God, the mosquitoes here are more blood-thirsty than the ones back there at home! I didn't think that was possible.
It's been really hot lately—especially since we're carrying forty-odd pounds of gear around with us when we march. Had a couple of guys keel over the other afternoon. They weren't drinking their water when we stopped like they were supposed to, the idiots. I showed 'em how to wet down a bandana and wrap it around their heads, under our helmets, or around their necks. City boys, don't know a thing about keeping cool while working hard.
More marching today. We cover a lot of ground on the days we go like that. Got tanks as our escorts, and you should hear the noise from those things! I always thought the big trucks on the roads were noisy; they got nothing on these things. It's noisy all the time — I keep thinking about Uncle Bobby saying he doesn't like going to the movies because of the noise. He'd hate this. Gunfire, and people shouting, and the tanks are loud (and you should hear them when they're firing).
Food poisoning hit most of my unit a couple nights ago. We're not sure what we ate, but we all had it, and it was awful. Puked my guts up for hours, and then had the runs so bad everything was raw. Yeah, I know you wanted to know that. One of the guys, we call him 'Rabbit' 'cause he's damned fast like one, he got it the worst. Maybe because he's an itty bitty guy, I don't know. But they had to send him off in a medical transport to the nearest hospital. He ain't come back yet; I hope he's okay.
You absolutely should go to college, Sam. I know I tease you about all your reading and crap, but you're the smartest person I know — and I'm proud of you, for that. If anyone deserves something better, it's you. And yeah, the war will end and then I'll be home and I'll be there for your graduation. From high school, and from college. And you can be the one who makes all the bucks for us while I help Uncle Bobby with the farm. Right?
I want…I want good things for you, Sammy. I know what you want, and I hope that it's good for you. I worry about that. You're…you're still so young, Sam. I know you think you're all grown and shit, and you're probably laughing at me, reading this 'he's only four years older than me, not like he's ancient' — but you know what I mean, right? I don't know how to say it without SAYING it, and there's some things I'm just not going to put into a letter. That's asking for all kinds of trouble. But maybe you should think about a different…relationship, than the one you're in. Just think about it, all right?
Take care. I miss you.
Love,
Dean
~~~~~
July 11, 1942
Dear Dean,
YOU SUCK. Okay? I know exactly what you're saying, and you are SO WRONG. It is good for me. Nothing could be better, all right? God, I'm so mad at you right now. I can't write any more, I have to go do something. Anything.
July 13, 1942
Don't say shit like that anymore, please? Uncle Bobby actually threatened to take a belt to me if I didn't shape up—guess he didn't like me sassing him and stomping around. How come you can get away with that and I can't? I don't understand.
But seriously—I appreciate your concern, BIG BROTHER, but that relationship I'm in is the only one I want. It's the only one that feels right, and it's felt right for as long as I can remember. I know you remember me telling you that, the one other time we talked about it. I said I didn't want anything or anyone else. I hope you believe me and will respect that.
Food poisoning sucks. Whatever happened to the Rabbit guy? Did he get better? Can people die from food poisoning?
It's been super hot here, lately, and really dry. Uncle Bobby keeps looking at the fields and at the sky, and muttering about how bad we need rain. I heard one of the guys that plays checkers at Anson's store saying the Sioux elders, on the reservation, were talking about doing a rain dance. Or something. Or maybe he was just pulling my leg, I don't know. But if it doesn't start raining soon the vegetable garden's going to be in big trouble, never mind the corn and wheat.
Oh! We got a couple new heifers. There's been a couple families selling out, and Uncle Bobby bought some of the cattle. I think most of 'em will get sold for beef, but I know two of the heifers are going to be milk cows. Greta and Marlene (only YOU would name the cows after movie stars) are starting to dry up some. We're going to try some cheese-making this fall. Well, Uncle Bobby is. I plan on laughing a lot.
You know what I miss? Watching you shave. How stupid is that? But yeah. I can't do it as well as you can (and yeah, I know, I don't NEED to do it as much, thank you), but it was always kind of, I don't know, soothing. Watching you, I mean. I also miss kicking your butt at checkers.
Love you,
Sammy
~~~~~
August 2, 1942
Sammy,
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, and I won't bring it up again, okay? I just wanted you to know you had options. I'm…glad…you don't want those options.
Rabbit's fine; he came back (I almost said 'home', how sick is that?) a couple days after I mailed the letter off to you.
We're marching again tomorrow, I have no idea where to. They don't tell us much, beyond whatever minimum we need to know (a lot of 'sit down, shut up, stand at attention, at ease'), but we're definitely moving out. I'll try to write more later, but I’m going to post this now, so you get it. I'm sorry. You know I love you, right? You've beenmine my responsibility since Dad gave you to me, so, yeah.
Love you,
Dean
~~~~~
August 15, 1942
Dear Dean,
You're an idiot, but I love you anyway. Brothers do that, I hear. You know what I mean.
School starts back up again in a few weeks, and then it'll be harvest time. We finally got some rain. Not as much as we really needed, but enough to squeak by. Uncle Bobby says if we clear enough off this year's crop, he's going to get a water heater installed! We're going to redo the plumbing (such as it is) so we can pipe water from the well straight into the house — for the water heater — and then to the kitchen and the bathroom. No more heating up water on the stove. He's also looking at the possibility of getting (in his words) "one of those new-fangled oven things". It would be pretty nifty to be able to make toast without having to stoke up the fire, first. We're also going to get the whole house wired up, and get heaters for the bedrooms. Radiators in every room would be nice, but I don't know if that'll happen this year. The crops look pretty good, but you know what they say about counting chickens before they hatch.
Speaking of chickens, the stupid birds pulled one over on me but good — we have three dozen new chicks! I have no idea where the hens hid their eggs, but damn. Hens: 1, Sam: 0.
On the other hand, I guess that means we'll have more chickens to fry up. I'm all right with that.
Becky Summers got married last week. I don't know to who; she moved away at the end of last school term. But one of her friends exchanges letters with her, and told me when I went in to town last week to get our mail. Seems like a lot of folks are going off and getting married—and then the girl stays home while the guy goes off to war. And do not even THINK what I'm sure you're thinking right now. Just shut it.
Uncle Bobby's hollering for me, so I'm going to close this, and get it ready to mail.
Love you,
Sammy
~~~~~
Sept 10, 1942
Hey, Sammy!
I'm a marked man, now. Got myself tattooed when we had a day of R&R — she's a beaut. Got it on my left upper arm, up near my shoulder; it's an Eagle wrapped up in the flag, with "USArmy" at the bottom. Bunch of us went and did it together. I might or might not have been halfway to drunk when I had it done, and the headache the next day was a bitch. But I'm glad I did it. Wish I had some way of showing you a picture of it. Guess I'll just have to wait to show it to you when I get home.
