New Fic: [ Letters Home ] - SPN, Sam/Dean, R

[mickeym]

Title: Letters Home
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Rish (probably more like PG13, but to be on the safe side)
Word Count: ~3100
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sadly. But I'll play nicely with them :)
Spoilers: None; this is pre-series
Warnings: implied incest
Notes: I asked killabeez what she would like for a ficlet last night, when she mentioned she'd had a hard day, too. She responded with 'something pre-series, maybe Stanfordish, maybe a letter Sam writes'. HAH. My brain just…exploded. Killa, honey, I apologize now because this got a lot heavier than I'd intended. I wanted to do something light and schmoopy and fun, and this…isn't. I can try again later, for you, if you want *g* Many thanks to synecdochic for a lightning fast beta for me. *smooch* Hope y'all enjoy it :)







September 12, 2002

Hey, Dean,

Got here, got settled into my dorm and stuff. I'm early, technically they don't let students into the dorms until next week, but I told a sob story about my folks having to go out of town and not having any place to stay, so here I am. I'm about the only person here, I think. I saw one other guy, and a girl, but I don't know which one of them lives here. It's co-ed dorms, and quit making that face. Yeah, that one.

I'm sorry about the stuff I said, at the bus station. I didn't mean it, I was just. Mad. Y'know? Anyway, I hope you know that.

Love,

Sam

Sam stares at the letter for a few minutes, then folds it up and tucks it into a box that's ragged and battered with age and use. He doesn't remember when he got the box, just knows he's lugged it around from place to place for years.

In it are postcards from places they've been to, over the years. One school yearbook, some photos. A receipt from the carnival Dean took him to for his sixteenth birthday. Dean had scrawled two stick figures on the back of the receipt, obviously guys, obviously fucking.

Sam kissed Dean for the first time, that night. Shaking with nerves, so unsure, and it was awful and wonderful all at the same time.

He closes the box carefully, layering the flaps so it stays shut on its own, then goes to make up his bed and unpack his duffle.

~~~~~

September 15, 2002

Hey, Dean,

I had a meeting with my advisor this morning. One of the perks to getting here like, two weeks before everyone else. I don't know, really, what I want to do. I mean, what degree. I was thinking law, eventually. Maybe. So I had him put down pre-law, but I can change it if I want to, later. This quarter is all basic requirements anyway; I have English and Algebra -- and I really wish I had you here to walk me through the math stuff. No one does math like you do. Maybe you can tutor me long-distance?

Yeah, okay, not a funny joke.

I walked around the campus for a while afterward, and ended up in a used bookstore right nearby. Turns out they're looking for a part-time employee, so your little brother's got himself his first job. Connie, the lady who owns the store, said I'll probably end up with full-time hours for the first couple weeks, because they get a lot of business at the beginning of each term but it'll taper off, afterward. She also said I could bring my books and stuff, do my homework in between customers, so that's cool. I gotta remember to check the paper for used bikes -- and no, I don't mean motorcycles. I don't mind the walk, but biking would be faster.

Okay, I'm starved; I think I missed lunch, I was at the bookstore talking with Connie for so long. I'm gonna go see what I can scrounge up in the cafeteria. I miss you, man.

Love,

Sam

Fold, then fold again, and then Sam lays the letter in the box, right on top of the flyer that says "Welcome to Stanford! Freshman Mixer Sat, 9/21!".

If he runs his fingers over the faded blue fur of Mr. Skittles -- Dean's Christmas present to him, when Sam was six -- once or twice, well, there isn't anyone around to see or say anything.

~~~~~

September 19, 2002

Dean,

How's it possible to be homesick when I don't even have a home? I mean--it's YOU I miss, so wouldn't that make it people-sick? Either way, it's stupid, right? I'm here, where I want to be, doing what I want to do. And y'know, I can practically hear you say, "Of course you miss me, Sammy, who wouldn't?"

Asshole.

