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mickeymBack to Part Five
Headers in the Master Post.
~~~~~
Sam heads for his room right after dinner, fortified with two shots of whiskey. Uncle Bobby doesn't drink much, but he always has a bottle on hand, for medicinal purposes, he says, and right now Sam's glad it's there.
He opens the journal and smiles at the tiny lettering in the top right-hand corner of the first page:
Private journal for Cpl D. Winchester. If found, please forward to Sam Winchester, c/o Postmaster, Wall, SD.
Sammy, I can't imagine any circumstance where you might end up reading this, other than if I'm killed in action or something. Honest to God, I hope that doesn't happen. I hope you never see what I write here. But there's stuff I can't write to you in letters — not knowing who might see them, read them — but I think about it and you all the time and need to get it out of my head.
Maybe I'll keep it and show it to you even after I get home — I don't know. I know I don't got to tell you how hard all this emotional crap is for me. For all I tease you about being a girl, I know you're not, but you're a lot better at talking about how you feel than I am. I kind of envy you for that. Sometimes.
2/10 - Bootcamp sucks. Drill sgts yelling at us all the time, and everything is hurry up and wait. They're teaching us how to break down a rifle, clean it and reassemble it, and that's old hat for me, so I'll think about us. I still don't know how it happened. It wasn't supposed to. I sure as hell never meant to kiss you. Wanted to, for a lot longer than was even decent. I think that probably makes me a really sick sonofabitch, but that's the facts right there.
2/14 - Happy Valentine's day. I hope yours was better than mine—we did a ten-mile march. I dreamed about you last night, about that last night before I shipped out. Swear I felt you on top of me, and in me. Woke up and found out I creamed my shorts. It's like I'm fourteen all over again.
2/23 - Too tired to write much these days, and don't get hardly any time anyway. Wish I could see you again. Touch you. Hold you. Hell, I wish I could talk to you—have you chatter on about school and chores, and how Buster's doing, and what Uncle Bobby's up to. God, I want to touch you. Want it so bad it hurts, way down inside me.
2/28 - Shipping out overseas pretty soon. Don't know what's going to happen once we're over there. I'm scared, Sammy. I know I'm doin' the right thing, but I'm scared what'll happen, and what if I never see you again?
3/6 - Not much privacy (none), so jerking off is kind of a luxury. It's okay, because I can think about you and when it's quiet at night it's so easy to picture you beside me. You're the best thing in my whole life, and I thought that even before — before last summer. It's not just the sex, and I know you'd laugh at me if you heard me say that. It's…you. It's always been you, Sammy.
3/8 - Oh, Europe is cool. You'd love it here.
3/14 - Dreamed about you last night. Your hands, and you touched me everywhere, got me hard and I wanted it, wanted you so bad. In my dream I flipped you over on your back and pushed your legs up and went down on you. Could still taste you when I woke up.
4/2 - Anne Louise Landis. You asked me one time if I'd ever gone all the way, and with who. I wasn't her first, but she was mine. You were, too, because before you I never, with another guy. Never wanted to.
5/2 - It's your birthday. First one I ever missed. You know, I still remember when you were born. Dad took me up to the hospital to see Mom, and we stopped by the nursery window. There were five babies in there, all swaddled up and yelling their heads off. Dad held me up to the window, and even though we weren't supposed to, I tapped on the glass. You turned your head and looked at me and stopped crying. Just looked at me. I'm pretty sure I lost my heart to you then. I don't ever want it back, either, okay?
5/12 - I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me. Just knowing there's someone back home, waiting for me. It's awful over here, Sammy. I'm proud to do my duty for our country, but I wish I was at home, with you.
5/22 - You asked me once if I regretted this thing between us. I said yes, and I meant it. No matter how much I love you, it's wrong, and I shouldn't have taken advantage like that. I'm sorry.
6/1 - It's really stupid how much I miss you, but I do.
6/12 - Ruby Thompson was the other one. I thought…for a while…I might ask her to marry me. I think she expected I would, but it never happened. I just couldn't. You were all I could think of.
7/4 - Happy Independence day. Remember last year, hanging out all day at the swimming hole? Just you and me, and fucking around. First time we got totally naked with each other. It's funny, I jacked off so many times before we started anything, thinking about you naked like that—it was like a wet dream come true. I wish I was home, and swimming with you now. We'd go skinny-dipping, and maybe fuck in the water.
7/16 - I don't know when I stopped just loving you, and started needing you like I need oxygen. When it went from loving my obnoxious little brother to wanting you in my bed. I just don't know. Maybe there never was a line for me, for us?
7/18 - Do you remember the time you were going to run away? I don't even remember now what you were mad about, but you yelled at me and at Uncle Bobby, said you hated us. You packed some stuff in a duffle bag and said you were going to go find another family, and you started down the driveway. I trailed after you the whole time. Never let you know I was there behind you, but I was. You stopped a couple miles down the road, sat right down and cried for a bit…and weren't the least bit surprised when I sat down next to you and handed you my handkerchief. You always knew when I was there, didn't you? Like I always knew where you were.
8/22 - I ain't the most religious guy in the world, nor the smartest; I don't got all the book-smarts you got. But I know when something's right, and good—and that something is you, Sammy. You are the best, the…rightest. You made — make — me a better person. Sometimes I get mad, or you do, because we're just human. But there's no one better than you. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you were wrong for loving me. Maybe we shouldn't have. Maybe it's against God and all that stuff. But the things I feel when I'm with you, it's so pure and so good…can't nothing be wrong or bad about that.
9/1 - I wish you hadn't had to grow up so fast. I say all the time how young you are, but the truth is you're the oldest sixteen yr old I know. I think that old Lakota wisewoman was right, you're an old soul.
9/3 - Please don't…ever stop loving me.
9/10 - Almost got your name tattooed on my arm, instead of the Eagle. Good thing I wasn't just a little bit drunker than I was, I guess. Someday, I want to get that done.
10/28 - I know you don't remember, but we went trick-or-treating the Halloween right before mom died. She and the baby stayed home, but dad took us. I dressed up as a pirate, and you were a (scary) ghost. Mom sacrificed a bed sheet so you could be that ghost, and then you looked in the mirror when you had it on, and started screaming. Yeah, Sammy, you scared yourself with your own lame costume. You never liked Halloween after that, either. Dad never understood, but I got it. It's why I never pushed you to dress up again. You always did like the candy I brought home, though, and even when I said differently, I never minded sharing with you. What's mine is yours, always.
11/11 - Armistice Day. I know what I'm supposed to think about, especially since I'm over here now, fighting, like those others did. Instead I think about after the luncheon at the church. I was so mad, Sam. Was sure you'd been flirting. Guess I was trying so hard in my mind to convince myself you'd get someone else that I saw what wasn't there. You've never doubted this…us…once, have you? I wish I was home right now; I'd lay you down and fuck you. Slow and easy, make you crazy before I let you come. You always say you hate when I tease, but like I've told you before, I know you love it.
11/17 - Know what I miss even more than fucking? I miss holding you. Just holding on, and feeling you all warm against me. I miss you in my arms, Sammy.
Christ, I hope you never do get to read this. I'll never live it down.
11/29 - Less and less time to write, letters or in this journal. It doesn't mean I think about you any less; if anything, I think about you more. It'd be ironic though, wouldn't it, if I went and got my fool head blown off because of daydreaming about you, after I promised you I'd be home? I had the most incredible dream the other night. It was summer, and we were swimming, hanging out at the swimming hole. And you swam up behind me and wrapped your arms around me and just held on.
12/25 - Merry Christmas, Sammy. Lot of firsts this year last year, huh? Including first Christmas without you. (Not counting the four I had before you came along.) I know the sentiment is 'Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Man', but right now I'd give anything to be home. Sit on the couch with you and drink hot chocolate, and maybe play checkers with Uncle Bobby. And then after he goes to bed, we'd move in front of the fire, and I'd make love to you. Lick you all over, taste every bit of you. Slick you up and push inside you. If I close my eyes, I can feel you all around me, hot and tight. God, I miss you.
1/6 - Happy new year. Eat some peas for me. I fed you mine, your first new year's. Mashed them all up and stuck the spoon in your mouth, and you went and spit them back out on me. Mom was so mad, but Dad laughed.
1/29 - Weird feeling all around, lately. Everyone in my unit is kind of spooked. I already wrote you a letter about all this, but just…God, if anything happens to me, Sammy, go on with your life. Please. Don't sit around and mourn me forever. You're not meant to be alone. You're meant to love and laugh, and be happy. I love you so much, and I hope like hell I come back to you. But just in case
The journal ends there, and it leaves Sam feeling a little sick, wondering what happened to make Dean stop mid-sentence like that. Was it an attack on their unit? A bomb? Tanks? He isn't ever going to know, and that makes Sam sad in ways he can't articulate.
~~~~~
June, 1944
Graduation day is a bright, beautiful day that has Sam squinting up at the podium, trying to see Principal Woollsey through the glare. It's not like he has to see for cues; he'll be introduced verbally once the Principal's done speaking. But he squints anyway, blinking against the almost white sunlight.
Off to Sam's right are his fellow graduates, all twenty-five of them. Seventeen girls and eight boys; including himself there are twenty-six students that make up the graduating class of 1944, for Wall High School.