Rabbit got a pin-up girl for his, and we're all wondering what his wife's gonna say when she sees it. He says she's a wild little dolly; that she might get one of her own.
How 'bout you, Sammy? You wanna get tattooed?
Gotta go, we got roll call and a briefing.
Take care,
Dean
~~~~~
September 22, 1942
Dean,
A tattoo? Really? I can't wait to see it — and sure, I'll get one. We could have matching tattoos, couldn't we?
Uncle Bobby's started his cheese-making venture. Between you and me, I don't think it's going to last very long. He can't cook his way out of a paper bag anyway, and cheese-making is cooking. After a fashion, anyway. It's pretty entertaining, though. (Except for the smell. That is NOT entertaining, yuck.)
We had an unexpected visitor last week. One of Grandpa Singer's brother's sons. I think that makes him a cousin, of some level. Honest, I didn't know we had any cousins. Uncle Bobby says there's a few Singers still scattered around, most of them back east, in Ohio and Kentucky. Grandpa Singer came west but everyone else stayed put. Anyway, his name is Herbert, but he calls himself Bert, and he was a hoot. City boy to the core, though, and he pestered me into letting him help with the milking and gathering eggs. Want to guess how well that went over? The hens don't like me—they sure didn't like him. He got pecked a lot. (It was pretty funny, but I managed not to laugh until I was well on my way to school.)
Bert stayed for three days, then headed on. He said he was going further west, was going to check out Montana, but me and Uncle Bobby figure he'll wind up in California. He's definitely not a farming type.
The Thompsons have a granddaughter now. Her name is Elizabeth, and she was born a couple weeks ago. I'm not sure which kid she belongs to—there's so many of them I lose track. Mr. Thompson said to tell you that the mare that foaled last spring is pregnant again. He's really hoping the birthing goes easier this time around, since he doesn't have you to vet for him.
Cleo had kittens the other day. I didn't even know she was pregnant! Not that I've seen her a lot lately. We've had a big problem with mice in the granaries, so she's been busy. Maybe she felt like she needed the extra help? I don't know.
Well, that's all the news I got, and I have two chapters of algebra problems to work, plus chemistry and English to do. I hope you're taking care of yourself, Dean. I think about you all the time, and I miss you something awful.
Love you always,
Sammy
~~~~~
October 2, 1942
Sammy,
Don't know how much I'll be able to write for a while. Things are a mess over here, really ugly, and we're moving around a lot. You can keep writing — if you stop, I'll kick your butt when I see you again — the mail will catch up with us eventually. But I probably won't have much in the way of opportunities to write or write back.
Tell Thompson he can birth his own foals; the man's been breeding horses for longer than I've been alive. (You maybe should say it nicer than that but you'd think the guy would have a little confidence by now.)
My tattoo's mostly healed now. It looks pretty nifty.
Gotta go, it's time for briefing.
Love you,
Dean
~~~~~
October 27, 1942
Hey, Dean,
It really sucks that on top of everything, you're not able to write. But I'll keep writing, and I know Uncle Bobby will, and Jessa Alden told me yesterday that her sister's 2nd grade class is going to do letters and pictures for you. So there will be mail. I think the Ladies Club at church is doing something, too, but it's probably supposed to be a surprise, so I won't say anything else.
It doesn't seem like it's been almost year since Pearl Harbor happened, does it? I don't know if you heard what's happening over here to the folks who are Japanese or have Japanese ancestry. Per an Executive Order by President Roosevelt, they're being "relocated" — sent to internment camps. People say it's for their protection and ours, but I think that's a load of bull. It makes me sad and sick to think our government is doing that to its own citizens. There's people who would call me a traitor to my country for saying that, but I feel it's true. The Japanese people who live here, who were born here, they aren't to blame for what happened in the Pacific.
I said as much to Uncle Bobby the other night, and he got this funny look on his face and said I already sound like a lawyer. I don't know if he meant it as a compliment or an insult, but it was kind of neat either way.
We have to do essays for English next week; I think I'm going to do mine on that. I'll either really impress Mr. Dryer, or I'll flunk out of English. Ha-ha.
I hope you're remembering to duck, and that you're taking care of yourself.
Love you,
Sammy
~~~~~
November 12, 1942
Sam,
I know I told you the mail would catch up with us eventually, but I guess I was wrong. Nothing so far, and I'm sure you've been writing. Right? You and Uncle Bobby. I got a letter from Jeffery Tipton last week, though. That was kind of cool. He says he's still in town, sees you around once in a while.
Yesterday was Armistice Day. Did you guys have a gathering this year? Man, I wish I was there and not here. It's ugly, Sam. Ugly and I'm no coward, you know I'm not, but I spend half my time scared to death. We don't ever know what might happen or when, and it's tiring to try and stay alert all the time.
War can't last forever though, right? I'll be home again in no time, you'll see.
Love you,
Dean
Post-script: make sure you eat a lot of turkey for me on Thanksgiving. I know we'll have a prayer and stuff over here, but dinner will likely be c-rats unless we're camped down for a bit, and c-rats just ain't the same.
~~~~~
December 25, 1942
Merry Christmas, Dean. I don't know how to put into words how much I miss you. The holidays were nothing special this year; neither me nor Uncle Bobby feel like celebrating when we know you're over there, wherever 'there' is, putting your life on the line.
We sent you a Christmas package, though I don't know if you'll have gotten it yet or not. It snowed this morning, early; when I got up to milk the cows it was all still and white outside. Do you remember the, not the first Christmas we were here, but our first real Christmas here? It snowed then, too, and we spent the day running in and out, playing outside and then coming in to warm up. You showed me how to make snow angels and we built a snowman and Uncle Bobby let us use his muffler and old cap for it. I think we (okay, me) even named it "Bob", in honor.
I say prayers every night for you. That you stay safe, that you stay healthy, that you come home soon. And next Christmas you'll be home. I have to believe that.
I love you,
Your brother, Sam.
~~~~~
February 3, 1943
They come just before sundown; a dark-colored, unfamiliar car that sends plumes of dust up behind it as it bumps over the uneven drive. Rusty hears it first and sets up yapping and barking; by the time the car's parked and two men inside it are getting out, Sam and Bobby are both waiting in front of the door.
They're government men. Sam isn't sure how he knows that, but he does. Generic-looking, dressed alike in basic black suits with heavy, dark overcoats and matching hats.
The taller of the two men looks from Sam to Bobby, then asks, "Mr. Singer?"
Uncle Bobby pushes the door open. "I'm Bobby Singer."
"We have a telegram for you, Sir, from the Department of Defense."
Sam's blood goes icy-cold in his veins. "A telegram?"
The man's eyes flicker back to him and he gives a slight nod, handing the piece of paper over. Uncle Bobby's hand is steady when he reaches out for it, and Sam's glad for it. He knows his wouldn't be.
Dead? Dean's dead? Sam shakes his head. "No. No—he's—No!"