I hope I didn't make a mistake, doing this. I guess I know I didn't, because it feels right, mostly, to be here. It's weird as hell not to listen to you snore or grumble about cold water, or have you hogging the covers all the time.

I really miss having you hold me, and telling me everything's going to be okay. You'd like the cherry pie in the cafeteria. It tastes a lot like Mrs. Winston's did--you remember her, right? Up in Pine Bluff, Utah?

I wish you were here. I wish I had the balls to mail this to you. If I even knew where to send it, to find you.

Love,

Sam

Sam wipes impatiently at his eyes, then rubs the one damp spot he sees off the paper. It leaves a smudge of ink, a watermark, but whatever. It isn't like anyone's going to see it besides him.

He folds the letter up and lays it with the others, along with a copy of his schedule.

~~~~~

September 28, 2002

Hey, Dean,

God, I survived my first week of classes. Man, I thought I had a lot of homework my senior year? That was nothing. And seriously, I'm not going to survive algebra. You need to get over here, and plan to live in my dorm with me, and just do my homework every night.

Speaking of my dorm, I got the room to myself! My roommate ended up not showing, and they just didn't get anyone else assigned in here, which is pretty cool. Jason and Alex -- the guys in the room next to mine, I share a bathroom with them -- said it means my room's going to be party central. I don't think they believed me when I said no.

Incidentally, how many protection charms did you make/buy/steal? I keep finding them, and I've been unpacked for weeks, now.

The bookstore's great. Connie even has a 'rare books' collection (it makes me think of Giles, on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and all his books). I kind of spazzed out over them, and she laughed at me for the rest of the night. Made me really miss you, pulling my hair and calling me Geek Boy, or Research Boy.

Tell me I did the right thing, Dean, 'cos I miss you like hell.

Love,

Sam

This time he gets a paper cut, folding the letter up. It leaves a smear of blood, dark red-brown against the white, after it dries.

~~~~~

September 29, 2002

Okay, I'm a pussy. I can't send any of these to you, I mean, I could send them to one of Dad's PO Boxes, or maybe to Pastor Jim's place. Hell, I could call you. Except I said I wasn't going to, didn't I? Wasn't going to call, wasn't going to write, nothing. Am I breaking that, if I write the letters but don't send them?

I keep saying it, in all these, but it keeps being true, too: I miss you. I miss your stupid jokes, and the way you flirt with anything with tits. I miss you shoving me, and teasing me about my hair, and even the blue food coloring in my toothpaste. I miss talking with you, going over stuff for a hunt. I miss Dad rolling his eyes when we started trying to one-up each other. I miss you waking me up in the middle of the night so you can blow me. I miss kissing you.

Do you remember when we got caught in the rain, last spring? Had to wait the storm out under a tree, because it was raining so hard? Still got soaked, and you tasted so good, rainwater on your lips. Kind of sweet-tasting.

Do you miss me? Do you hate me, for leaving you -- for leaving you guys?

Love,

Sam

Sam takes two pictures out of his box as he puts the folded up letter away: one of Mom and Dad, and one of him, Dad and Dean. He used to have one that was him and Dean -- from a year or two ago -- but Sam's not sure where that went to.