Off to Sam's left are the parents and assorted family members gathered to watch the ceremony. For all the happiness of the day, it's overlaid with sadness, too. Sam and Bobby aren't the only ones who've lost a loved one; the community's lost several members, one of whom was a classmate of Sam's up until this past January. He died three weeks after deploying to Europe, when his Jeep was shot up by enemy troops.
"—our class valedictorian, Samuel Winchester."
There's a burst of applause, from his classmates and the parents, and Sam finds himself suddenly wishing Becky Summers was still here. Of all the friends who've left, moved, died, Sam misses her gentle humor and teasing, and her insistence on "saving a dance" for him. He hopes wherever she is now, she's happy.
He steps up onto the small stage and looks out over everyone there, and noting everyone who isn't. It's been a year, and Dean's absence is still as keenly felt as it was a year ago. Sam wonders what his brother might've thought about him being Valedictorian, and figures he would've been teased mercilessly.
He's okay with that, really, and to prove it, Sam touches the spot on his chest where Dean's dog tags rest and thanks him silently.
"Good Evening, ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, teachers and administrators. We stand, gathered together to celebrate the accomplishments of the 1944 Class of Wall High School.
To my fellow classmates, we've made it. We've finally made it. We are graduating. Congratulations. Congratulations not only to us graduates, for achieving excellence in academics, athletics and the arts, both in school and out, but also congratulations to our teachers, parents, friends, families and administrators. Our success is your success, for you have given us the freedom to dare, the courage to excel and the belief that we can achieve our best. You have been there for us with support and care; you had faith when we doubted ourselves. For all these things, we, the Class of 1944, thank you.
Together for the last time, we stand poised at the very edge of graduation, looking towards a bright future. Soon each of us will go forth, in his or her unique direction, seeking to make a mark upon the world.
We stand, as if before a row of thousands of doors, each door different from another, each potent with opportunities for every one of us. We must try at these doors, opening them to look at what lies within. Passing through some doors, we will have to set aside fear and prejudice before we may advance. To unlock others, we will have to uphold our sense of justice and dignity. If a door suddenly shuts before us, we cannot be discouraged, but instead must look for the sudden opening of another. Our adulthood, so long anticipated, has now arrived. We have grown up. We must seize our future and taking it into our own hands, do with it what we will, striving towards excellence."
Sam pauses for a moment, looking out over his fellow students once again. He's practiced this speech for the last week and a half, knows it inside and out. But he can't not acknowledge some of what's going on right now in the world; can't not acknowledge losses and the ache of those losses. He clears his throat.
"Some of us aren't here to join in the commencement ceremony. We've lost friends and family members, members of the community who were loved by everyone in it. I'd like to ask that we have a moment of silence now to think of those we've lost, and pray for all of our futures."
Silence falls over the assembly, and Sam marvels at how quiet nearly one hundred people really can be. He sends up a quick prayer for Dean, for Donald Marcus, for Becky Summer's husband who's over there right now, fighting, then raises his head. He's sure he can see the pride in Uncle Bobby's eyes; sees him nod with satisfaction, and thinks it's because of you. Thank you.
"We join forth now, in hope and inspiration, all of us sharing our common legacy — all of us, proud Eagles of a little town in South Dakota known as Wall. May We Go Forth to Prevail!
Thank You and May God Bless Us. "
Sam's knees actually wobble a little as he turns then to shake Principal Woollsey's hand and accept his diploma. He thinks, for just a moment, that he feels the heat and strength of Dean's arms around him, hugging him, as he takes his seat again.
~~~~~
1944-50
It takes Sam exactly three months to decide yes, he's going to pursue a degree in Law.
It's taken him a year and a half to even consider trying to meet someone who interests him enough to pursue just a one-night stand. It ends up being more of a 'one night here and there for most of one semester', but Sam's not going to examine that too closely. He still feels like he's cheating on Dean somehow, even though his heart isn't invested even a little bit.
Dennis Snyder is three weeks and two days younger than Sam, and the complete opposite of Dean. He's quiet, studious, and determined to make something of himself. He and Sam have Composition together their freshman year, and start out as friends. Political Science and World History together their sophomore year cement the friendship, but it isn't until partway through that term that Sam realizes Dennis isn't just being friendly—he's flirting.
It's subtle and unobtrusive, but once Sam realizes what he's doing, it's obvious enough.
They're very careful, because both boys have read the newspapers and heard stories of men being caught together and hauled off to jail. But it's nice to have someone Sam can get off with, who doesn't seem to expect hearts and flowers and pretty poetry.
Dennis likes to bottom, pretty much exclusively, and while Sam still aches sometimes for his brother's body covering his and pressing him into the mattress, this works, too.
Dennis transfers away from Black Hills State at the end of the semester, and that's the end of that. Sam misses his friend, but not enough to follow him east, though he asks Sam if he wants to come with him.
"I need to stay here, Dennis," he says, helping him pack the last couple of boxes into Dennis' beat-up Chevy. "My Uncle needs me close by."
"I understand, Sam." Dennis offers his hand, but Sam pulls him into a hug, and wonders why he seems to spend so much time saying goodbye to people he cares about.
~~~~~
The war winds down with Germany surrendering to occupation by Allied troops. President Roosevelt dies in office and Harry Truman takes office after him. It's Truman who orders the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the Japanese repeatedly reject the idea of unconditional surrender.
Sam knows he's never going to forget where he was and what he was doing when word of the bombings came down, just as he'll never forget that Sunday afternoon in 1941 when a knock on the door tilted his entire world upside down.
He thinks sadly of all the changes in the world, all the loss and death and horror, as he packs up his things at the end of term, in June, 1945, and hopes that maybe after this, the "second Great War", the world can find some peace and heal itself.
Uncle Bobby tells him he hoped the same thing at the end of the first World War, and that maybe this time they'll all have learned the lesson.
The Japanese surrender unconditionally on the deck of the USS Missouri on August 15, 1945, and although technically a state of war still exists with Germany, that heralds the end of the second World War.
Sam graduates Summa Cum Laude from Black Hills State University in June, 1948, and begins law school at the University of South Dakota, in Vermillion, that fall. The campus is filled with war veterans taking advantage of the newly-established "G.I. Bill", and it doesn't take Sam long to discover just what some of those Navy boys got up to when they were stuck out on ships for months at a time, with no women in sight.
There's one woman in his law classes; her name is Jessica Moore, and she's determined that she and Sam should go out on a date. She's pretty — and reminds Sam, in a way, of Becky Summers, though Becky was much quieter than Jessica — and smart, and doesn't take no for an answer. Sam stutters and stammers his way through their first date and wonders what it is about women that make him so nervous. Uncle Bobby laughs at him when he asks, saying, "That's something men have wondered about women since the good Lord put them on this earth."
Which doesn't really answer his question.
On Halloween night Jessica takes Sam out to dinner, and gets him drunk. He sleeps with her — the first, last and only woman he plans to ever have sex with. It's not the worst sex he's ever had (that honor goes to an underclassman Sam let fuck him last year, and that's all he's ever going to say about that), but it's far from the best and only serves to underscore for him that he really is into guys.
Jessica dies in a house fire on November 2nd,1949, and it gives Sam the chills when he realizes that's the same date his mother and baby sister died on, in their house fire. He mourns Jessica's death as the loss of a bright, vivacious person, and adds her to the list he keeps in his head — and heart — of people he says a prayer for at church.
Uncle Bobby has his first heart attack five days after that.
~~~~~
October, 1950
Sam hates the smell of hospitals. They're stale and fake, and the antiseptic bite to them makes his throat ache and his skin crawl. But not liking them doesn't mean anything now.
He hurries down the corridor, hastily scanning the room numbers until he comes to 242.
"Aw, hell," Bobby grunts when Sam pushes open the door to his room. "I told 'em not to call you. They got you out of class, didn't they?"
"Of course they did," Sam growls. "I left instructions with your doctor, and for my professors. Uncle Bobby—" He waves his hands, trying to find the words. "You. I—this is…."
"Real good with words when you're all flustered, ain't you?" Bobby grins at him, a shadow of his usual smile, but a smile nonetheless. It makes Sam's heart stutter. He looks so small, lying there in the hospital bed, harsh white linens leeching all color out of his face.
"Shut up," Sam says, but he returns the smile. "Don't you know you're more important to me than any class? Geez, Uncle Bobby."
"Twenty-four years old, and you still got a fresh mouth on you. A body might think you're a Winchester, Boy."
"Or a Singer," Sam says gently, hooking an ankle around the straight-backed chair to pull it closer. "From what I've seen and heard over the years, I don't have nothing on you." It's really odd to think about being twenty-four. He's older now — has been for a while — than Dean ever got to be. That's taken some getting used to, and Sam's not always sure he's actually there.
"Damn straight, Sammy."
The seldom-heard nickname gives Sam the willies for some reason, and he shakes his head in an effort to dispel the odd feeling.
"Doc said you had another heart attack," Sam says, changing the subject to the one they need to address.
"Doc's a meddlin' old fool." Bobby scowls, but softens his tone a little. "I'm fine, Son."