"Sam." Uncle Bobby settles a hand on Sam's arm, fingers squeezing gently.
"No! No, he's not. He can't be! He's coming home to me, he has to! He promised he'd never leave me!"
Dimly Sam's aware that he's bleeding; he feels something sharp biting into his fingers, where he's gripping the doorframe and there's something warm dripping down his fingers. The men standing on the porch are looking at him with pity and discomfort, and maybe a little bit of disgust, but Sam doesn't care. Uncle Bobby's trying to pull him back, but Sam can't move. Can't move, can't breathe, can't think. Can't feel. He's numb, frozen, and oh God. Dean.
Dean.
"No. God, no. Uncle Bobby—"
"I know, Son. C'mon, inside. Sam, come on."
His face is wet. That's the only thing he feels, the only thing Sam knows. Everything else, it's just blank.
He hears a loud crack and blinks when part of the door frame splinters against his fingers. The government men tip their hats at Uncle Bobby and mutter something unintelligible before turning heel and walking away.
Distantly Sam hears Rusty, and then Rufus, barking—setting up a howl Sam wants to join. He can't breathe, can't get any oxygen into his lungs and claws at his throat with bloody, burning fingers, words welling up in gasping sobs. "Uncle Bobby, he's not—he can't be dead. Please, please, he's not, tell me he's not dead."
"Shh, Sam. Shh. I know, Son." Uncle Bobby's arms are solid and steady around him, holding him close. He pats Sam's back soothingly, but it's not enough. Not ever going to be enough. Sam gags on the tears and snot and shudders, trying to draw breath in.
"He promised…promised h-he'd come home, that he w-wouldn't leave me. H c-c-can't be dead, please tell me he isn't—"
Uncle Bobby makes quiet shushing noises and sinks to his knees, taking Sam down with him so they're kneeling in the foyer. He holds Sam there, rocking him gently, and lets him sob in the warm, loving circle of his arms, their tears mingling together. "That's it, Sammy. Let it out. Just let it all out."
He can't, though. Can't let it all out, because if he does there'll be absolutely nothing left of him.
Feels like there's nothing left, now. Just a big, hollow nothing.
~~~~~
Sam wakes repeatedly over the next several nights, never able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time before nightmares pull him screaming out of slumber. He dreams of Dean dying, burning up or riddled with bullets, his body exploding from impact with bombs or grenades. He sees Dean, lifeless and still, over and over again until, after a week or so, he stops trying to sleep altogether.
Instead he lays on his bed — their bed, where they touched and kissed, where Dean took Sam into his body and he took Dean into his — wrapped in a flannel shirt that even now still smells faintly like Dean and thumbs through the aged and worn scrapbook he's kept since not long after they came to South Dakota. Stares at the pictures of him and Dean, and the one of Dean in his uniform, rubbing his thumb along the edge like he could touch Dean for real.
Uncle Bobby leaves him alone, for the most part, letting Sam have the space he needs.
Sam doesn't think there'll ever be enough space, or oxygen, or anything else. He feels completely numb, except for the burning ache where his heart used to be, and a tiny part of him that's ashamed, because Uncle Bobby has to be grieving, too, and Sam should be there for him.
There's a knock on his door a week or so after the telegram, and Uncle Bobby pokes his head around the door after a minute.
"Sam? Got some mail here for you."
Sam rolls onto his back and looks over at Uncle Bobby. "Mail?"
"A letter—from Dean, I think. Prob'ly sent it before he passed."
Sam's throat closes up, so instead of speaking he just nods and holds his hand out for it. Bobby hands it over, then stands awkwardly just inside the door. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, like Sam might use to coax a stray dog or cat out of the brush.
"Come down for dinner tonight, Sam. Ain't gonna help you at all to stay up here the rest of your life."
"I'm not hungry," Sam mutters, sliding his finger carefully under the flap of the envelope. It's postmarked somewhere in Europe, from back in January, so Uncle Bobby's probably right. "I don't think I'm ever going to be hungry." He shifts to sit up on the side of the bed, and Bobby comes further into the room. "I feel like I died inside, Uncle Bobby."
Bobby gives him a careful look. "Losing someone you love can do that. Reckon that's how you boys ended up on my doorstep, your dad feelin' that way."
There's a lot being said that's not being said, and Sam frowns, looking up from the envelope in his hands, hands which are trembling suddenly, in a way that has nothing to do with the letter. He swallows.
"I don't—"
"Sammy." Uncle Bobby sits down on the bed beside Sam. "I'm old, and I'm not always the sharpest tool in the shed—but I ain't blind, and I'm not stupid, neither. I saw…how you and Dean looked at one another. The way you lit up around each other."
Sam's sure he's stopped breathing. He closes his eyes and waits for the final blow, for Uncle Bobby to tell him to get out, or that he's going to Hell, or—something. Anything. He wants to speak up, wants to say something, but there isn't anything he can say. He's not going to deny it; he won't ever do that. He loved Dean…loves him…with every fiber of his being.
"It's okay, Son." Uncle Bobby pats his leg awkwardly. "It ain't likely right; lotta people would just as soon string you up as listen to why, but you didn't hurt no one, so who am I to judge? Seems to me love is a rare enough thing in this world; it should be celebrated, not condemned." He sucks a breath in around his teeth, an odd gesture he's always done, for as long as Sam's known him. "Mind you, I don't think I'd go about advertising it. Most folks ain't gonna be as understanding as me. But I—I don't think any less of you for it."
Sam swallows and blinks fast, trying to keep the stinging in his eyes from becoming full-blown tears. He whispers, "Thank you," and turns to hug Bobby. Maybe Uncle Bobby didn't father him, but he's been a father to him—longer now than the man he use to call 'Dad'. "Thank you," Sam says again. "I'll—I'll be down For dinner. For chores."
"Good." Uncle Bobby pats his leg again, then stands up. "The dogs just don't talk enough to keep me entertained. Been a mite boring without you at the table."
Sam gives a little sob of a laugh that Uncle Bobby kindly ignores on his way out of the door, and curls back on himself, letter clutched to his chest. "Oh, God, Dean. We. God."
His hands shake when he pulls the letter out, and the ink at the top of the page smudges a bit when a teardrop falls on it. Sam wipes at his eyes impatiently, and rubs his thumb gently over the page, the familiar script making his chest tight and achy.
January 9, 1943
Happy New Year, Sammy! I hope you guys are having a mild winter back home. We're freezing our ever-loving asses off out here in the middle of some countryside in Germany. (I can't say more than that, and that's probably more than I should say, about where we're at. Classified and all that.) Tents, Sam. That's what we're living in. The same moldy, stinky tents we've had all along. We got space heaters and some stoves we've rigged up aluminum chimneys for, but it don't do nothing against the cold when the wind really gets to blowing. Standing guard duty sucks something awful. Me and the guys share cigarettes around, trying to keep warm. Sometimes it helps, but mostly it doesn't.
