Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1449010.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Major_Character_Death
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Sam_Winchester/Original_Male_Character
      (s), Ambiguous_or_Implied_Relationship(s)
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester, Bobby_Singer, Original
      Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Implied/Referenced_Character_Death, Angst, First_Time, First_Kiss,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, Grief/Mourning,
      Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending
  Series:
      Part 1 of We_Know_Each_Other_As_We_Always_Were
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-06-25 Words: 45475
****** We Know Each Other As We Always Were ******
by mickeym
Summary
     In 1941, while the world is at war, Sam Winchester falls in love with
     his brother. They're young, they're in love, and in spite of the
     hardships of life around them, the world is a pretty good one for
     them. Until Dec. 7th, 1941, when Japan launches an air attack on
     Pearl Harbor, sending the US to war against Japan. Dean Winchester
     feels he needs to join the Army; needs to help fight the good fight
     and help save lives. He promises he'll return, but can he keep that
     promise?
Notes
     Written for spn_j2_bigbang, 2008.
     See End Notes for author's notes, thank yous, and so on :)
See the end of the work for more notes
To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know
  each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private
family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We
                 live outside the touch of time. ~Clara Ortega
Prologue
Lawrence, Kansas
November 4, 1928

                  Fire Destroys Three-Family Home, Kills Five
            by Richard Downy, Staff Writer for the Lawrence Journal
Fire broke out late Saturday night in a multi-unit home on Euclid, killing five
and sending two others to the hospital for related injuries. Firefighters were
on the scene quickly, but unable to save the building. They did control the
blaze and kept it from spreading to other nearby homes.
Among the deceased were Philip Averly, 73, and his wife Ruth, 70; Thomas
Winfield, 22; Mary Winchester, 29 and infant daughter. Mary Winchester is
survived by her husband John Winchester, and two sons. Thomas Winfield is
survived by his wife Laura and one daughter. Laura Winfield and her daughter
were taken to Our Lady of Hope hospital for treatment and observation.
The survivors declined commenting.
Cause of the fire is unknown at this time, and still under investigation.
Funeral arrangements for the deceased are pending.
                                     ~~~~~
April 1941
Rural South Dakota
"C'mon, Sammy — get your butt down here and help me."
Dean's shout is loud enough to send the roosting pigeons fluttering upward in
panic-driven flight, showering Sam in a cascade of feathers. He sneezes twice
then marks his place in his book and leans over the edge of the hayloft to give
his brother a grin.
"You know Uncle Bobby told you it's your turn to muck out the stables. I
already done my chores." He doesn't add that Dean wouldn't have the problem of
chores-not-done if he didn't dawdle in places he wasn't supposed to be, like
over at the Marcus's, mooning over Dorothy Marcus.
"You're a little shit, you know that?" Dean scowls up at him and Sam sighs. He
might as well help, because he won't get any peace and quiet until he does, and
he wants to finish another chapter before bed.
"Language," Sam chides, and heads for the ladder, ignoring Dean's mutterings.
He loves this time of year, and this time of the day. The days are lengthening,
sun rising earlier and staying up longer, making it easier to steal a few
minutes of time for himself, away from his brother.
Not that he wants time away from Dean, exactly. But lately being around his
brother makes Sam feel…odd. Flushed and excited, skin too tight and too small
to hold him in. And it's not like he wants to feel this way; he knows he's not
supposed to feel that around another guy — and especially not his own brother.
But he does.
It's gotten worse, too, in the last couple of months. Several times now he's
woken up, dick stiff against his belly, aching for want of—something. A couple
times he's come awake with it pulsing, smearing sticky wetness across his
pajama bottoms and the sheets, Dean's image burning through his dreams. It's
worrisome and annoying, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.
He's not sure that, even if he knew how to make it stop, he'd want it to.
He misses the last rung on the ladder and stumbles right into his brother, arms
and legs wobbling and wind-milling in an effort to catch his balance. Dean
steadies him, hands on Sam's waist, big and broad and warm through his shirt,
and it's just like his dream the other night, the one he woke up out of, dick
still spurting. His dick stiffens now, rubbing against his underwear, and Sam
pushes at Dean, stumbling backward as Dean narrows his eyes.