A postcard shows up the next morning, nothing written on it but his name and Stanford address. The front of it is a scene from White Plains, NY. Sam unfolds last night's letter and tucks the postcard into it, then closes the box up and slides it back under his desk.

~~~~~

October 15, 2002

Hey, Dean,

Thanks for the postcard, man. New York, huh? Did you guys get to the Big Apple? One of the girls in my study group -- Sheila -- is from New York; she talks about it like it's this whole different…planet, almost. Always refers to it as The City, which makes the rest of us laugh at her. Well, Cody doesn't laugh, but I think that's just because he's trying to get her to like him, so she'll sleep with him. Cody doesn't get sex much, I don't think. He's nice, but he's this huge, nerdy dork (shut UP), and he always seems to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Especially if there are girls around.

Actually, I kind of know how he feels. And I lied, btw, when I told you I slept with Alison Truman. You just seemed so totally freaked out after I kissed you, I was afraid if you knew I hadn't actually had sex with anyone that you'd blow a gasket, or something.

Well, I gotta get going. Connie's out of town for a couple days, so I'm working extra hours this week. Got myself a cool bike, though--all that overtime last month really came in handy.

Love,

Sam

Sam sifts through his box before putting the letter in, and smiles when he comes across a black rubber bracelet. Dean probably hasn't even noticed it's missing, and even if he has it's unlikely he's going to think of Sam as being the one who has it. Sam presses it against his mouth, then rolls his eyes at himself and works the bracelet over his hand and onto his wrist.

~~~~~

October 19, 2002

Hey, did you know, according to my sociology prof, that it's against societal taboos for brothers to fuck? We broke a couple of them, actually--the whole incest thing, plus the gay sex thing. /sarcasm

Guess it's a good thing I didn't knock you up, huh?

I keep waiting, man, thinking it's going to stop hurting any DAY now. That I'll wake up tomorrow morning and I won't miss you, and I won't wish you were around so I could steal a kiss. Or make out in the shower, like we did a couple times when we knew Dad wasn't going to be home.

I swear this is like breaking up, or something, except you're still my brother--and I miss my brother, too. Not just. Whatever. I'm totally imagining you rolling your eyes at me, btw. I got asked out on a date last night, by one of the girls in my English class. I said I was sorta seeing someone, but thanks, and God, Dean. It feels like I'm fucking *cheating* on you, even thinking about it. But I have to think about it, because if I don't come back and you're not here, I just.

I don't know what to do.

It was really stupid, wasn't it, to go and fall in love with you.

Sam

There's a scrap of fabric in the bottom of his box, a woven material that's worn thin and ragged. If Sam holds it up to the light, it's translucent, almost see-through. Dean told him once that this was a piece of the blanket he was wrapped in, the night of the fire. Sam holds it first against his cheek, and then over his face, letting it absorb his tears.

In the morning his hand is swollen and sore, his knuckles bruised and cut, and Sam makes a quick trip to the nearest hardware store for some spackling stuff, to cover up the hole in the wall, behind the door.

~~~~~

November 26, 2002

Happy Thanksgiving, Dean. Well, in a couple days.

We're off this week, for the holiday. I'm going home with Cody, spending it with him and his family. He said his mom likes to adopt strays, so it works out. We're leaving in a couple hours, actually; he has a car, so we're going to drive -- his family lives in Bakersfield. I don't know how long it'll take us to get there from here; couple hours, I guess? Anyway, he's being all mopey because Sheila's already gone back home, and he misses her. I could tell him a thing or two about missing someone, but he doesn't need to hear that from me.

Hope you and Dad are good.

Love,

Sam

Nothing to tuck in with the letter this time. Winchesters don't do holidays; Sam can't remember when they stopped celebrating the big ones, or is it that he doesn't remember because they never did? Caleb and his family kept the holidays, and somewhere in the box is the place card with his name on it that Caleb's wife made -- one for everyone at the dinner table, that year, even the kids' table, set apart from the adults.

He feels kind of hollow inside, but hollow is better than aching all the time. Right?

~~~~~

January 12, 2003

Happy New Year, man.

I kept busy over the holidays; Connie's made me assistant manager (though I guess technically I'm more like the manager, since she's the owner, but whatever), and then she took a vacation. Said she hadn't had a real once since before her husband died, and that was three years ago. Between that, and finals and everything, I was kind of surprised to realize it was January already.

I hoped you or Dad would call for Christmas, or send a card or something, but it's sort of like believing in Santa Claus, I think. After a while, you just stop.

Don't laugh, but I started going to church. Cody and Sheila go, and they keep asking me, and what the hell, right? I got nothing to lose.