I have other ways of tricking my mind into thinking I'm warm. Most of them involve the swimming hole last summer. Know what I'm saying? (Imagine me grinning like an idiot right now—and then imagine yourself smacking me and calling me names. Because you know you would.)
There's a really odd vibe around camp lately, which is why I'm making this letter short so I can send it out. I don't know what's up, or what's happening, but everyone's on edge, even our supply Sgt, who is the most cheerful fellow on the planet, usually.
I don't want to do one of those "if anything happens to me" things, because I figure if I say that, you'll kick my ass for real, probably even through the mail. I just have an odd feeling in my gut, so I'm gonna say some things I maybe shouldn't, but feel like I need to. Okay?
If…if something happens with that relationship you're in, if it ends for any reason, I want you to find someone else, okay? I know you hate when I say this, but it's true: you're still so young. Not even seventeen, man. So promise me you will. If anything happens, and I ain't saying it's going to.
Don't ever forget me. And don't ever forget I love you, Sammy. More than life itself. Okay? Promise me that, too, that you won't ever forget those two things.
Take care of yourself, and take care of Uncle Bobby. Go see a horror film for me on my birthday, would you?
Love you,
Dean
Sam stares at the page until it blurs, but he doesn't know if it's his eyesight going funny or if it's the tears he feels, hot and wet on his cheeks.
"As if I'd ever forget you, idiot," he mumbles, wiping at his face with his arm. "Dean. God. This is killing me. Killing me. You promised you wouldn't ever leave me. How can you tell me to find someone else? Who am I going to love even half as much as I love you? I can't. I won't."
He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at the letter in his hands; at the way Dean looped certain of his letters and didn't loop others. Sam pictures Dean staring at the paper, and smudging the ink when he tries to correct his spelling — always an atrocious speller, Dean. He thinks about Dean's hands, broad and strong, callused from hard work and play. The way those hands felt touching him, gentle strokes that always became harder, faster, impatient and wanting. The reverence Dean always touched him with.
He's never going to feel those hands on him again. Never see the love shining from Dean's eyes, even if his lips twist in a sneer, or anger. He'll never hear "Brat" or "Sammy" with the inflection only Dean ever managed.
There just aren't any tears left. Sam wants to cry some more; longing and loss are a huge, aching knot inside him and he wants desperately to let it out. But there just isn't anything left in him. He doesn't know how to get it out. Doesn't know if he'll ever be able to.
~~~~~
May, 1943
Dean's body and his effects aren't returned to them until mid-May. By that time Sam's able to face people again; able to smile stiffly when they offer their condolences. Uncle Bobby hires Jeremy Thompson on a semi-permanent basis to help with planting, because while Sam tries, and Bobby tries, neither of them are working at one hundred percent. Sam knows he's not the only one suffering; not the only one missing Dean. Uncle Bobby raised him from a boy to a man, and Sam's caught tears shining in his eyes more than once when looking at something or other that they shared together.
They bury Dean at the edge of the farm he loved, with only a few close friends there to witness it. There's a memorial service afterward, at the church, along with a pot-luck luncheon Sam knows Dean would've appreciated. There isn't anyone else Sam's ever known who loved food as much as Dean.
Sam and Bobby go through Dean's effects together. There isn't much; the Army kept all his standard-issue gear, and he only had a couple changes of civilian clothes with him. But there are some postcards tucked into a small, water-proofed bag that make Sam smile when he flips through them. Different scenes of different towns and cities Dean visited while in Europe. Scrawled on the back of each one is the date and location, and sometimes a note like, "remember to tell Sammy about this place" or "Sam would probably like this thing". There's also a small notebook that Sam sets aside to go through later. He's doing a lot better these days at putting on a brave front, but anything Dean felt was secret enough to hide away in between layers of things is probably going to require a shot of something like whiskey and some privacy.
"Here, you probably want these." Uncle Bobby breaks into Sam's thoughts and he looks over.
"What are they?"
"His tags." Bobby hands them over, two dog tags on a silver chain. They're oddly flattened around the edges, and the imprinted letters look smudged and dirty. Sam takes the chain and holds it close for a moment, staring at the small bits of metal that reduced his brother to name, rank and serial number. It's hard, but he pushes back the urge to cry again, and loops the chain over his head. It hangs down, centered on his chest, and for a brief moment — the first in almost four months — a little of his grief eases and he can feel Dean there with him.
Part Six
Headers in the Master Post.
February 8, 1942,
Dear Sam and Uncle Bobby:
We're not going to be allowed mail out (but you can write to me) for the first four weeks of training, but our drill instructor said we can write one letter to let our families know we got here all right. So, I got here all right. It was a long trip on the bus, and I didn't think my legs were ever going to straighten out completely. We're in barracks right now, twelve of us to a room. No indoor latrines, except for some sinks for shaving, and a shower. There's eleven other guys in my squad, three of 'em are married and brought their families with them — they're staying in town since there aren't any family quarters here on post. We start the day early with reveille, four-thirty a.m. — oh-dark-thirty, our D.I. calls it. Calisthenics, then running or marching (and sometimes both). Weapons training, more calisthenics, more marching. Everything is 'Yes, Drill Sergeant' or 'No, Drill Sergeant', and learning ranks and how to address officers (and don't ever call an NCO "Sir", unless you want to do a LOT of pushups). Chow isn't too bad, but yours is better, Sam. Still, plenty to eat and a lot of time outside running around. Some of the guys hate it, but minus the livestock and crops, it's not a lot different from a normal day, for me. There's four squads to a unit, and within our unit there's a guy from Minot, and another from Rapid City, so I'm not the only Dakota territory fella.
Okay, Drill Instructor says we gotta wrap it up. I'll write again when I can, but it probably won't be until training is over.
Love to you both,
Dean
May 2, 1942,
Dear Sam:
Happy birthday, Sammy. Sweet sixteen! Can't say you've never been kissed though, can you?
I miss you like crazy, kiddo. It's nuts over here, with soldiers everywhere — we're all kind of lumped together, Army, Air Force, Navy, Marines, they just call all of us soldiers. I guess probably there's not too many Navy guys onshore, and I don't know about the Marines. Lotta Army green and brown, though.
The folks I've met over here so far are nice enough, though we don't spend a lot of time with the local populations. Mostly to barter for food to supplement the rations we get from the mess hall. C-rats suck, I just want to say. Kind of like old Miss Edna's goulash. Yeah, like that. (There's a packet of Tabasco sauce in every single meal packet. They're that bad.)
Right now we're sleeping in makeshift barracks—they're basically like huge tents. Like the church used for the revival meetings in the summer? Only not as nice as those. These are ugly and smell like mold and dirty socks (like YOUR dirty socks!). We have camp cots and some blankets, and I got lucky and got a pillow, though I've put my head on softer bricks, I think. It's rained a lot, lately, so everything's damp, which makes the mold smell that much worse.