"No, you're not. Your heart's damaged, Uncle Bobby. Permanently. You're not getting enough oxygenated blood pumped where it needs to go, and the muscle just keeps getting weaker, and I'm worried." Sam runs his fingers through his hair and tries to figure out how best to proceed, here. This makes the third heart attack Bobby's had in a year's time. Something's going to have to give, because it's obvious — to Sam, at least — that continuing to run the farm by himself is going to end up killing Uncle Bobby.
"So what d'you expect me to do? I can't stay in this bed all the time." Bobby picks fitfully at the blankets covering him.
"No, but you can stay in your bed." Sam sighs and stands up to pace around the room. "I'm going to take a break from school. Come back and take care of you, and the farm."
"I don't need no one takin' care of me, Samuel. I just need a little time to get my strength back, and then it'll be business as usual. You need to keep your butt in school, get that fancy law degree. You hear me, Boy?"
Sam shakes his head. "Not this time. I've already talked to the Dean of admissions, and turned the paperwork in. He said he understands completely, and hopes you have a good recovery. I told him I'd be in touch at the end of the year, when we see how you're doing."
"And who's going to run the farm? Crops need gettin' in, and there's repairs need doin' around the house, and need to get a pig ready for slaughter—"
It's a close thing, but Sam keeps in the sigh that wants out, though it strains his chest so much he's sure he feels his ribs creak. "You talk like I've never worked a farm before. I haven't been gone that long—I can still do it. And Jeremy can help. Hell, I'll hire another hand to help if he and I can't do it ourselves. But you need to rest so you can get better, and Doc says the only way to do that is staying in bed." Sam sits back down in the chair and leans in toward Bobby. "You're all I have left, Uncle Bobby. I—"
Uncle Bobby studies him carefully before nodding. "Okay, Sammy. It's okay." He pats Sam's hand gently. "You take some time off school and I'll get better, and things'll be fine."
Sam nods, hoping Bobby's right. He needs him to be right, because the thought of being completely alone in the world is enough to make him feel cold down to his core.
~~~~~
November 1950
Uncle Bobby's funeral is on a Saturday. It's a cold, dreary day, with clouds hanging low and dark over everything. The air is cold and sharp, with the scent of snow coming with each gust of wind.
The weather doesn't keep people away, and Sam is a little amazed by the turnout. He's always known Uncle Bobby was well-liked within their community, but looking around at the clusters of people — everyone from Mayor Welton down to the colored janitor from the school building — it's really brought home to him. Uncle Bobby was an icon in their little niche in the world, and with every well-wishing given to him, Sam realizes how much he'll be missed, and not just by Sam himself.
Sam's grief is different this time, than it was when they buried Dean. It's not less; he loved Bobby Singer like the father he was. So much more than an Uncle, Bobby was generous and loving, non-judging and reliable. He took Sam and Dean in and gave them a home; made sure they always knew he and the farm was home for them, was there for them. Sam misses him horribly now; keeps waiting for someone to tell him this is a joke, ha-ha, just kidding, that Uncle Bobby's going to be walking out of the barn any minute, ever-present denim coveralls and cap, dirty rag either in his hands or tucked into his pocket.
The only thing of Bobby's Sam doesn't bury with him is the silver-gold ring he wore all the years Sam knew him. He and Dean speculated many times what the ring was — a wedding ring? Promise ring? Something handed down from a parent or grandparent? — but they never dared to ask, and Uncle Bobby never mentioned it. It's on a chain around Sam's neck now, beside the dog tags, and like with the dog tags it gives Sam a sense of peace, as though Bobby is right there with him.
"From dust we came; to dust we return." Reverend MacCauley's voice carries over the wind, strong and vibrant, and Sam huddles down deeper into his overcoat, trying not to remember Dean's funeral and wishing he could forget this one.
The first snowflakes start as Bobby's casket is lowered into the ground.
~~~~~
July, 1952
Looking in the mirror, Sam doesn't see anything that looks different, or out of the ordinary. He sees the outline of a man, tall and strong and grown, but inside he still feels like…like Sammy. Young and unsure, and hoping he's doing the right thing.
He doesn’t feel any different, either. He doesn't particularly feel like a lawyer, though he has the piece of paper that says he is. He doesn't feel like a grown-up, either, though he has the documents for that, too; things like tax receipts and the deed to the farm. He also has the scars of loss, though some of them he's borne for most of his life.
Tomorrow his life is going to change yet again; a huge change that thrills and scares Sam at the same time.
Tomorrow he gets on an airplane for the first time in his life, and that airplane is going to take him to Europe, to Germany, to help with the rebuilding over there.
His professors talked about The Marshall Plan a lot during the school terms. About how General Marshall (the same General Marshall whose name is on the telegram notifying them of Dean's death as Secretary of the Army, and is now the Secretary of State) wanted to send the young, educated men and women of their country overseas to help the countries ravaged by war — and now poverty, starvation and disease — rebuild into strong, independent nations once again. The Plan called for hundreds of professionals: engineers, doctors, lawyers, accountants, teachers, and every other profession, to aid and assist the European nations.
Sam wants to help out, and there's nothing holding him back here, at home. So he signed a one year contract — the government people he spoke with said it might go longer, but right now, a year at a time was all they were contracting for — and started packing up his things.
Just about everything's taken care of now. Mr. Thompson will keep an eye on the place, make sure no one comes in to squat, or vandalizes anything. Sam's given him Power of Attorney to deal with any emergencies that might come up in the next year. There hasn't been any livestock on the farm since Sam returned to law school; he sold all of it to the Thompsons, knowing he wouldn't be around. It makes his chest tight to see the farm looking so bare, so empty, but he knows the animals — including Rusty and Rufus — are with good people, people who are taking care of them. He misses the dogs the most, and smiles, remembering when Uncle Bobby brought them home, not too long after Buster died. Hell, he even misses the damn chickens.
Looking around the old house, rosy-colored with the setting sun, Sam thinks he feels Dean and Uncle Bobby both. There's pictures on the walls of he and Dean as youngsters, and one portrait of his mother as a young woman, painted even before she married his father. The hallways and stairwell seem to echo with laugher and shouts, with Buster's barking and Uncle Bobby's quiet words. Sam walks to the top of the stairs and stands there, taking in the memories of Dean yelling their dad would never leave them, never. Of him and Dean snuggling together in the winter, when even heated bricks under the sheets didn't quite banish the chill. Of Dean kissing him, holding him, loving him. Of Uncle Bobby grumbling about the noise they made, getting ready for bed, or patiently checking under the bed for monsters, while Dean patted his back and told him they were just nightmares.
Back downstairs now, and the wind rattles something fierce outside. For a brief moment Sam allows himself to imagine it's Dean, shaking the door because it used to stick, swelling during the summer when it was hot and humid. He can just about hear Dean shouting, "Dammit, Sam, let me in!" and right after that, Uncle Bobby's gruff voice hollering for them to settle down and be quiet, didn't they know he was trying to sleep?
Another blast of wind makes the whole house shudder, drafts snaking under and around, finding any little crack or opening to slide inside, and Sam hopes the coming storm brings the rain the area needs so badly.
He's all packed — most everything he's not taking with him is either boxed up and stored up in the attic, or locked up down in the cellar. Most of the furniture's gone, since Sam hasn't actually lived here for over two years now, and there wasn't any point in it sitting around waiting to dry-rot, or get nibbled on by rodents. He's kept Uncle Bobby's bed frame, and the two dressers and bureau that matched it, and he's keeping the bed he's slept in for his entire life, minus the years he was off to college, and then law school.
Inside Sam's suitcase, along with his traveling papers, are the letters he and Dean exchanged, bundled together in date order. They've traveled anywhere he's traveled — not that he's gone much or far — and he's not going to leave them here. Not when he's over there. Dean's journal is bundled in with the letters, as is the picture Sam has of him in his Army uniform, when he graduated from bootcamp. He has his scrapbook with other photographs, and silly remembrances like the ticket stubs from the cinema on his fifteenth birthday, and the postcards Dean bought for him but never sent.
He's also taking the family Bible. He hasn't packed it yet, though he will, in a minute. It's the Bible he first saw as a curious seven-year-old, when he wondered what the funny writing in the very front was. Sam sits down at the kitchen table — he's been putting off what'll likely be the final entry — and flips it open. He runs a finger down the column of names and dates, lips moving as he reads the now-familiar names and dates.
married 14 nov 1892 joanna birdwell to Jonathon singer
born 5 aug 1894, a son, Robert
born 2 sept 1895, a daughter, Lissa
died 5 sept 1895, daughter Lissa
born 31 oct 1897, a daughter, Rose
died 31 oct 1897, daughter Rose
born 31 may 1900, a daughter, Mary
died 22 june, 1900, wife Joanna
married 30 july 1906 Jonathon Singer to Lucy Smithers
married 2 june 1914, Robert singer to Susannah Harris
died 21 march 1915, Susannah Singer and infant
married 14 jan 1920, Mary Singer to Jonathon Winchester
born 29 jan 1922 a son, Dean Alexander (Winchester)
died 2 march 1923, Jonathon Singer
died 7 march 1923, Lucy Singer
born 2 may 1927, a son, Samuel Joseph (Winchester)
died 2 nov 1928, Mary (Singer) Winchester and infant daughter
died ??, John Winchester (presumed dead)
Sam rubs his finger across that entry, then looks at the one beneath it:
died 30 jan 1943, Dean Alexander, in service of his country
He picks up the pen lying beside him on the table, and starts the next line.
died 16 nov 1950, Robert "Bobby" Singer, much-loved uncle and father
Sam sighs and closes the Bible; stands up to add it to his suitcase. Jeremy Thompson will be here in the morning to take him to Rapid City, so he best get some sleep while he can.
