mickeym | Part 7

Back to Part Six

Headers in the Master post.

~~~~~

The inside of the Schneider home is warm, almost too warm, after the cool breezes of the orchard. Sam takes the mug of cider offered and gulps it down, wishing it was something stronger.

"Tell me," he begins, glancing over at the man — at Dean — "what happened? We, we got a telegram. That you were dead. They sent a body home to us. How can you be—and you never, you never wrote, or contacted us, or said anything, why—?"

Dean licks his lips, eyes darting from the table top to Sam, then back down. For the first time Sam sees the thick, twisted scar that starts down in his beard, and runs upward, behind his right ear before disappearing in Dean's hair. Dean shakes his head. "I didn't…remember."

"You didn't remember anything?"

"Not a lot. I know there was an accident. We were—were being fired at." Dean frowns. "Ambushed, I think. Lot of men down, and screaming, and smoke everywhere. It was like Hell."

Sam closes his eyes briefly, then looks back at Dean. "You remember being in the Army, though? And being in a battle?"

Dean nods, and his lips quirk in a shy half-smile. "Hard to forget that—everything right around it is clear as glass, except that's about all I do remember. I don't remember much else. Something exploded, and I woke up in a stranger's house. The doctor I saw said I probably never would fully regain my memory. After a few days I could remember my name, my first name anyway, but my tags were gone, and my uniform was burned pretty bad; no one could make out the last name on it, or my rank, and there wasn't anything on me to give any clues about who to contact."

"Corporal," Sam says quietly, fishing the tags out of the neck of his shirt. He loops them over his head and hands the chain to Dean, watching while he inspects them. "They found these laying right beside the—the body the Army sent home to us."

"Us?" Dean frowns again. "You keep saying 'us'."

"Me and Uncle Bobby. Our Uncle, our mom's brother. He—he raised us. After, um. He raised us." Sam takes the tags when Dean hands them back, and drops the chain over his head, tucking the tags back under his shirt.

Dean takes a long drink of his cider, then seems to come to a decision within himself. "How…how do you really know that I'm your brother? I mean, there could be other Deans and other Sams out there, right? It's not…I don't doubt you, but if your brother's been dead for awhile—"

"Ten years," Sam says with more calm than he feels. "And I know you're my brother."

"How?"

"You have a tattoo on your left arm, up by your shoulder. It's an eagle, and the flag. You and a bunch of guys from your unit went one night and had them done." Sam watches Dean raise his hand up to his arm, eyes wide with surprise. "Your friend Rabbit got a pin-up girl on his arm. You wrote me and told me about it, how you were half drunk when you had it done, and if you'd been a little more drunk, you might've…."

"Might've what?" Dean still looks torn between surprised and shocked, and Sam bites his lip. They haven't gotten there yet, and now probably isn't the best time to head in that direction.

"Might've gotten something else, instead. So, um. Amnesia? Permanently?"

"I guess? Is that the term for memory loss?" Dean shrugs. "When I woke up, I didn't remember much of anything, and I had headaches that felt like my skull was splitting open. Some things came back, like I could speak English and it wasn't accented, like the Brits. I couldn't speak German, but I knew a few words. I remembered crop cycles, and how to rotate seeding, and the basic stuff of what I figured was running a farm. I knew my way around an engine, I was good with horses, and I liked beef." He smiles when Sam snorts. "Some stuff was just there, and other stuff would—it was kind of like playing with a piece of string, with a cat? It was like my mind was dangling this stuff, just out of reach, waiting to see if I could pounce on it or not. It was — still is — frustrating as hell, especially not knowing anything about myself. And, uh. I kept having these dreams." He flushes, red heat spreading across his cheekbones, and Sam doesn't even need to hear the words to know what sort of dreams Dean's talking about. "Sometimes they were just about ordinary stuff, like swimming or playing—uh. Base, baseball, right? But there were other dreams, about Sammy — um. About you, I guess." The flush deepens, fascinating Sam, because his memories of Dean, he rarely blushed. "Except I don't know, uh, you said we're brothers."

"Yeah." Sam sighs and takes another drink of his cider. Guess they're going there after all. "We are. But, uh, we were that, too."

"We were, huh?" Dean nods easily, but his cheeks are still flushed and he looks…a little uncomfortable. "That's…that'll take some getting used to."

"Yeah." Sam tries to smile. "I'll bet."

An older woman comes into the kitchen and fires off a whole lot of questions in rapid German, all of which Dean answers, just as quickly. Just as fluently. They have a quick conversation, with Sam managing to get maybe one out of every dozen words — just enough to think Dean is supposed to be inviting him to stay for supper.