I actually miss getting up to feed the livestock. Did you guys get all the planting done okay? Uncle Bobby said he might hire someone, or maybe a couple of the Thompson kids could come help. I hate like hell that I'm not there to help, Sam. I really hope you and Uncle Bobby understand why I felt like I needed to do this.
Speaking of missing things—I miss doing that thing in the mornings that we always did. You know the one, right? And call me crazy, but I even miss you putting your ICY COLD FEET on my feet.
Take care of yourself, and take care of Uncle Bobby.
Love,
Your brother, Dean
May 23, 1942
Dear Dean—
I know that thing in the mornings you're talking about, and I miss it, too.
I miss YOU, man. It's not the same here, without you. At all. Me and Uncle Bobby got all the planting done; Jeremy and Tony Thompson came over and helped after school. I skipped a week (or two? I don't remember, now), but made the work up no problem. (We're studying Shakespeare. Again. Don't the teachers have anything new to teach us? Honestly. At least this year it's something neat — The Merchant of Venice, and Hamlet. Romeo and Juliet last year was awful.)
Thanks for the birthday wishes, by the way.
I'm kind of thinking about college, when I finish up high school. Maybe being a lawyer. I know you like farming and stuff, and you're good at it. But Dean, I don't want to do it for the rest of my life, at least not without having something to back me up. What do you think? God, I wish you were here, so I could talk to you about this stuff.
Oh—You remember Terry Drummond, right? He enlisted, too. He ships out in a couple weeks, his momma said. I saw her at the general store a few days ago. He got married last fall, to Anne Thompson, and she's gonna have a baby. So she's pretty upset, I reckon.
Buster died. He got sick not long after you left; Uncle Bobby said mostly it was just that he was an old dog, and I know that. But I miss him.
I'll bet Europe is cool. I'd like to visit, someday. The war can't last forever, right?
Please be careful. Remember to duck, okay? I miss you.
Love you,
Sammy
June 13, 1942
Hey, Sammy—
By the time you get this letter, it's probably going to be the end of June or maybe even July. I write every night that I can, even when I'm waiting for a letter from you, but it's usually only a few minutes before I have to turn in. Don't get a whole lot of sleep, so I have to take it when I can. So these letters are probably going to ramble around a lot, maybe seem like they don't make sense. (And I can hear you thinking how I don't make sense anyway—shut it, Brat.)
We've been in Belgium, and they have got wicked good chocolates here. One of the guys I hang around with — his name is Delbert, the poor guy, so we call him Del, or just call 'him by his last name — got himself a girl in town, and she gets him cocoa so we can have cocoa in our coffee in the morning. Makes it taste almost decent.
God, the mosquitoes here are more blood-thirsty than the ones back there at home! I didn't think that was possible.
It's been really hot lately—especially since we're carrying forty-odd pounds of gear around with us when we march. Had a couple of guys keel over the other afternoon. They weren't drinking their water when we stopped like they were supposed to, the idiots. I showed 'em how to wet down a bandana and wrap it around their heads, under our helmets, or around their necks. City boys, don't know a thing about keeping cool while working hard.
More marching today. We cover a lot of ground on the days we go like that. Got tanks as our escorts, and you should hear the noise from those things! I always thought the big trucks on the roads were noisy; they got nothing on these things. It's noisy all the time — I keep thinking about Uncle Bobby saying he doesn't like going to the movies because of the noise. He'd hate this. Gunfire, and people shouting, and the tanks are loud (and you should hear them when they're firing).
Food poisoning hit most of my unit a couple nights ago. We're not sure what we ate, but we all had it, and it was awful. Puked my guts up for hours, and then had the runs so bad everything was raw. Yeah, I know you wanted to know that. One of the guys, we call him 'Rabbit' 'cause he's damned fast like one, he got it the worst. Maybe because he's an itty bitty guy, I don't know. But they had to send him off in a medical transport to the nearest hospital. He ain't come back yet; I hope he's okay.
You absolutely should go to college, Sam. I know I tease you about all your reading and crap, but you're the smartest person I know — and I'm proud of you, for that. If anyone deserves something better, it's you. And yeah, the war will end and then I'll be home and I'll be there for your graduation. From high school, and from college. And you can be the one who makes all the bucks for us while I help Uncle Bobby with the farm. Right?
I want…I want good things for you, Sammy. I know what you want, and I hope that it's good for you. I worry about that. You're…you're still so young, Sam. I know you think you're all grown and shit, and you're probably laughing at me, reading this 'he's only four years older than me, not like he's ancient' — but you know what I mean, right? I don't know how to say it without SAYING it, and there's some things I'm just not going to put into a letter. That's asking for all kinds of trouble. But maybe you should think about a different…relationship, than the one you're in. Just think about it, all right?
Take care. I miss you.
Love,
Dean
July 11, 1942
Dear Dean,
YOU SUCK. Okay? I know exactly what you're saying, and you are SO WRONG. It is good for me. Nothing could be better, all right? God, I'm so mad at you right now. I can't write any more, I have to go do something. Anything.
July 13, 1942
Don't say shit like that anymore, please? Uncle Bobby actually threatened to take a belt to me if I didn't shape up—guess he didn't like me sassing him and stomping around. How come you can get away with that and I can't? I don't understand.
But seriously—I appreciate your concern, BIG BROTHER, but that relationship I'm in is the only one I want. It's the only one that feels right, and it's felt right for as long as I can remember. I know you remember me telling you that, the one other time we talked about it. I said I didn't want anything or anyone else. I hope you believe me and will respect that.
Food poisoning sucks. Whatever happened to the Rabbit guy? Did he get better? Can people die from food poisoning?
It's been super hot here, lately, and really dry. Uncle Bobby keeps looking at the fields and at the sky, and muttering about how bad we need rain. I heard one of the guys that plays checkers at Anson's store saying the Sioux elders, on the reservation, were talking about doing a rain dance. Or something. Or maybe he was just pulling my leg, I don't know. But if it doesn't start raining soon the vegetable garden's going to be in big trouble, never mind the corn and wheat.
Oh! We got a couple new heifers. There's been a couple families selling out, and Uncle Bobby bought some of the cattle. I think most of 'em will get sold for beef, but I know two of the heifers are going to be milk cows. Greta and Marlene (only YOU would name the cows after movie stars) are starting to dry up some. We're going to try some cheese-making this fall. Well, Uncle Bobby is. I plan on laughing a lot.
You know what I miss? Watching you shave. How stupid is that? But yeah. I can't do it as well as you can (and yeah, I know, I don't NEED to do it as much, thank you), but it was always kind of, I don't know, soothing. Watching you, I mean. I also miss kicking your butt at checkers.
Love you,
Sammy
August 2, 1942
Sammy,
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, and I won't bring it up again, okay? I just wanted you to know you had options. I'm…glad…you don't want those options.