~~~~~
June 1953
Sam pushes the ledger away and leans back in his chair to stretch. At this rate, he's going to need reading glasses well before he hits thirty. A quick glance at the clock shows it's only half-past three, and that can't be right, can it?
Sam wanted to help when he came to Europe — still wants to — but the bureaucratic crap he's been dealing with for the last few months has him twitchy and irritable. For the first time in a long time, he misses farming. Misses the outdoors, with the sun on his face and the wind in his hair, and the scent of nature all around him. Europe is rebuilding, the Marshall Plan contracts are winding down — word hasn't come down officially, yet, but office gossip says there won't be any contracts renewed as they end, and Sam's is up in a couple of weeks — and Sam's actually thinking about what he's going to do with his life after he leaves here.
Philip Martin, fellow attorney and the only one of the six of them in this office who is fluent in German, pokes his head in around the door to Sam's office. "Man, it must be hard to fit all of you in that little bitty chair."
"Shut it, Phil," Sam growls, but it's good-natured. Mostly. He has a headache, and a crick in his back. "I really need some air. And some food. God, I'd kill for some apples. Or fresh tomatoes. Fresh anything."
"We just had lunch, Sam." Martha, legal transcriptionist extraordinaire, and Phil's wife, appears in the doorway beside Phil, and he waves them both in. "Are you still hungry?"
She disappears again before Sam figures out how to explain that it's possible to be full, but still be hungry for something. He's been thinking a lot lately of fresh-from-the-garden vegetables, and milk that hasn't been pasteurized to death, or eggs that are still warm from the hens. He sighs. The food he's been eating is good, and filling, but he misses home.
"Sam's hungry all the time," Phil calls after her, and Sam resists the urge to throw something at Phil's head. Something heavy. Phil's a good guy, really, but a little of him goes a long way…and Sam's had more than a little of him in the last year.
"Here, Sam." Martha's back in a moment, brandishing one of the yeast rolls from lunch. "Maybe this will help?"
"Hey, thanks, hon!" Phil snags the roll before Sam can take it, and takes a bite. "Sam, there's a farm a couple kilometers up the road, out past the village limits. They probably have fresh fruit and all that stuff you like."
Sam snorts, torn between amusement and annoyance. "'All that stuff'?"
"Yeah. All that stuff you're pining for: lettuce and tomatoes and whatever. Vegetables." Phil shudders. "I swear, you're the only person I know who likes those things." Phil talks with his mouth full, and Sam thinks he should've grown up eating at Bobby Singer's table. There was no talking with food in your mouth, unless you wanted to finish your meal out in the barn with the animals. He shrugs.
"I grew up on a farm, Phil. It's sort of ingrained in me, eating fresh stuff. Or else home-canned." Sam bounces his pencil on the desk, then decides he really does need to get out of the building for a little while. Maybe take a walk up the road and see about this supposed farm. "I'm gonna call it a day, I think, and go see about the produce. Not apples; it's the wrong time of the year." He grins at the eye roll Phil gives him. "What? I know these things." It only takes a few minutes to neaten his desk, and Sam spares a moment to think about end-of-the-pay-period paperwork that needs to be turned in, in a couple of days. There are times when he believes he's less of an attorney than he is a government middle manager. "Make sure you get your timesheets done and turned in before you leave for the day. And tell Ramsey and Mann to do theirs, too."
"Will do." Phil sprays a light layer of crumbs out and Sam grimaces.
"You have crumbs in your beard, Phillip." Martha pats his arm, and Sam wonders, not for the first time, how a classy lady like her wound up with a guy like Phil. "Go on, Sam. What good's being the boss, if you can't make your own hours once in a while?"
Sam smiles weakly and grabs up his sweater. No telling how far the walk actually will be, and the weather's been unpredictable lately, warm one day, and cool and rainy the next.
He turns out the lights in his office, and closes the door behind him, thinking absently about where Dean was, when he was killed. Was it somewhere like here? An almost-urban area, with small villages bordering it? Or somewhere more rural? Was he in an actual city, during some of the bombings? The Army never said, and neither Sam nor Bobby bothered asking, because they knew they wouldn't be told.
He feels a little closer to Dean, being here — Germany, Europe, whatever. Like he felt closer to Uncle Bobby any time he was in the farmhouse, because scary stories about ghosts aside, Sam just knows Bobby's spirit is still there, or at least a bit of it, watching over the old place.
Sam's tried so many times to picture his brother as a soldier. As someone other than a boy playing dress up — because he loves the picture he has of Dean in his uniform, but that's not Dean, to him. To Sam, Dean was the guy who loved wearing a pair of pants until they were ragged, insisting that was the only time they were comfortable. Or the shirts he would wear until the neck was stretched out and the hem ragged and falling down. He was a guy who wasn't afraid to get dirty, get down in the midst of things and do whatever was necessary to get the job done.
Actually, that description fit Dean, the solider, Sam supposes. A man who did what he thought was necessary and died for what he believed in.
The walk is pleasant, and just what he needed: to get out in the fresh air and stretch his legs. Smart-ass though he is, Phil's right in wondering how Sam fits all of himself into that tiny little chair. Sam wonders sometimes, too.
Even after nearly a year in-country, Sam's nowhere near fluent in German. He can get the gist of the meaning across if he tries, and usually can understand simplified sentences, but he stumbles over anything but the basic words awkwardly, and his accent is bad enough that he's embarrassed to have anyone hear him. Fortunately (or unfortunately, since it encourages laziness), most of the locals he comes into contact with speak English, or at least enough English that he can cobble it together with his German, and move along.
It's the way he finds himself closing in on a small farm and orchard; he stopped two or three times and trudged through asking directions and trying to understand the directions given, and now he's standing at the end of a curving dirt road that reminds him a lot of Uncle Bobby's — his, Sam reminds himself, the farm is his, now — driveway.
"Guten Tag," he calls to the distant figure he sees in between the trees. "I'm looking, um. For—for Herr Schneider?"
The figure waves to him and calls something back, so Sam keeps on forward. He'd forgotten it's cherry season; the trees around him are thick with fruit, and the air heavy with the sweet, ripe scent.
"I'm—I hope you speak English," Sam begins, eyeing the man currently bent over a bushel basket. "Because my German is really bad. I was told you sell fresh produce? Fruit and vegetables?"
"Ya," the man begins, "we have them. Cherries, tomatoes, strawberries. And I speak English." Sam freezes in place, stunned. Oh, God. He sounds just like Dean. Deep baritone, a low, soothing not-quite-rumble that always seemed to come from deep in Dean's chest. Sam closes his eyes and reminds himself Dean's dead — has been dead for years now — and no matter how much this guy sounds like him, it's not—
"Are you all right?" The man's turned around and Sam stares. It's rude, he knows, but he can't help it. Other than a short beard, this guy, he could be Dean's twin. He's older than the picture etched in Sam's memory — of course he is. Dean died the day after his twenty-first birthday. This guy is likely older than Sam. But he's so…so like Dean. And then the man blinks, and says softly, "…are you…Sammy?"
Sam thinks he must be dead, himself. Maybe this is how it happens, when you die suddenly, when something bursts inside your head, or your heart just stops. You see and hear your loved ones, the ones who've died before you. He shakes his head, tears stinging his eyes. It's not real, it can't be, this isn't Dean. But he licks his lips and whispers roughly, "How'd you know my name?"
The man looks confused, and frowns. "I don't—know. Is that your name? I, you look like. Someone I knew once."
"Who?"
The man shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, the words so quiet Sam has to lean forward to hear them. "I don't know who he is. That's all I remember, is 'Sammy', and an image in my head, of a young man, a teenager, with dark hair and eyes."
It can't be. It cannot be. Sam concentrates on breathing in and out steadily and hopes he doesn't end up hyperventilating. "What's your name?"
Another frown, making a little V between the man's eyes. "Dean. Dean Schneider."
He isn't aware of falling, until he feels the ground, cool and damp, beneath his knees, and the man is leaning in over him, face creased in concern. "No," Sam says hoarsely, staring up and hardly daring to believe. "It's. It's Winchester. Dean Winchester. You. You're my brother, Dean Winchester."
Part Seven
Headers in the Master Post.
Sam heads for his room right after dinner, fortified with two shots of whiskey. Uncle Bobby doesn't drink much, but he always has a bottle on hand, for medicinal purposes, he says, and right now Sam's glad it's there.
He opens the journal and smiles at the tiny lettering in the top right-hand corner of the first page:
Private journal for Cpl D. Winchester. If found, please forward to Sam Winchester, c/o Postmaster, Wall, SD.
Sammy, I can't imagine any circumstance where you might end up reading this, other than if I'm killed in action or something. Honest to God, I hope that doesn't happen. I hope you never see what I write here. But there's stuff I can't write to you in letters — not knowing who might see them, read them — but I think about it and you all the time and need to get it out of my head.