"Sam." Dean stares at Sam, now practically hugging the barn ladder, and takes a
step toward him. "What's wrong with you lately, anyway? You're jumpier than Mr.
Dobbin's thoroughbreds." When Sam moves backward again, he frowns. "Sammy?
You're acting like I'm gonna hurt you, or something."
"No, I—it's nothin', Dean. Honest." Good mood effectively squashed, Sam sighs.
"Let's just get this done, okay? I want to get to bed."
The look Dean gives him says very clearly that Dean's not buying it, but he
nods. "Sure. Yeah."
Mucking out the stalls is dirty, tiring, boring work the boys can practically
do in their sleep, and in an effort to bring his traitorous body under control,
Sam finds himself thinking about all sorts of things: family, what little he
can remember of the months and years before they came to live with Uncle Bobby,
the day they came.
He was seven. Sam remembers that clearly, though so much of that year is foggy,
covered in shadows. Heck, pretty much everything up until that point is covered
in shadows. But yeah, he was seven…small and thin, scrawny, even. Dean was
almost twelve, and at that time twelve seemed so grown-up; an age Sam couldn't
even imagine being. He's older now than Dean was then, and some days he feels
even older than not-quite-fifteen, but Sam thinks Dean's always going to seem
larger than life to him. Larger, even, than Dad ever seemed.
It's funny how his earliest memories aren't of a momma, or even of his dad;
they're of Dean.
Dean tucking him into bed. Dean snuggling up against him, helping to keep him
warm. Dean frowning when there was nothing but some stale bread and coffee left
to eat, and Dad was passed out in the back of the shanty or boarding house
room. Dean patiently teaching him his letters and numbers, playing games with
him and reading to him.
Everything leads back to Dean, it seems. Sam stabs the shovel down into the
muck with more force than necessary and tries to refocus by thinking of his
parents.
He's seen a couple of photographs of his mother, but he has no memory at all of
her. All he knows is Momma and the tiny, new baby sister died when their house
caught on fire. He knows he was given to Dean, who carried him out of the
house, but that it was too late for Dad to get Momma and the baby out.
Dean remembered Momma, though, and at night he would whisper his memories to
Sam in the form of bedtime stories, when they were huddled under the covers
against the cold or couldn't sleep because it was too hot or their bellies
growled with hunger. Momma sounded kind of like an angel, and Dean said she was
an angel now, watching over them from far above.
Dad's memory is closer, though it's been over seven years since they saw him.
In Sam's mind he's a big man, with a gravelly voice, and a salt-and-pepper
beard. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sam sees this man holding him in his
arms and laughing while Sam pets his face, the beard scratchy-soft against his
fingers. He has that one memory of Dad — Daddy — that shines out from the
others. Most of his memories are of Dad with liquor on his breath and hanging
like a cloud around him; of Dad scowling or yelling at them, "damned kids, keep
that noise down!" There was one time, well, one of many, that Dad left him and
Dean alone while he went out — drinking, working, driving, who knew — and Sam
fell and twisted his ankle badly. Dad yelled at Dean something awful when he
came back home, and it made Sam so mad, mad enough to hit at Dad with small,
ineffectual fists, crying the whole time.
That'd been a really bad night, with Sam crying, and Dad yelling, and Dean
quiet as death. Afterward, Dad passed out again, and that time it was Sam
holding on to Dean, petting his hair and snuggling into him, while Dean
muttered, "it's okay, Sammy, he didn't mean none of it. He loves us, he does."
It wasn't too long after that, that Dad brought them up to South Dakota, and
Uncle Bobby.
                                     ~~~~~
December 1933
Rural South Dakota
Uncle Bobby is Momma's brother. Sam doesn't remember ever meeting him before,
though Dean says he was at the funerals for Momma and baby Eleanor. Sam doesn't
remember those, either.