Rabbit's fine; he came back (I almost said 'home', how sick is that?) a couple days after I mailed the letter off to you.
We're marching again tomorrow, I have no idea where to. They don't tell us much, beyond whatever minimum we need to know (a lot of 'sit down, shut up, stand at attention, at ease'), but we're definitely moving out. I'll try to write more later, but I’m going to post this now, so you get it. I'm sorry. You know I love you, right? You've been
Love you,
Dean
August 15, 1942
Dear Dean,
You're an idiot, but I love you anyway. Brothers do that, I hear. You know what I mean.
School starts back up again in a few weeks, and then it'll be harvest time. We finally got some rain. Not as much as we really needed, but enough to squeak by. Uncle Bobby says if we clear enough off this year's crop, he's going to get a water heater installed! We're going to redo the plumbing (such as it is) so we can pipe water from the well straight into the house — for the water heater — and then to the kitchen and the bathroom. No more heating up water on the stove. He's also looking at the possibility of getting (in his words) "one of those new-fangled oven things". It would be pretty nifty to be able to make toast without having to stoke up the fire, first. We're also going to get the whole house wired up, and get heaters for the bedrooms. Radiators in every room would be nice, but I don't know if that'll happen this year. The crops look pretty good, but you know what they say about counting chickens before they hatch.
Speaking of chickens, the stupid birds pulled one over on me but good — we have three dozen new chicks! I have no idea where the hens hid their eggs, but damn. Hens: 1, Sam: 0.
On the other hand, I guess that means we'll have more chickens to fry up. I'm all right with that.
Becky Summers got married last week. I don't know to who; she moved away at the end of last school term. But one of her friends exchanges letters with her, and told me when I went in to town last week to get our mail. Seems like a lot of folks are going off and getting married—and then the girl stays home while the guy goes off to war. And do not even THINK what I'm sure you're thinking right now. Just shut it.
Uncle Bobby's hollering for me, so I'm going to close this, and get it ready to mail.
Love you,
Sammy
Sept 10, 1942
Hey, Sammy!
I'm a marked man, now. Got myself tattooed when we had a day of R&R — she's a beaut. Got it on my left upper arm, up near my shoulder; it's an Eagle wrapped up in the flag, with "USArmy" at the bottom. Bunch of us went and did it together. I might or might not have been halfway to drunk when I had it done, and the headache the next day was a bitch. But I'm glad I did it. Wish I had some way of showing you a picture of it. Guess I'll just have to wait to show it to you when I get home.
Rabbit got a pin-up girl for his, and we're all wondering what his wife's gonna say when she sees it. He says she's a wild little dolly; that she might get one of her own.
How 'bout you, Sammy? You wanna get tattooed?
Gotta go, we got roll call and a briefing.
Take care,
Dean
September 22, 1942
Dean,
A tattoo? Really? I can't wait to see it — and sure, I'll get one. We could have matching tattoos, couldn't we?
Uncle Bobby's started his cheese-making venture. Between you and me, I don't think it's going to last very long. He can't cook his way out of a paper bag anyway, and cheese-making is cooking. After a fashion, anyway. It's pretty entertaining, though. (Except for the smell. That is NOT entertaining, yuck.)
We had an unexpected visitor last week. One of Grandpa Singer's brother's sons. I think that makes him a cousin, of some level. Honest, I didn't know we had any cousins. Uncle Bobby says there's a few Singers still scattered around, most of them back east, in Ohio and Kentucky. Grandpa Singer came west but everyone else stayed put. Anyway, his name is Herbert, but he calls himself Bert, and he was a hoot. City boy to the core, though, and he pestered me into letting him help with the milking and gathering eggs. Want to guess how well that went over? The hens don't like me—they sure didn't like him. He got pecked a lot. (It was pretty funny, but I managed not to laugh until I was well on my way to school.)
Bert stayed for three days, then headed on. He said he was going further west, was going to check out Montana, but me and Uncle Bobby figure he'll wind up in California. He's definitely not a farming type.
The Thompsons have a granddaughter now. Her name is Elizabeth, and she was born a couple weeks ago. I'm not sure which kid she belongs to—there's so many of them I lose track. Mr. Thompson said to tell you that the mare that foaled last spring is pregnant again. He's really hoping the birthing goes easier this time around, since he doesn't have you to vet for him.
Cleo had kittens the other day. I didn't even know she was pregnant! Not that I've seen her a lot lately. We've had a big problem with mice in the granaries, so she's been busy. Maybe she felt like she needed the extra help? I don't know.
Well, that's all the news I got, and I have two chapters of algebra problems to work, plus chemistry and English to do. I hope you're taking care of yourself, Dean. I think about you all the time, and I miss you something awful.
Love you always,
Sammy
October 2, 1942
Sammy,
Don't know how much I'll be able to write for a while. Things are a mess over here, really ugly, and we're moving around a lot. You can keep writing — if you stop, I'll kick your butt when I see you again — the mail will catch up with us eventually. But I probably won't have much in the way of opportunities to write or write back.
Tell Thompson he can birth his own foals; the man's been breeding horses for longer than I've been alive. (You maybe should say it nicer than that but you'd think the guy would have a little confidence by now.)
My tattoo's mostly healed now. It looks pretty nifty.
Gotta go, it's time for briefing.
Love you,
Dean
October 27, 1942
Hey, Dean,
It really sucks that on top of everything, you're not able to write. But I'll keep writing, and I know Uncle Bobby will, and Jessa Alden told me yesterday that her sister's 2nd grade class is going to do letters and pictures for you. So there will be mail. I think the Ladies Club at church is doing something, too, but it's probably supposed to be a surprise, so I won't say anything else.
It doesn't seem like it's been almost year since Pearl Harbor happened, does it? I don't know if you heard what's happening over here to the folks who are Japanese or have Japanese ancestry. Per an Executive Order by President Roosevelt, they're being "relocated" — sent to internment camps. People say it's for their protection and ours, but I think that's a load of bull. It makes me sad and sick to think our government is doing that to its own citizens. There's people who would call me a traitor to my country for saying that, but I feel it's true. The Japanese people who live here, who were born here, they aren't to blame for what happened in the Pacific.
I said as much to Uncle Bobby the other night, and he got this funny look on his face and said I already sound like a lawyer. I don't know if he meant it as a compliment or an insult, but it was kind of neat either way.
We have to do essays for English next week; I think I'm going to do mine on that. I'll either really impress Mr. Dryer, or I'll flunk out of English. Ha-ha.
I hope you're remembering to duck, and that you're taking care of yourself.
Love you,
Sammy
November 12, 1942
Sam,
I know I told you the mail would catch up with us eventually, but I guess I was wrong. Nothing so far, and I'm sure you've been writing. Right? You and Uncle Bobby. I got a letter from Jeffery Tipton last week, though. That was kind of cool. He says he's still in town, sees you around once in a while.