Maybe I'll keep it and show it to you even after I get home — I don't know. I know I don't got to tell you how hard all this emotional crap is for me. For all I tease you about being a girl, I know you're not, but you're a lot better at talking about how you feel than I am. I kind of envy you for that. Sometimes.
2/10 - Bootcamp sucks. Drill sgts yelling at us all the time, and everything is hurry up and wait. They're teaching us how to break down a rifle, clean it and reassemble it, and that's old hat for me, so I'll think about us. I still don't know how it happened. It wasn't supposed to. I sure as hell never meant to kiss you. Wanted to, for a lot longer than was even decent. I think that probably makes me a really sick sonofabitch, but that's the facts right there.
2/14 - Happy Valentine's day. I hope yours was better than mine—we did a ten-mile march. I dreamed about you last night, about that last night before I shipped out. Swear I felt you on top of me, and in me. Woke up and found out I creamed my shorts. It's like I'm fourteen all over again.
2/23 - Too tired to write much these days, and don't get hardly any time anyway. Wish I could see you again. Touch you. Hold you. Hell, I wish I could talk to you—have you chatter on about school and chores, and how Buster's doing, and what Uncle Bobby's up to. God, I want to touch you. Want it so bad it hurts, way down inside me.
2/28 - Shipping out overseas pretty soon. Don't know what's going to happen once we're over there. I'm scared, Sammy. I know I'm doin' the right thing, but I'm scared what'll happen, and what if I never see you again?
3/6 - Not much privacy (none), so jerking off is kind of a luxury. It's okay, because I can think about you and when it's quiet at night it's so easy to picture you beside me. You're the best thing in my whole life, and I thought that even before — before last summer. It's not just the sex, and I know you'd laugh at me if you heard me say that. It's…you. It's always been you, Sammy.
3/8 - Oh, Europe is cool. You'd love it here.
3/14 - Dreamed about you last night. Your hands, and you touched me everywhere, got me hard and I wanted it, wanted you so bad. In my dream I flipped you over on your back and pushed your legs up and went down on you. Could still taste you when I woke up.
4/2 - Anne Louise Landis. You asked me one time if I'd ever gone all the way, and with who. I wasn't her first, but she was mine. You were, too, because before you I never, with another guy. Never wanted to.
5/2 - It's your birthday. First one I ever missed. You know, I still remember when you were born. Dad took me up to the hospital to see Mom, and we stopped by the nursery window. There were five babies in there, all swaddled up and yelling their heads off. Dad held me up to the window, and even though we weren't supposed to, I tapped on the glass. You turned your head and looked at me and stopped crying. Just looked at me. I'm pretty sure I lost my heart to you then. I don't ever want it back, either, okay?
5/12 - I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me. Just knowing there's someone back home, waiting for me. It's awful over here, Sammy. I'm proud to do my duty for our country, but I wish I was at home, with you.
5/22 - You asked me once if I regretted this thing between us. I said yes, and I meant it. No matter how much I love you, it's wrong, and I shouldn't have taken advantage like that. I'm sorry.
6/1 - It's really stupid how much I miss you, but I do.
6/12 - Ruby Thompson was the other one. I thought…for a while…I might ask her to marry me. I think she expected I would, but it never happened. I just couldn't. You were all I could think of.
7/4 - Happy Independence day. Remember last year, hanging out all day at the swimming hole? Just you and me, and fucking around. First time we got totally naked with each other. It's funny, I jacked off so many times before we started anything, thinking about you naked like that—it was like a wet dream come true. I wish I was home, and swimming with you now. We'd go skinny-dipping, and maybe fuck in the water.
7/16 - I don't know when I stopped just loving you, and started needing you like I need oxygen. When it went from loving my obnoxious little brother to wanting you in my bed. I just don't know. Maybe there never was a line for me, for us?
7/18 - Do you remember the time you were going to run away? I don't even remember now what you were mad about, but you yelled at me and at Uncle Bobby, said you hated us. You packed some stuff in a duffle bag and said you were going to go find another family, and you started down the driveway. I trailed after you the whole time. Never let you know I was there behind you, but I was. You stopped a couple miles down the road, sat right down and cried for a bit…and weren't the least bit surprised when I sat down next to you and handed you my handkerchief. You always knew when I was there, didn't you? Like I always knew where you were.
8/22 - I ain't the most religious guy in the world, nor the smartest; I don't got all the book-smarts you got. But I know when something's right, and good—and that something is you, Sammy. You are the best, the…rightest. You made — make — me a better person. Sometimes I get mad, or you do, because we're just human. But there's no one better than you. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you were wrong for loving me. Maybe we shouldn't have. Maybe it's against God and all that stuff. But the things I feel when I'm with you, it's so pure and so good…can't nothing be wrong or bad about that.
9/1 - I wish you hadn't had to grow up so fast. I say all the time how young you are, but the truth is you're the oldest sixteen yr old I know. I think that old Lakota wisewoman was right, you're an old soul.
9/3 - Please don't…ever stop loving me.
9/10 - Almost got your name tattooed on my arm, instead of the Eagle. Good thing I wasn't just a little bit drunker than I was, I guess. Someday, I want to get that done.
10/28 - I know you don't remember, but we went trick-or-treating the Halloween right before mom died. She and the baby stayed home, but dad took us. I dressed up as a pirate, and you were a (scary) ghost. Mom sacrificed a bed sheet so you could be that ghost, and then you looked in the mirror when you had it on, and started screaming. Yeah, Sammy, you scared yourself with your own lame costume. You never liked Halloween after that, either. Dad never understood, but I got it. It's why I never pushed you to dress up again. You always did like the candy I brought home, though, and even when I said differently, I never minded sharing with you. What's mine is yours, always.
11/11 - Armistice Day. I know what I'm supposed to think about, especially since I'm over here now, fighting, like those others did. Instead I think about after the luncheon at the church. I was so mad, Sam. Was sure you'd been flirting. Guess I was trying so hard in my mind to convince myself you'd get someone else that I saw what wasn't there. You've never doubted this…us…once, have you? I wish I was home right now; I'd lay you down and fuck you. Slow and easy, make you crazy before I let you come. You always say you hate when I tease, but like I've told you before, I know you love it.
11/17 - Know what I miss even more than fucking? I miss holding you. Just holding on, and feeling you all warm against me. I miss you in my arms, Sammy.
Christ, I hope you never do get to read this. I'll never live it down.
11/29 - Less and less time to write, letters or in this journal. It doesn't mean I think about you any less; if anything, I think about you more. It'd be ironic though, wouldn't it, if I went and got my fool head blown off because of daydreaming about you, after I promised you I'd be home? I had the most incredible dream the other night. It was summer, and we were swimming, hanging out at the swimming hole. And you swam up behind me and wrapped your arms around me and just held on.
12/25 - Merry Christmas, Sammy. Lot of firsts this year last year, huh? Including first Christmas without you. (Not counting the four I had before you came along.) I know the sentiment is 'Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Man', but right now I'd give anything to be home. Sit on the couch with you and drink hot chocolate, and maybe play checkers with Uncle Bobby. And then after he goes to bed, we'd move in front of the fire, and I'd make love to you. Lick you all over, taste every bit of you. Slick you up and push inside you. If I close my eyes, I can feel you all around me, hot and tight. God, I miss you.
1/6 - Happy new year. Eat some peas for me. I fed you mine, your first new year's. Mashed them all up and stuck the spoon in your mouth, and you went and spit them back out on me. Mom was so mad, but Dad laughed.
1/29 - Weird feeling all around, lately. Everyone in my unit is kind of spooked. I already wrote you a letter about all this, but just…God, if anything happens to me, Sammy, go on with your life. Please. Don't sit around and mourn me forever. You're not meant to be alone. You're meant to love and laugh, and be happy. I love you so much, and I hope like hell I come back to you. But just in case
The journal ends there, and it leaves Sam feeling a little sick, wondering what happened to make Dean stop mid-sentence like that. Was it an attack on their unit? A bomb? Tanks? He isn't ever going to know, and that makes Sam sad in ways he can't articulate.
June, 1944
Graduation day is a bright, beautiful day that has Sam squinting up at the podium, trying to see Principal Woollsey through the glare. It's not like he has to see for cues; he'll be introduced verbally once the Principal's done speaking. But he squints anyway, blinking against the almost white sunlight.
Off to Sam's right are his fellow graduates, all twenty-five of them. Seventeen girls and eight boys; including himself there are twenty-six students that make up the graduating class of 1944, for Wall High School.
Off to Sam's left are the parents and assorted family members gathered to watch the ceremony. For all the happiness of the day, it's overlaid with sadness, too. Sam and Bobby aren't the only ones who've lost a loved one; the community's lost several members, one of whom was a classmate of Sam's up until this past January. He died three weeks after deploying to Europe, when his Jeep was shot up by enemy troops.
"—our class valedictorian, Samuel Winchester."
There's a burst of applause, from his classmates and the parents, and Sam finds himself suddenly wishing Becky Summers was still here. Of all the friends who've left, moved, died, Sam misses her gentle humor and teasing, and her insistence on "saving a dance" for him. He hopes wherever she is now, she's happy.