He's a big man, though not quite as big as Daddy, and he sounds kind of gruff
when he talks, though he smiles at both Sam and Dean. He has a beard and
moustache, heavier than Daddy's, and wears a cap on his head. His eyes are
blue, with lots of crinkles around them. He's standing on the porch of his
house when they drive up, with a big, funny-looking dog running circles around
him.
"John, you look like hell," is the first thing he says when they've all piled
out of the car, hand extended for Daddy to shake. Then, "this isn't Sammy, is
it? Hellfire, but you've grown, boy! And Dean, you're purt 'near tall as me!"
He makes a gesture toward the dog, trying to settle it. "Down, Buster. Down,
dog."
"I'm almost twelve, Uncle Bobby," Dean says, looking between their Uncle and
his dog. Sam knows how much Dean likes dogs; he's probably dying to pet him.
"That so? Well, it shows. You're gonna be a big 'un, like your Dad." Uncle
Bobby holds his hand out to Dean, then squats down in front of Sam, who's
shying back behind Dean. "Don't remember me, do you, Sammy?"
After a moment of silence Dean pokes Sam in the side. He shakes his head and
squeaks, "N-no, Sir."
Uncle Bobby smiles. "You were just a little tyke when I saw you last. I'm not
surprised. Reckon I'd be more surprised if you did remember me."
Sam's going to say something, he opens his mouth to do that, because Uncle
Bobby seems like a really nice guy — not many adults come down to Sam's level
to talk — but Daddy's already talking again, standing there impatiently, face
drawn up tight like it's been so often. "Boys, I need to talk to Bobby. You go
on, play with the dog or something."
It's cold out, and Sam really doesn't want to play with the dog. He wants to
know what's going on, because he has the weirdest knot growing in his belly,
and the hair on his arms and the back of his neck is rising in a way that has
nothing to do with being cold. Something's about to happen, something that's
going to change things, he can feel it in the air. Dean must feel it too,
because he's not moving, either.
"Boys," Dad begins again, getting that pinched look on his face that usually
means he's about to start yelling.
"John, it's too damn cold outside for any of us. Come on in the house and
pretend you're a civilized man." Uncle Bobby is up and dusting off the knees of
his overalls, ignoring the thundercloud of anger practically hanging over them.
"C'mon, boys. You can warm up by the fire and I'll fix you some cocoa."
Even in the front hall it's warm, almost stifling after the searing cold
outside. Sam and Dean hang their coats up on the wooden pegs of the hall tree
before trailing after Uncle Bobby into the living room. Dad hangs back, coat
undone but not off, until Uncle Bobby calls behind them, "You ain't leavin'
right away, John Winchester. Take your coat off and sit down and rest. You look
like death warmed over."
"Feel like it, Bobby. Listen, I need to ask a favor."
Their dad's voice is muffled when Uncle Bobby closes the door behind him,
shutting the living room off from the kitchen.
"C'mon, let's look around." Dean's looking all around the room, inspecting the
walls, the mantle over the fireplace, the shelves, everything, so Sam follows
his lead and looks, too.
Uncle Bobby's house is pretty neat, even if they've only been in the entryway
and the front room. It's the first real house Sam has any memory of being in,
and he's fascinated by the furniture — a sofa and two huge, overstuffed chairs,
a bunch of different sized tables (most of them really little, which makes Sam
wonder what good they'd be), and lamps, and finally, the book shelves.
One whole wall of the room is nothing but shelves, and those shelves are full
of books. Not the picture books Sam is used to, nor the Dick and Jane primers
he reads. No, these are big books, full of words in teeny, tiny print. Sam's
drawn to them like a magnet to steel; he's never seen so many books all in one
place, ever. Not even in classrooms, the few times he's been to an actual
school. One book in particular catches his eye; it's bigger than most of the
others, with some funny-looking gold stuff on the edges of all the pages. The
title of the book is HOLY BIBLE, which Sam thinks is a funny name for a book.