"I—she wants you to stay for supper," Dean says finally, confirming Sam's guess. "She's making potato dumplings and pork."

"I'd love to stay." Sam smiles at the woman. "Danke." He waits until she bustles back out of the room before asking, "who is she?"

"Oh, uh." Dean flushes again. "My schwiegermutter — um, Goodmother. No, wait. Mother-in-law," he finishes.

Sam's stomach, already knotted and aching with the adrenaline racing all through him, does a slow, sickening twist and roll, and for a minute Sam isn't completely sure he isn't going to be sick. He closes his eyes and breathes through it, because of course Dean would be married. He's been here for ten years, he's obviously a part of this family, this community, and even though Sam knows Dean loves — loved — him, he'll always remember his brother flirting with the young ladies on most of the neighboring farms.

"When…when do I get to meet my sister-in-law?" He asks, and is very pleased his voice stays steady.

Dean sighs and shakes his head. "Greta died four years back. Contracted diphtheria."

"Oh, God. Dean. I'm—I'm sorry."

That gets him a weak smile. "She was a good girl, but I didn't. I didn't love her. Not the way—not like I should've."

He says it very quietly, and Sam can't decide if it's because he's ashamed of it, or if it's simply that he doesn't want anyone who might be around and listening, to hear him.

"I thought about you all the time," Sam says, just as quietly. "I didn't want to believe it; I don't think I did believe it, until the Army sent the body home."

"I wonder whose body it was?" Dean's drawing circles through the condensation gathering on the table, beads of liquid rolling off the heavy mug of cider.

"Uncle Bobby wouldn't let me look at you. At the body, I mean. He said I didn't need to see that, not knowing—" It's Sam's turn to flush, and Dean looks at him sharply.

"Our Uncle knew—about us?"

Sam nods, throat closing over. It's hard to swallow past that lump, and when he does speak his voice is a thick rasp. "He said—he wasn't blind, or stupid. I never thought we were obvious or anything, but. I think…I think it was the way I grieved. Probably reminded him of our dad, after mom died. He told us one time, years ago, that sometimes…people can't live in a world after someone they love dies, or something like that. And I know for a while, I didn't care if I lived or not."

Dean's quiet for a few minutes, and Sam finds himself watching the cuckoo clock on the wall. He's never admitted that to anyone, not even himself. Finally Dean asks, "was?"

"Yeah. He died in November…it'll be three years this November. Had a bunch of heart attacks in a pretty short time, and they just did too much damage. I came home to take care of him, but I was too late. He was a stubborn bastard when he wanted to be, and I didn't know he was sick until it was basically too late to do anything except watch him die."

It's quiet for a minute, until Dean says suddenly, "I'm sorry."

Sam startles at that. "For what?"

"That left you all alone, didn't it? When he died? Unless you have someone, um. Somewhere?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not even after you told me to get someone else. I just—I couldn't."

"Not at all?" There's an odd tone to Dean's words, and Sam can't decide if Dean's shocked, surprised, or maybe a little in awe. "In ten years?"

"I've had a few," Sam says sharply. "I haven't lived like a monk or anything. But no one…nobody special. Just you," he finishes softly.

Dean swallows, and Sam watches the movement, still feeling like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole. This can't be real. Can't be happening. After so long, so many years believing Dean dead — they had a damn funeral, for heaven's sake! — to find him still alive, here, half a world away, it's almost too much.

"I need to use the bathroom," Sam says, swallowing against the bile rising up. "Dean. Please—now."

"C'mon." It must show on his face, because instead of the bathroom, Dean steers him back outside, out into the cool, fresh air and the thickets of trees. And just like when they were kids, Dean rubs one hand soothingly up and down Sam's back as he throws up over and over, until there's nothing left to come up. "Easy, Sammy," he murmurs, stroking and rubbing until Sam stops heaving. "You okay?"

"Will be," Sam gasps. "In a minute. I'm sorry."

"No, s'okay. Hey—hey, it's all right." Dean pats his back when Sam heaves again, spitting and coughing. "Hang on, I'll get some water."

He's gone for a few minutes, and Sam flops over until he can sit braced against one of the tree trunks. His stomach and throat hurt now, and his ribs are going to ache in the morning.

"Here." Dean pops up out of nowhere, holding out a cup of cool water and a large square of fabric. "Rinse out your mouth and wipe off your face. You'll feel better." He sits down beside Sam, catty-corner to him, and brings his arms around his knees. Sam does feel better after he's rinsed his mouth out, and he uses a little of the water to wet the rag before wiping his face off. When he's finished he sets them beside him and tips his head back tiredly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "God, what a mess. I just—you're alive, Dean. I've thought you were dead for so long, and you weren't…and you're here, and God. I've missed you so much. Not just—I missed my brother, and I missed the other stuff. I just missed you."