He steps up onto the small stage and looks out over everyone there, and noting everyone who isn't. It's been a year, and Dean's absence is still as keenly felt as it was a year ago. Sam wonders what his brother might've thought about him being Valedictorian, and figures he would've been teased mercilessly.
He's okay with that, really, and to prove it, Sam touches the spot on his chest where Dean's dog tags rest and thanks him silently.
"Good Evening, ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, teachers and administrators. We stand, gathered together to celebrate the accomplishments of the 1944 Class of Wall High School.
To my fellow classmates, we've made it. We've finally made it. We are graduating. Congratulations. Congratulations not only to us graduates, for achieving excellence in academics, athletics and the arts, both in school and out, but also congratulations to our teachers, parents, friends, families and administrators. Our success is your success, for you have given us the freedom to dare, the courage to excel and the belief that we can achieve our best. You have been there for us with support and care; you had faith when we doubted ourselves. For all these things, we, the Class of 1944, thank you.
Together for the last time, we stand poised at the very edge of graduation, looking towards a bright future. Soon each of us will go forth, in his or her unique direction, seeking to make a mark upon the world.
We stand, as if before a row of thousands of doors, each door different from another, each potent with opportunities for every one of us. We must try at these doors, opening them to look at what lies within. Passing through some doors, we will have to set aside fear and prejudice before we may advance. To unlock others, we will have to uphold our sense of justice and dignity. If a door suddenly shuts before us, we cannot be discouraged, but instead must look for the sudden opening of another. Our adulthood, so long anticipated, has now arrived. We have grown up. We must seize our future and taking it into our own hands, do with it what we will, striving towards excellence."
Sam pauses for a moment, looking out over his fellow students once again. He's practiced this speech for the last week and a half, knows it inside and out. But he can't not acknowledge some of what's going on right now in the world; can't not acknowledge losses and the ache of those losses. He clears his throat.
"Some of us aren't here to join in the commencement ceremony. We've lost friends and family members, members of the community who were loved by everyone in it. I'd like to ask that we have a moment of silence now to think of those we've lost, and pray for all of our futures."
Silence falls over the assembly, and Sam marvels at how quiet nearly one hundred people really can be. He sends up a quick prayer for Dean, for Donald Marcus, for Becky Summer's husband who's over there right now, fighting, then raises his head. He's sure he can see the pride in Uncle Bobby's eyes; sees him nod with satisfaction, and thinks it's because of you. Thank you.
"We join forth now, in hope and inspiration, all of us sharing our common legacy — all of us, proud Eagles of a little town in South Dakota known as Wall. May We Go Forth to Prevail!
Thank You and May God Bless Us. "
Sam's knees actually wobble a little as he turns then to shake Principal Woollsey's hand and accept his diploma. He thinks, for just a moment, that he feels the heat and strength of Dean's arms around him, hugging him, as he takes his seat again.
1944-50
It takes Sam exactly three months to decide yes, he's going to pursue a degree in Law.
It's taken him a year and a half to even consider trying to meet someone who interests him enough to pursue just a one-night stand. It ends up being more of a 'one night here and there for most of one semester', but Sam's not going to examine that too closely. He still feels like he's cheating on Dean somehow, even though his heart isn't invested even a little bit.
Dennis Snyder is three weeks and two days younger than Sam, and the complete opposite of Dean. He's quiet, studious, and determined to make something of himself. He and Sam have Composition together their freshman year, and start out as friends. Political Science and World History together their sophomore year cement the friendship, but it isn't until partway through that term that Sam realizes Dennis isn't just being friendly—he's flirting.
It's subtle and unobtrusive, but once Sam realizes what he's doing, it's obvious enough.
They're very careful, because both boys have read the newspapers and heard stories of men being caught together and hauled off to jail. But it's nice to have someone Sam can get off with, who doesn't seem to expect hearts and flowers and pretty poetry.
Dennis likes to bottom, pretty much exclusively, and while Sam still aches sometimes for his brother's body covering his and pressing him into the mattress, this works, too.
Dennis transfers away from Black Hills State at the end of the semester, and that's the end of that. Sam misses his friend, but not enough to follow him east, though he asks Sam if he wants to come with him.
"I need to stay here, Dennis," he says, helping him pack the last couple of boxes into Dennis' beat-up Chevy. "My Uncle needs me close by."
"I understand, Sam." Dennis offers his hand, but Sam pulls him into a hug, and wonders why he seems to spend so much time saying goodbye to people he cares about.
The war winds down with Germany surrendering to occupation by Allied troops. President Roosevelt dies in office and Harry Truman takes office after him. It's Truman who orders the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the Japanese repeatedly reject the idea of unconditional surrender.
Sam knows he's never going to forget where he was and what he was doing when word of the bombings came down, just as he'll never forget that Sunday afternoon in 1941 when a knock on the door tilted his entire world upside down.
He thinks sadly of all the changes in the world, all the loss and death and horror, as he packs up his things at the end of term, in June, 1945, and hopes that maybe after this, the "second Great War", the world can find some peace and heal itself.
Uncle Bobby tells him he hoped the same thing at the end of the first World War, and that maybe this time they'll all have learned the lesson.
The Japanese surrender unconditionally on the deck of the USS Missouri on August 15, 1945, and although technically a state of war still exists with Germany, that heralds the end of the second World War.
Sam graduates Summa Cum Laude from Black Hills State University in June, 1948, and begins law school at the University of South Dakota, in Vermillion, that fall. The campus is filled with war veterans taking advantage of the newly-established "G.I. Bill", and it doesn't take Sam long to discover just what some of those Navy boys got up to when they were stuck out on ships for months at a time, with no women in sight.
There's one woman in his law classes; her name is Jessica Moore, and she's determined that she and Sam should go out on a date. She's pretty — and reminds Sam, in a way, of Becky Summers, though Becky was much quieter than Jessica — and smart, and doesn't take no for an answer. Sam stutters and stammers his way through their first date and wonders what it is about women that make him so nervous. Uncle Bobby laughs at him when he asks, saying, "That's something men have wondered about women since the good Lord put them on this earth."
Which doesn't really answer his question.
On Halloween night Jessica takes Sam out to dinner, and gets him drunk. He sleeps with her — the first, last and only woman he plans to ever have sex with. It's not the worst sex he's ever had (that honor goes to an underclassman Sam let fuck him last year, and that's all he's ever going to say about that), but it's far from the best and only serves to underscore for him that he really is into guys.
Jessica dies in a house fire on November 2nd,1949, and it gives Sam the chills when he realizes that's the same date his mother and baby sister died on, in their house fire. He mourns Jessica's death as the loss of a bright, vivacious person, and adds her to the list he keeps in his head — and heart — of people he says a prayer for at church.
Uncle Bobby has his first heart attack five days after that.
October, 1950
Sam hates the smell of hospitals. They're stale and fake, and the antiseptic bite to them makes his throat ache and his skin crawl. But not liking them doesn't mean anything now.
He hurries down the corridor, hastily scanning the room numbers until he comes to 242.
"Aw, hell," Bobby grunts when Sam pushes open the door to his room. "I told 'em not to call you. They got you out of class, didn't they?"
"Of course they did," Sam growls. "I left instructions with your doctor, and for my professors. Uncle Bobby—" He waves his hands, trying to find the words. "You. I—this is…."
"Real good with words when you're all flustered, ain't you?" Bobby grins at him, a shadow of his usual smile, but a smile nonetheless. It makes Sam's heart stutter. He looks so small, lying there in the hospital bed, harsh white linens leeching all color out of his face.
"Shut up," Sam says, but he returns the smile. "Don't you know you're more important to me than any class? Geez, Uncle Bobby."
"Twenty-four years old, and you still got a fresh mouth on you. A body might think you're a Winchester, Boy."
"Or a Singer," Sam says gently, hooking an ankle around the straight-backed chair to pull it closer. "From what I've seen and heard over the years, I don't have nothing on you." It's really odd to think about being twenty-four. He's older now — has been for a while — than Dean ever got to be. That's taken some getting used to, and Sam's not always sure he's actually there.
"Damn straight, Sammy."
The seldom-heard nickname gives Sam the willies for some reason, and he shakes his head in an effort to dispel the odd feeling.
"Doc said you had another heart attack," Sam says, changing the subject to the one they need to address.
"Doc's a meddlin' old fool." Bobby scowls, but softens his tone a little. "I'm fine, Son."
"No, you're not. Your heart's damaged, Uncle Bobby. Permanently. You're not getting enough oxygenated blood pumped where it needs to go, and the muscle just keeps getting weaker, and I'm worried." Sam runs his fingers through his hair and tries to figure out how best to proceed, here. This makes the third heart attack Bobby's had in a year's time. Something's going to have to give, because it's obvious — to Sam, at least — that continuing to run the farm by himself is going to end up killing Uncle Bobby.
"So what d'you expect me to do? I can't stay in this bed all the time." Bobby picks fitfully at the blankets covering him.
"No, but you can stay in your bed." Sam sighs and stands up to pace around the room. "I'm going to take a break from school. Come back and take care of you, and the farm."
"I don't need no one takin' care of me, Samuel. I just need a little time to get my strength back, and then it'll be business as usual. You need to keep your butt in school, get that fancy law degree. You hear me, Boy?"