Yesterday was Armistice Day. Did you guys have a gathering this year? Man, I wish I was there and not here. It's ugly, Sam. Ugly and I'm no coward, you know I'm not, but I spend half my time scared to death. We don't ever know what might happen or when, and it's tiring to try and stay alert all the time.
War can't last forever though, right? I'll be home again in no time, you'll see.
Love you,
Dean
Post-script: make sure you eat a lot of turkey for me on Thanksgiving. I know we'll have a prayer and stuff over here, but dinner will likely be c-rats unless we're camped down for a bit, and c-rats just ain't the same.
December 25, 1942
Merry Christmas, Dean. I don't know how to put into words how much I miss you. The holidays were nothing special this year; neither me nor Uncle Bobby feel like celebrating when we know you're over there, wherever 'there' is, putting your life on the line.
We sent you a Christmas package, though I don't know if you'll have gotten it yet or not. It snowed this morning, early; when I got up to milk the cows it was all still and white outside. Do you remember the, not the first Christmas we were here, but our first real Christmas here? It snowed then, too, and we spent the day running in and out, playing outside and then coming in to warm up. You showed me how to make snow angels and we built a snowman and Uncle Bobby let us use his muffler and old cap for it. I think we (okay, me) even named it "Bob", in honor.
I say prayers every night for you. That you stay safe, that you stay healthy, that you come home soon. And next Christmas you'll be home. I have to believe that.
I love you,
Your brother, Sam.
February 3, 1943
They come just before sundown; a dark-colored, unfamiliar car that sends plumes of dust up behind it as it bumps over the uneven drive. Rusty hears it first and sets up yapping and barking; by the time the car's parked and two men inside it are getting out, Sam and Bobby are both waiting in front of the door.
They're government men. Sam isn't sure how he knows that, but he does. Generic-looking, dressed alike in basic black suits with heavy, dark overcoats and matching hats.
The taller of the two men looks from Sam to Bobby, then asks, "Mr. Singer?"
Uncle Bobby pushes the door open. "I'm Bobby Singer."
"We have a telegram for you, Sir, from the Department of Defense."
Sam's blood goes icy-cold in his veins. "A telegram?"
The man's eyes flicker back to him and he gives a slight nod, handing the piece of paper over. Uncle Bobby's hand is steady when he reaches out for it, and Sam's glad for it. He knows his wouldn't be.
Dead? Dean's dead? Sam shakes his head. "No. No—he's—No!"
"Sam." Uncle Bobby settles a hand on Sam's arm, fingers squeezing gently.
"No! No, he's not. He can't be! He's coming home to me, he has to! He promised he'd never leave me!"
Dimly Sam's aware that he's bleeding; he feels something sharp biting into his fingers, where he's gripping the doorframe and there's something warm dripping down his fingers. The men standing on the porch are looking at him with pity and discomfort, and maybe a little bit of disgust, but Sam doesn't care. Uncle Bobby's trying to pull him back, but Sam can't move. Can't move, can't breathe, can't think. Can't feel. He's numb, frozen, and oh God. Dean.
Dean.
"No. God, no. Uncle Bobby—"
"I know, Son. C'mon, inside. Sam, come on."
His face is wet. That's the only thing he feels, the only thing Sam knows. Everything else, it's just blank.
He hears a loud crack and blinks when part of the door frame splinters against his fingers. The government men tip their hats at Uncle Bobby and mutter something unintelligible before turning heel and walking away.
Distantly Sam hears Rusty, and then Rufus, barking—setting up a howl Sam wants to join. He can't breathe, can't get any oxygen into his lungs and claws at his throat with bloody, burning fingers, words welling up in gasping sobs. "Uncle Bobby, he's not—he can't be dead. Please, please, he's not, tell me he's not dead."
"Shh, Sam. Shh. I know, Son." Uncle Bobby's arms are solid and steady around him, holding him close. He pats Sam's back soothingly, but it's not enough. Not ever going to be enough. Sam gags on the tears and snot and shudders, trying to draw breath in.
"He promised…promised h-he'd come home, that he w-wouldn't leave me. H c-c-can't be dead, please tell me he isn't—"
Uncle Bobby makes quiet shushing noises and sinks to his knees, taking Sam down with him so they're kneeling in the foyer. He holds Sam there, rocking him gently, and lets him sob in the warm, loving circle of his arms, their tears mingling together. "That's it, Sammy. Let it out. Just let it all out."
He can't, though. Can't let it all out, because if he does there'll be absolutely nothing left of him.
Feels like there's nothing left, now. Just a big, hollow nothing.
Sam wakes repeatedly over the next several nights, never able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time before nightmares pull him screaming out of slumber. He dreams of Dean dying, burning up or riddled with bullets, his body exploding from impact with bombs or grenades. He sees Dean, lifeless and still, over and over again until, after a week or so, he stops trying to sleep altogether.
Instead he lays on his bed — their bed, where they touched and kissed, where Dean took Sam into his body and he took Dean into his — wrapped in a flannel shirt that even now still smells faintly like Dean and thumbs through the aged and worn scrapbook he's kept since not long after they came to South Dakota. Stares at the pictures of him and Dean, and the one of Dean in his uniform, rubbing his thumb along the edge like he could touch Dean for real.
Uncle Bobby leaves him alone, for the most part, letting Sam have the space he needs.
Sam doesn't think there'll ever be enough space, or oxygen, or anything else. He feels completely numb, except for the burning ache where his heart used to be, and a tiny part of him that's ashamed, because Uncle Bobby has to be grieving, too, and Sam should be there for him.
There's a knock on his door a week or so after the telegram, and Uncle Bobby pokes his head around the door after a minute.
"Sam? Got some mail here for you."
Sam rolls onto his back and looks over at Uncle Bobby. "Mail?"
"A letter—from Dean, I think. Prob'ly sent it before he passed."
Sam's throat closes up, so instead of speaking he just nods and holds his hand out for it. Bobby hands it over, then stands awkwardly just inside the door. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, like Sam might use to coax a stray dog or cat out of the brush.
"Come down for dinner tonight, Sam. Ain't gonna help you at all to stay up here the rest of your life."
"I'm not hungry," Sam mutters, sliding his finger carefully under the flap of the envelope. It's postmarked somewhere in Europe, from back in January, so Uncle Bobby's probably right. "I don't think I'm ever going to be hungry." He shifts to sit up on the side of the bed, and Bobby comes further into the room. "I feel like I died inside, Uncle Bobby."
Bobby gives him a careful look. "Losing someone you love can do that. Reckon that's how you boys ended up on my doorstep, your dad feelin' that way."
There's a lot being said that's not being said, and Sam frowns, looking up from the envelope in his hands, hands which are trembling suddenly, in a way that has nothing to do with the letter. He swallows.