The tears come then; the ones Sam never could cry the day he got that last letter. They've been bottled up inside him for so many years, the ache slowly becoming something he got used to, but never got rid of. Something that never went away completely, that popped up every so often, like a phantom limb.

"We used to go fishing, there was a lake, right? Not, not the swimming hole. But a lake. And you'd pack us a lunch, and Uncle Bobby—we all went fishing, didn't we?"

Sam nods through his tears, and snuffles loudly. "Every summer, at least a couple of times, if all the chores were done. Sometimes we'd pack a tent and stay the night, though none of us ever used the tent. We'd sleep out under the stars. I saw a shooting star once, and you told me to make a wish on it."

Dean's shifted closer, and he moves until he's settled against the tree trunk beside Sam, with Sam curled in toward him, ear over Dean's heart. "Did you?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you wish for?" Dean strokes his fingers through Sam's hair, and it's all Sam can do not to start crying again, the tears prickling at his eyes.

"You."

"Huh?"

"I wished for you."

He closes his eyes when Dean presses a kiss to the top of his head, shivers rippling through him. Everything else, the sex and the touching, even the kisses — those were icing. Extra things that were really nice, sure, but it was this Sam missed so badly. Dean holding him. Holding on to him. Just being with him.

There's a strange hitch in Dean's voice, and his fingers tighten briefly in Sam's hair. "I wish I—I wish I hadn't forgotten. I wish I could remember more. It's kind of like…looking at something that's under a big slab of glass. You can see it, but it's distorted, not clear and sharp. You know? Or it's like a dream. This feels like a dream, like the dreams I had for so long. It was always you I dreamed about, Sam. I could see your face, clear and plain as day. The way you looked at me, your smile so big and bright. I would wake up aching, needing something I couldn't remember. I spent months angry at everyone, everything."

"You remember some stuff."

Dean nods, the movement making it so Dean's head tipped against Sam's. "Some. And I think…talking with you? Is triggering other stuff. It still feels like it happened to someone else, but there are bits and pieces there that weren't there before. And I know…it's you I dreamed about. Why I dreamed that."

The dull ache he's carried for so long eases, though Sam suspects it's going to be a while, if ever, before it's fully gone. "Will you come home with me?"

"You have a place in the village?" Dean frowns. "How have I never seen you down there, before?"

"No. I mean yes, I have rooms in town — God, there's so much to tell you. But I meant — will you come home with me. Back to South Dakota, and the farm. Our farm."

Dean's quiet for what feels like forever, and the ache in Sam's stomach increases, sharp cramps that make him wonder if he's going to be sick again.

"You were going to go to law school." There's a note of wonder in Dean's voice. "You said…no, I said…that I'd farm, and you could support us."

"Yeah." Sam nods. "You said that."

"Did you go to law school?"

Sam laughs. "I had to drop out for a while when Uncle Bobby got sick, but I finished up after he passed. I graduated last June, and came over here straight-away."

"Why? Why not stay there and do whatever it is lawyers do?"

He shrugs. "I didn't want to stay there, by myself. I wasn't sure what to do, or where to go, so I figured this option would give me some time to figure things out." Sam isn't sure what he'll do if Dean says no, he doesn't want to go back to the States. There's no guarantee he'll want to, either. Dreams and vague memories of Sam aside, Dean's life is here, now. Has been for a while.

"Yes."

Sam's thinking so hard about what he'll do if Dean doesn't want to come home (throw up again? Cry some more? Break down completely? Yes to all of them, probably.), it startles him to hear Dean's voice. "Huh?"

"I'll go home. I want to go home with you, Sammy."

Oh, God. Actually, he may cry again right now. And throwing up hasn't been completely eliminated as an option, either. Sam turns toward Dean, though they're already so close it's more like moving his head and just…being there. Being there and looking his fill, because Dean's not moving. Just letting Sam look.

The beard is an oddity, because his memories of Dean are all clean-shaven, with the odd day of scruff or shadow if they were hunting or camping, or whatever. Sam reaches out and strokes his finger down the line of Dean's jaw, and Dean goes completely still.

"It's soft," Sam says, rubbing gently.

"I wear it—" Dean gestures to the scar. "Keeps it kind of hidden, so I don't scare babies and little kids." He smiles when he says it, but Sam sees the flash in his eyes and wondered how many people stared at him because of it.