Got my grades back for first term, and it's all A's. Got a perfect 4.0 GPA, which just rocks, Dean. I have to keep it above a…3.5, I think, to maintain my scholarship, but dude. I made the Dean's list, and everything. Oh, haha, that looks pretty funny. Did I make your list, Dean?

Love,

Sam

He tucks a copy of his grade report in with the letter, triple-folding the pages very neatly, very precisely, then puts them in the box.

When Sam checks his mailbox later that afternoon, there's a postcard in there from Dallas, Texas. On the back, in Dean's loopy scrawl, is one word: "Cows!" And in spite of the melancholy ache where his heart's supposedly at, Sam laughs, remembering the last time they were driving through somewhere-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, Texas, and had to stop on the highway to wait for a bunch of cows to finish meandering past.

The postcard joins the letter and his grade report, and Sam sets it up on the shelf in his closet, after taping up the corner that looks ready to tear.

~~~~~

March 22, 2003

Hey, Dean,

Can you believe it's been seven months? It's kind of blowing my mind.

I'm so pissed off right now, man. Someone stole my bike! I'm always careful about locking it up good, but there's been a whole bunch of bikes gone missing around campus in the last couple of weeks, so whoever did those probably got mine, too. Assholes.

One of my classes this term is on mythology and folklore, and the mythos of them. It's pretty cool, and I think I impressed the prof with what I know about charms and spells and crap like that. Good to know some of the hunting stuff can come in handy.

I've decided to go ahead with the pre-law thing; if I'm lucky I'll be starting law school in a few years. Weird, huh?

Okay, got stuff to do. Take care, man.

Love,

Sam

Sam hesitates before folding up the letter; eyes the cocktail napkin laying on his desk, bookmarking the spot in his mythology text where he'd been reading before he decided to write the letter. The number on the napkin is written in day-glo orange, 723-3228, because that was the only pen he could find when Jess stopped him on the way to the library and asked if he'd like to go out some time.

She put a smiley face at the end of her name, and Sam finds himself smiling back at it.

He leaves the napkin on his desk; the letter goes into his box.

~~~~~


May 30, 2003

I'm moving off-campus this weekend. Only freshman are required to live in the dorms, and Cody, Jason and Alex and me decided we want something else. We're renting a house on the edge of campus. Between the four of us we should be able to afford it, no problem. Connie's going to keep me on full-time, even over the summer, unless business gets insanely slow. But Palo Alto's a college town, so it doesn't seem likely.

I have a girlfriend, Dean. Her name is Jess. Jessica. I think you'd like her--she's smart, and funny, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. (Especially me.) She asked me out, in fact. She's a psych major, and when she graduates she wants to go into practice working with kids. She's gorgeous--tall (really. She's almost as tall as you, so I don't break my back whenever I kiss her), blond, curves in all the right places. I really like her. A lot. We get along really well; we kind of clicked, right away.

This…the thing is, I'm always going to love you. I think I'll probably always be a little *in* love with you. But I can't have you. Not forever. Not without going back to hunting, back to a life on the road and never settling or knowing what's coming next. And I can't do that, Dean. I can't be that person any more. I want things, I want to be safe and happy and not afraid, and I can't have those and you, too, no matter how much I wish.

Love you,

Sam

The ache in his chest is palpable, and Sam stares at the letter for long, long minutes, until his eyes hurt from not blinking. The paper swims a little when he brings it back in focus, stays fuzzy around the edges while he folds it up.

Goodbye, he thinks. He's saying goodbye.

His door bangs open, and Jason's standing there, face flushed and damp with sweat. "Sam, dude, you all ready? Cody's here with the truck."

"Yeah," Sam says, setting the letter in the box. "I got this last box to tape up, and then I'm good."

"Let's do it, then," Jason says, and tosses the tape toward him.

Goodbye, Dean.

~fin~

Comments

[wendy.livejournal.com]

Honey, I will hold you to that!