Sam shakes his head. "Not this time. I've already talked to the Dean of admissions, and turned the paperwork in. He said he understands completely, and hopes you have a good recovery. I told him I'd be in touch at the end of the year, when we see how you're doing."
"And who's going to run the farm? Crops need gettin' in, and there's repairs need doin' around the house, and need to get a pig ready for slaughter—"
It's a close thing, but Sam keeps in the sigh that wants out, though it strains his chest so much he's sure he feels his ribs creak. "You talk like I've never worked a farm before. I haven't been gone that long—I can still do it. And Jeremy can help. Hell, I'll hire another hand to help if he and I can't do it ourselves. But you need to rest so you can get better, and Doc says the only way to do that is staying in bed." Sam sits back down in the chair and leans in toward Bobby. "You're all I have left, Uncle Bobby. I—"
Uncle Bobby studies him carefully before nodding. "Okay, Sammy. It's okay." He pats Sam's hand gently. "You take some time off school and I'll get better, and things'll be fine."
Sam nods, hoping Bobby's right. He needs him to be right, because the thought of being completely alone in the world is enough to make him feel cold down to his core.
November 1950
Uncle Bobby's funeral is on a Saturday. It's a cold, dreary day, with clouds hanging low and dark over everything. The air is cold and sharp, with the scent of snow coming with each gust of wind.
The weather doesn't keep people away, and Sam is a little amazed by the turnout. He's always known Uncle Bobby was well-liked within their community, but looking around at the clusters of people — everyone from Mayor Welton down to the colored janitor from the school building — it's really brought home to him. Uncle Bobby was an icon in their little niche in the world, and with every well-wishing given to him, Sam realizes how much he'll be missed, and not just by Sam himself.
Sam's grief is different this time, than it was when they buried Dean. It's not less; he loved Bobby Singer like the father he was. So much more than an Uncle, Bobby was generous and loving, non-judging and reliable. He took Sam and Dean in and gave them a home; made sure they always knew he and the farm was home for them, was there for them. Sam misses him horribly now; keeps waiting for someone to tell him this is a joke, ha-ha, just kidding, that Uncle Bobby's going to be walking out of the barn any minute, ever-present denim coveralls and cap, dirty rag either in his hands or tucked into his pocket.
The only thing of Bobby's Sam doesn't bury with him is the silver-gold ring he wore all the years Sam knew him. He and Dean speculated many times what the ring was — a wedding ring? Promise ring? Something handed down from a parent or grandparent? — but they never dared to ask, and Uncle Bobby never mentioned it. It's on a chain around Sam's neck now, beside the dog tags, and like with the dog tags it gives Sam a sense of peace, as though Bobby is right there with him.
"From dust we came; to dust we return." Reverend MacCauley's voice carries over the wind, strong and vibrant, and Sam huddles down deeper into his overcoat, trying not to remember Dean's funeral and wishing he could forget this one.
The first snowflakes start as Bobby's casket is lowered into the ground.
July, 1952
Looking in the mirror, Sam doesn't see anything that looks different, or out of the ordinary. He sees the outline of a man, tall and strong and grown, but inside he still feels like…like Sammy. Young and unsure, and hoping he's doing the right thing.
He doesn’t feel any different, either. He doesn't particularly feel like a lawyer, though he has the piece of paper that says he is. He doesn't feel like a grown-up, either, though he has the documents for that, too; things like tax receipts and the deed to the farm. He also has the scars of loss, though some of them he's borne for most of his life.
Tomorrow his life is going to change yet again; a huge change that thrills and scares Sam at the same time.
Tomorrow he gets on an airplane for the first time in his life, and that airplane is going to take him to Europe, to Germany, to help with the rebuilding over there.
His professors talked about The Marshall Plan a lot during the school terms. About how General Marshall (the same General Marshall whose name is on the telegram notifying them of Dean's death as Secretary of the Army, and is now the Secretary of State) wanted to send the young, educated men and women of their country overseas to help the countries ravaged by war — and now poverty, starvation and disease — rebuild into strong, independent nations once again. The Plan called for hundreds of professionals: engineers, doctors, lawyers, accountants, teachers, and every other profession, to aid and assist the European nations.
Sam wants to help out, and there's nothing holding him back here, at home. So he signed a one year contract — the government people he spoke with said it might go longer, but right now, a year at a time was all they were contracting for — and started packing up his things.
Just about everything's taken care of now. Mr. Thompson will keep an eye on the place, make sure no one comes in to squat, or vandalizes anything. Sam's given him Power of Attorney to deal with any emergencies that might come up in the next year. There hasn't been any livestock on the farm since Sam returned to law school; he sold all of it to the Thompsons, knowing he wouldn't be around. It makes his chest tight to see the farm looking so bare, so empty, but he knows the animals — including Rusty and Rufus — are with good people, people who are taking care of them. He misses the dogs the most, and smiles, remembering when Uncle Bobby brought them home, not too long after Buster died. Hell, he even misses the damn chickens.
Looking around the old house, rosy-colored with the setting sun, Sam thinks he feels Dean and Uncle Bobby both. There's pictures on the walls of he and Dean as youngsters, and one portrait of his mother as a young woman, painted even before she married his father. The hallways and stairwell seem to echo with laugher and shouts, with Buster's barking and Uncle Bobby's quiet words. Sam walks to the top of the stairs and stands there, taking in the memories of Dean yelling their dad would never leave them, never. Of him and Dean snuggling together in the winter, when even heated bricks under the sheets didn't quite banish the chill. Of Dean kissing him, holding him, loving him. Of Uncle Bobby grumbling about the noise they made, getting ready for bed, or patiently checking under the bed for monsters, while Dean patted his back and told him they were just nightmares.
Back downstairs now, and the wind rattles something fierce outside. For a brief moment Sam allows himself to imagine it's Dean, shaking the door because it used to stick, swelling during the summer when it was hot and humid. He can just about hear Dean shouting, "Dammit, Sam, let me in!" and right after that, Uncle Bobby's gruff voice hollering for them to settle down and be quiet, didn't they know he was trying to sleep?
Another blast of wind makes the whole house shudder, drafts snaking under and around, finding any little crack or opening to slide inside, and Sam hopes the coming storm brings the rain the area needs so badly.
He's all packed — most everything he's not taking with him is either boxed up and stored up in the attic, or locked up down in the cellar. Most of the furniture's gone, since Sam hasn't actually lived here for over two years now, and there wasn't any point in it sitting around waiting to dry-rot, or get nibbled on by rodents. He's kept Uncle Bobby's bed frame, and the two dressers and bureau that matched it, and he's keeping the bed he's slept in for his entire life, minus the years he was off to college, and then law school.
Inside Sam's suitcase, along with his traveling papers, are the letters he and Dean exchanged, bundled together in date order. They've traveled anywhere he's traveled — not that he's gone much or far — and he's not going to leave them here. Not when he's over there. Dean's journal is bundled in with the letters, as is the picture Sam has of him in his Army uniform, when he graduated from bootcamp. He has his scrapbook with other photographs, and silly remembrances like the ticket stubs from the cinema on his fifteenth birthday, and the postcards Dean bought for him but never sent.
He's also taking the family Bible. He hasn't packed it yet, though he will, in a minute. It's the Bible he first saw as a curious seven-year-old, when he wondered what the funny writing in the very front was. Sam sits down at the kitchen table — he's been putting off what'll likely be the final entry — and flips it open. He runs a finger down the column of names and dates, lips moving as he reads the now-familiar names and dates.
born 5 aug 1894, a son, Robert
born 2 sept 1895, a daughter, Lissa
died 5 sept 1895, daughter Lissa
born 31 oct 1897, a daughter, Rose
died 31 oct 1897, daughter Rose
born 31 may 1900, a daughter, Mary
died 22 june, 1900, wife Joanna
married 30 july 1906 Jonathon Singer to Lucy Smithers
married 2 june 1914, Robert singer to Susannah Harris
died 21 march 1915, Susannah Singer and infant
married 14 jan 1920, Mary Singer to Jonathon Winchester
born 29 jan 1922 a son, Dean Alexander (Winchester)
died 2 march 1923, Jonathon Singer
died 7 march 1923, Lucy Singer
born 2 may 1927, a son, Samuel Joseph (Winchester)
died 2 nov 1928, Mary (Singer) Winchester and infant daughter
died ??, John Winchester (presumed dead)
Sam rubs his finger across that entry, then looks at the one beneath it:
He picks up the pen lying beside him on the table, and starts the next line.
Sam sighs and closes the Bible; stands up to add it to his suitcase. Jeremy Thompson will be here in the morning to take him to Rapid City, so he best get some sleep while he can.
June 1953
Sam pushes the ledger away and leans back in his chair to stretch. At this rate, he's going to need reading glasses well before he hits thirty. A quick glance at the clock shows it's only half-past three, and that can't be right, can it?
Sam wanted to help when he came to Europe — still wants to — but the bureaucratic crap he's been dealing with for the last few months has him twitchy and irritable. For the first time in a long time, he misses farming. Misses the outdoors, with the sun on his face and the wind in his hair, and the scent of nature all around him. Europe is rebuilding, the Marshall Plan contracts are winding down — word hasn't come down officially, yet, but office gossip says there won't be any contracts renewed as they end, and Sam's is up in a couple of weeks — and Sam's actually thinking about what he's going to do with his life after he leaves here.