"I don't—"
"Sammy." Uncle Bobby sits down on the bed beside Sam. "I'm old, and I'm not always the sharpest tool in the shed—but I ain't blind, and I'm not stupid, neither. I saw…how you and Dean looked at one another. The way you lit up around each other."
Sam's sure he's stopped breathing. He closes his eyes and waits for the final blow, for Uncle Bobby to tell him to get out, or that he's going to Hell, or—something. Anything. He wants to speak up, wants to say something, but there isn't anything he can say. He's not going to deny it; he won't ever do that. He loved Dean…loves him…with every fiber of his being.
"It's okay, Son." Uncle Bobby pats his leg awkwardly. "It ain't likely right; lotta people would just as soon string you up as listen to why, but you didn't hurt no one, so who am I to judge? Seems to me love is a rare enough thing in this world; it should be celebrated, not condemned." He sucks a breath in around his teeth, an odd gesture he's always done, for as long as Sam's known him. "Mind you, I don't think I'd go about advertising it. Most folks ain't gonna be as understanding as me. But I—I don't think any less of you for it."
Sam swallows and blinks fast, trying to keep the stinging in his eyes from becoming full-blown tears. He whispers, "Thank you," and turns to hug Bobby. Maybe Uncle Bobby didn't father him, but he's been a father to him—longer now than the man he use to call 'Dad'. "Thank you," Sam says again. "I'll—I'll be down For dinner. For chores."
"Good." Uncle Bobby pats his leg again, then stands up. "The dogs just don't talk enough to keep me entertained. Been a mite boring without you at the table."
Sam gives a little sob of a laugh that Uncle Bobby kindly ignores on his way out of the door, and curls back on himself, letter clutched to his chest. "Oh, God, Dean. We. God."
His hands shake when he pulls the letter out, and the ink at the top of the page smudges a bit when a teardrop falls on it. Sam wipes at his eyes impatiently, and rubs his thumb gently over the page, the familiar script making his chest tight and achy.
January 9, 1943
Happy New Year, Sammy! I hope you guys are having a mild winter back home. We're freezing our ever-loving asses off out here in the middle of some countryside in Germany. (I can't say more than that, and that's probably more than I should say, about where we're at. Classified and all that.) Tents, Sam. That's what we're living in. The same moldy, stinky tents we've had all along. We got space heaters and some stoves we've rigged up aluminum chimneys for, but it don't do nothing against the cold when the wind really gets to blowing. Standing guard duty sucks something awful. Me and the guys share cigarettes around, trying to keep warm. Sometimes it helps, but mostly it doesn't.
I have other ways of tricking my mind into thinking I'm warm. Most of them involve the swimming hole last summer. Know what I'm saying? (Imagine me grinning like an idiot right now—and then imagine yourself smacking me and calling me names. Because you know you would.)
There's a really odd vibe around camp lately, which is why I'm making this letter short so I can send it out. I don't know what's up, or what's happening, but everyone's on edge, even our supply Sgt, who is the most cheerful fellow on the planet, usually.
I don't want to do one of those "if anything happens to me" things, because I figure if I say that, you'll kick my ass for real, probably even through the mail. I just have an odd feeling in my gut, so I'm gonna say some things I maybe shouldn't, but feel like I need to. Okay?
If…if something happens with that relationship you're in, if it ends for any reason, I want you to find someone else, okay? I know you hate when I say this, but it's true: you're still so young. Not even seventeen, man. So promise me you will. If anything happens, and I ain't saying it's going to.
Don't ever forget me. And don't ever forget I love you, Sammy. More than life itself. Okay? Promise me that, too, that you won't ever forget those two things.
Take care of yourself, and take care of Uncle Bobby. Go see a horror film for me on my birthday, would you?
Love you,
Dean
Sam stares at the page until it blurs, but he doesn't know if it's his eyesight going funny or if it's the tears he feels, hot and wet on his cheeks.
"As if I'd ever forget you, idiot," he mumbles, wiping at his face with his arm. "Dean. God. This is killing me. Killing me. You promised you wouldn't ever leave me. How can you tell me to find someone else? Who am I going to love even half as much as I love you? I can't. I won't."
He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at the letter in his hands; at the way Dean looped certain of his letters and didn't loop others. Sam pictures Dean staring at the paper, and smudging the ink when he tries to correct his spelling — always an atrocious speller, Dean. He thinks about Dean's hands, broad and strong, callused from hard work and play. The way those hands felt touching him, gentle strokes that always became harder, faster, impatient and wanting. The reverence Dean always touched him with.
He's never going to feel those hands on him again. Never see the love shining from Dean's eyes, even if his lips twist in a sneer, or anger. He'll never hear "Brat" or "Sammy" with the inflection only Dean ever managed.
There just aren't any tears left. Sam wants to cry some more; longing and loss are a huge, aching knot inside him and he wants desperately to let it out. But there just isn't anything left in him. He doesn't know how to get it out. Doesn't know if he'll ever be able to.
May, 1943
Dean's body and his effects aren't returned to them until mid-May. By that time Sam's able to face people again; able to smile stiffly when they offer their condolences. Uncle Bobby hires Jeremy Thompson on a semi-permanent basis to help with planting, because while Sam tries, and Bobby tries, neither of them are working at one hundred percent. Sam knows he's not the only one suffering; not the only one missing Dean. Uncle Bobby raised him from a boy to a man, and Sam's caught tears shining in his eyes more than once when looking at something or other that they shared together.
They bury Dean at the edge of the farm he loved, with only a few close friends there to witness it. There's a memorial service afterward, at the church, along with a pot-luck luncheon Sam knows Dean would've appreciated. There isn't anyone else Sam's ever known who loved food as much as Dean.
Sam and Bobby go through Dean's effects together. There isn't much; the Army kept all his standard-issue gear, and he only had a couple changes of civilian clothes with him. But there are some postcards tucked into a small, water-proofed bag that make Sam smile when he flips through them. Different scenes of different towns and cities Dean visited while in Europe. Scrawled on the back of each one is the date and location, and sometimes a note like, "remember to tell Sammy about this place" or "Sam would probably like this thing". There's also a small notebook that Sam sets aside to go through later. He's doing a lot better these days at putting on a brave front, but anything Dean felt was secret enough to hide away in between layers of things is probably going to require a shot of something like whiskey and some privacy.
"Here, you probably want these." Uncle Bobby breaks into Sam's thoughts and he looks over.
"What are they?"
"His tags." Bobby hands them over, two dog tags on a silver chain. They're oddly flattened around the edges, and the imprinted letters look smudged and dirty. Sam takes the chain and holds it close for a moment, staring at the small bits of metal that reduced his brother to name, rank and serial number. It's hard, but he pushes back the urge to cry again, and loops the chain over his head. It hangs down, centered on his chest, and for a brief moment — the first in almost four months — a little of his grief eases and he can feel Dean there with him.
Part Six