"I don't care about that, either." Sam touches the scar lightly, follows the twist of it up behind Dean's ear. It's thick and ropey, winding along Dean's scalp. "Does it hurt?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not for a long time. But sometimes I get bad headaches, split-your-skull-wide-open type of headaches. They can leave me pretty bad off for days."

"You ever see a doctor for them?" Sam's gone back to petting Dean's jaw, fingers stroking and smoothing over the whiskers. They're fascinating, gleaming auburn-red-cinnamon-brown in the late-afternoon sun. "Your headaches."

"Once, a while ago." Dean shrugs. "Said there wasn't anything he could do." He turns his head so his cheek is resting, cradled, in Sam's palm, and closes his eyes. "I…remember, in my dreams. Or whatever it is, you were…you weren't very old. When I left."

"Fifteen," Sam whispers. "I turned sixteen the May after you shipped out."

"You loved me."

"I love you, yeah." He makes it present tense because he's always thought of it in present tense. "Always have. Always will."

Dean opens his eyes and smiles. "You sound pretty sure."

"Always have, always will." Sam's fingers itch to curl into the short, soft whiskers; to cup Dean's face and kiss him. It must show on his face, because Dean hitches a breath closer and whispers, "kiss me?"

It's as close to perfect as a kiss can be, soft and sweet. Dean's mouth tastes like apple cider, tongue tart-sweet against Sam's, with the soft scratch of whiskers rubbing and prickling the sensitive skin of his mouth. But even more than the taste, even more than the feel of Dean's mouth against his, is that it's Dean. It's Dean in his arms, Dean right here with him, Dean he's touching.

Sam's just ready to pull back when Dean slides his fingers into Sam's hair and changes angles, deepening the kiss. His mouth is slick and warm and he's eating at Sam's like a starving man and Sam's the banquet.

When they separate, both breathing faster, heavier, Sam touches his forehead to Dean's. "Can you…will you come stay with me tonight? In town?" He can't even consider the idea of being apart from Dean again — though rationally Sam knows he'll have to, at least to go to work tomorrow. But for right now…no.

Dean nods and leans in for another kiss. "Try and keep me away," he laughs breathlessly, teasing his mouth over Sam's. "Just try."

Sam has no intention of doing anything of the sort. Ever.

~fin~

A/N and Thank You's: This story is sort of like the marriage of two of my most favorite things: history and romance. It holds a special place in my heart as being probably the only story I've ever written that I didn't at some point (metaphorically) toss into the garbage can while screaming "God, I hate it!" It's my favorite of anything I've ever written, and I think it's probably some of my best work to date.

I got the idea for it back late last winter, or early this past spring, when one of my Workday Email Posse (hee) linked me to an article about a Russian couple who were married at the beginning of WWII and then got separated a few days later -- and she believe he was dead, and he couldn't find her, and they ended up apart for sixty years. When they found each other again, they said it was like those years hadn't ever happened; they were just as in love as they'd been. The big ol' sap in me went "AWWW!" and then I started thinking about a Sam and Dean version of that. :)

I owe huge thank you's to a lot of people:

thenyxie,

cormallen and

nu_breed for hand-holding and audiencing, and just in general being there. To

rivers_bend and

leighm for beta-under-pressure (seriously--I sent the story to them like, Monday night, and the reworked ending last night), as well as hand-holding, and being there. Awesomeness all around :) Also thank you to my flist at large for helping me find links, and information, and putting up with my 10938140891 questions and word-count updates. (I feel like I should apologize for those, because normally? I could care less what the word count is. But y'all, I wrote SO MUCH, it just blew me away!) I also want to say, though he'll never (I hope!) see this, thank you to Matthew. He fetched tissues and cool drinks for me when I worked myself into sobbing while writing, and just in general encouraged me. ("Are you writing? Shouldn't you be writing? You're not done yet are you? How many more words until you're done?" - the kid makes a great nag.)

Thank you's need to go also to

wendy and

audrarose for coordinating all of this, and making it a very awesome experience. *hugs you*

Finally, many, many thanks to

mkitty3, for the incredibly fabulous artwork she did for this story. She brought it to life for me.

I have a couple of footnotes/credit things, because I am deathly afeared of ever being accused of plagiarism. So, for Sam's commencement speech, I got the core of it from here: http://www.dominik.net/thoughts/valedictorian-speech.php3 and of course the "A day which will live in infamy" speech belongs to FKR and his speechwriters.

I really hope you've enjoyed reading this story. I loved writing it, and I'm thrilled to get to share it with y'all. Thank you :)