Philip Martin, fellow attorney and the only one of the six of them in this office who is fluent in German, pokes his head in around the door to Sam's office. "Man, it must be hard to fit all of you in that little bitty chair."
"Shut it, Phil," Sam growls, but it's good-natured. Mostly. He has a headache, and a crick in his back. "I really need some air. And some food. God, I'd kill for some apples. Or fresh tomatoes. Fresh anything."
"We just had lunch, Sam." Martha, legal transcriptionist extraordinaire, and Phil's wife, appears in the doorway beside Phil, and he waves them both in. "Are you still hungry?"
She disappears again before Sam figures out how to explain that it's possible to be full, but still be hungry for something. He's been thinking a lot lately of fresh-from-the-garden vegetables, and milk that hasn't been pasteurized to death, or eggs that are still warm from the hens. He sighs. The food he's been eating is good, and filling, but he misses home.
"Sam's hungry all the time," Phil calls after her, and Sam resists the urge to throw something at Phil's head. Something heavy. Phil's a good guy, really, but a little of him goes a long way…and Sam's had more than a little of him in the last year.
"Here, Sam." Martha's back in a moment, brandishing one of the yeast rolls from lunch. "Maybe this will help?"
"Hey, thanks, hon!" Phil snags the roll before Sam can take it, and takes a bite. "Sam, there's a farm a couple kilometers up the road, out past the village limits. They probably have fresh fruit and all that stuff you like."
Sam snorts, torn between amusement and annoyance. "'All that stuff'?"
"Yeah. All that stuff you're pining for: lettuce and tomatoes and whatever. Vegetables." Phil shudders. "I swear, you're the only person I know who likes those things." Phil talks with his mouth full, and Sam thinks he should've grown up eating at Bobby Singer's table. There was no talking with food in your mouth, unless you wanted to finish your meal out in the barn with the animals. He shrugs.
"I grew up on a farm, Phil. It's sort of ingrained in me, eating fresh stuff. Or else home-canned." Sam bounces his pencil on the desk, then decides he really does need to get out of the building for a little while. Maybe take a walk up the road and see about this supposed farm. "I'm gonna call it a day, I think, and go see about the produce. Not apples; it's the wrong time of the year." He grins at the eye roll Phil gives him. "What? I know these things." It only takes a few minutes to neaten his desk, and Sam spares a moment to think about end-of-the-pay-period paperwork that needs to be turned in, in a couple of days. There are times when he believes he's less of an attorney than he is a government middle manager. "Make sure you get your timesheets done and turned in before you leave for the day. And tell Ramsey and Mann to do theirs, too."
"Will do." Phil sprays a light layer of crumbs out and Sam grimaces.
"You have crumbs in your beard, Phillip." Martha pats his arm, and Sam wonders, not for the first time, how a classy lady like her wound up with a guy like Phil. "Go on, Sam. What good's being the boss, if you can't make your own hours once in a while?"
Sam smiles weakly and grabs up his sweater. No telling how far the walk actually will be, and the weather's been unpredictable lately, warm one day, and cool and rainy the next.
He turns out the lights in his office, and closes the door behind him, thinking absently about where Dean was, when he was killed. Was it somewhere like here? An almost-urban area, with small villages bordering it? Or somewhere more rural? Was he in an actual city, during some of the bombings? The Army never said, and neither Sam nor Bobby bothered asking, because they knew they wouldn't be told.
He feels a little closer to Dean, being here — Germany, Europe, whatever. Like he felt closer to Uncle Bobby any time he was in the farmhouse, because scary stories about ghosts aside, Sam just knows Bobby's spirit is still there, or at least a bit of it, watching over the old place.
Sam's tried so many times to picture his brother as a soldier. As someone other than a boy playing dress up — because he loves the picture he has of Dean in his uniform, but that's not Dean, to him. To Sam, Dean was the guy who loved wearing a pair of pants until they were ragged, insisting that was the only time they were comfortable. Or the shirts he would wear until the neck was stretched out and the hem ragged and falling down. He was a guy who wasn't afraid to get dirty, get down in the midst of things and do whatever was necessary to get the job done.
Actually, that description fit Dean, the solider, Sam supposes. A man who did what he thought was necessary and died for what he believed in.
The walk is pleasant, and just what he needed: to get out in the fresh air and stretch his legs. Smart-ass though he is, Phil's right in wondering how Sam fits all of himself into that tiny little chair. Sam wonders sometimes, too.
Even after nearly a year in-country, Sam's nowhere near fluent in German. He can get the gist of the meaning across if he tries, and usually can understand simplified sentences, but he stumbles over anything but the basic words awkwardly, and his accent is bad enough that he's embarrassed to have anyone hear him. Fortunately (or unfortunately, since it encourages laziness), most of the locals he comes into contact with speak English, or at least enough English that he can cobble it together with his German, and move along.
It's the way he finds himself closing in on a small farm and orchard; he stopped two or three times and trudged through asking directions and trying to understand the directions given, and now he's standing at the end of a curving dirt road that reminds him a lot of Uncle Bobby's — his, Sam reminds himself, the farm is his, now — driveway.
"Guten Tag," he calls to the distant figure he sees in between the trees. "I'm looking, um. For—for Herr Schneider?"
The figure waves to him and calls something back, so Sam keeps on forward. He'd forgotten it's cherry season; the trees around him are thick with fruit, and the air heavy with the sweet, ripe scent.
"I'm—I hope you speak English," Sam begins, eyeing the man currently bent over a bushel basket. "Because my German is really bad. I was told you sell fresh produce? Fruit and vegetables?"
"Ya," the man begins, "we have them. Cherries, tomatoes, strawberries. And I speak English." Sam freezes in place, stunned. Oh, God. He sounds just like Dean. Deep baritone, a low, soothing not-quite-rumble that always seemed to come from deep in Dean's chest. Sam closes his eyes and reminds himself Dean's dead — has been dead for years now — and no matter how much this guy sounds like him, it's not—
"Are you all right?" The man's turned around and Sam stares. It's rude, he knows, but he can't help it. Other than a short beard, this guy, he could be Dean's twin. He's older than the picture etched in Sam's memory — of course he is. Dean died the day after his twenty-first birthday. This guy is likely older than Sam. But he's so…so like Dean. And then the man blinks, and says softly, "…are you…Sammy?"
Sam thinks he must be dead, himself. Maybe this is how it happens, when you die suddenly, when something bursts inside your head, or your heart just stops. You see and hear your loved ones, the ones who've died before you. He shakes his head, tears stinging his eyes. It's not real, it can't be, this isn't Dean. But he licks his lips and whispers roughly, "How'd you know my name?"
The man looks confused, and frowns. "I don't—know. Is that your name? I, you look like. Someone I knew once."
"Who?"
The man shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, the words so quiet Sam has to lean forward to hear them. "I don't know who he is. That's all I remember, is 'Sammy', and an image in my head, of a young man, a teenager, with dark hair and eyes."
It can't be. It cannot be. Sam concentrates on breathing in and out steadily and hopes he doesn't end up hyperventilating. "What's your name?"
Another frown, making a little V between the man's eyes. "Dean. Dean Schneider."
He isn't aware of falling, until he feels the ground, cool and damp, beneath his knees, and the man is leaning in over him, face creased in concern. "No," Sam says hoarsely, staring up and hardly daring to believe. "It's. It's Winchester. Dean Winchester. You. You're my brother, Dean Winchester."
Part Seven
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Date: 2008-06-26 01:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-26 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-26 02:03 am (UTC)Thanks !!
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Date: 2008-06-26 04:40 am (UTC)I checked out the artwork before the story, which is silly I know - but well... that's sorta me. Anyway it was beyond lovely and basically had me crying before I even started reading. Suffice to say I was an emotional wreck, being all stoic and sniffly, when you sprung this last bit on me. For which I shall forevermore be grateful because now (or shortly) I can go hug the denizens of my household (without waking them of course) and drift off at peace with the world again. Sigh. Just... exquisitely lovely. Thank you!
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Date: 2008-07-07 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-26 07:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-07 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-27 06:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-07 01:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-27 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-07 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-07 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-28 06:53 pm (UTC)*reading on now*
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Date: 2008-06-28 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-07 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-02 01:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-07 01:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-08 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-08 11:22 pm (UTC)OH MY GOD.
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Date: 2008-07-15 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-09 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-08 04:16 am (UTC)He isn't aware of falling, until he feels the ground, cool and damp, beneath his knees, and the man is leaning in over him, face creased in concern. "No," Sam says hoarsely, staring up and hardly daring to believe. "It's. It's Winchester. Dean Winchester. You. You're my brother, Dean Winchester."
Oh, God. Oh, Fuck. Oh, Shit.
I just sobbed. Like, legit. A sob just emitted itself from my throat. OMG.
You. Are. Killing. Me.
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Date: 2008-10-30 07:21 pm (UTC)I totally don't mind Bobby being dead when that means Dean is alive :)
Oh my god
Date: 2009-05-17 12:17 am (UTC)