When he says as much out loud, Dean rolls his eyes and smacks the back of Sam's
head.
"It's God's book, Sammy," he says. "Everything God ever said's in here."
Sam doesn't know how he feels about that: if it's everything God's ever said,
shouldn't the book be a lot bigger even than this? When he asks Dean that, Dean
shakes his head and wanders off to look at the writing desk on the far side of
the room, muttering about stupid little brothers.
Sam runs a reverent, hesitant finger down the spine of the Bible book, and
looks over at Dean. "D'you think it's okay? If I look at it?"
Dean shrugs. "I think God probably doesn't care, but I dunno 'bout Uncle
Bobby." After a minute he adds, "I never heard of anyone gettin' a whipping for
reading the Bible, so go ahead."
It's a big, heavy book, and the pages are kind of funny feeling, thin and
whispery, and not at all like the books he's used to. There's all kinds of
writing in the front of it, on the first few pages: names and dates, though the
writing is hard to read. Sam skips past those pages, making a note to ask Dean
later what they are, and finds the first page with actual words on it. He forms
the words carefully, silently, finger underlining each one as he reads:
1 First God made heaven & earth 2 The earth was without form and void, and
darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over
the face of the waters. 3 And God said, "Let there be light"; and there was
light. 4 And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from
the darkness. 5 God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And
there was evening and there was morning, one day. 6 And God said, "Let there be
a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the
waters."
It's odd, compared to every other book he's ever read, and harder to read, too,
but Sam kind of likes the way the words flow, so he wriggles until he's
comfortable on the big sofa, and keeps reading.
Both boys settle eventually, Sam with his Bible and Dean with a Sears and
Roebucks catalogue. He never does remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up
it's morning-bright in the room and chilly since the fire's mostly out, and Dad
is nowhere to be found.
                                     ~~~~~
"Sam. Sammy!."
It's kind of jarring, being pulled out of his thoughts so abruptly, and Sam
scowls at Dean. "What?"
Dean gestures wildly, taking in the barn and horse stalls. "The hell, Sam? You
were just standing there, staring out the back of the barn. Stalls ain't gonna
clean themselves."
"Sorry," he mumbles, forgetting to remind Dean this isn't his chore he's
helping with. "Was just thinking."
"You looked about a million miles away." Dean's voice is softer, almost gentle.
"Yeah." Sam leans his shovel against the barn wall and grabs up an armful of
hay to spread around. "I was thinking—'bout when we came here. Do you. Do you
ever think about Dad?" He regrets asking almost immediately when a flush comes
up on Dean's cheeks that has nothing to do with what they're doing, or the
falling temperatures.
Dean took it the hardest when they woke up that morning with no dad around. He
yelled at Sam repeatedly, hid in the attic until he was blue with cold, stomped
around and snarled at the horses, at Buster, even at Uncle Bobby. As the days
bled into weeks, with Christmas and a new year, and Dean's twelfth birthday
passing, it was obvious to everyone John Winchester wasn't coming back. It took
almost a year before Dean would even mention their father, and another year
after that before Sam ever brought him up.
He doesn't ask often, mostly because it's still clearly a sore subject for his
brother. But sometimes Sam wonders what happened to their dad. Why he left; why
he never came back. Where he went.
"Sometimes," Dean says finally, the word kind of hoarse. Sam drops the hay on
the floor of the stall and goes to stand beside Dean; quiet comfort, if he
wants it. Dean doesn't cotton to hugs much anymore; says they're for girls and
babies. But once in a while, like now, Dean will lean in toward Sam, bumping
their shoulders together. "I wonder sometimes," he says softly, voice almost a
whisper, "if I'da done better, looking after you and stuff, if he woulda kept
us with him."
"You did fine!" Sam forgets he's trying to comfort, and turns indignantly.
"Wasn't him who made sure we got to eat and stuff, or taught me how to read—"
"Never shoulda done that, either," Dean says gruffly. "Can't ever get your nose
out of a book, now."
"Very funny." Sam huffs the words out. "But Dean, c'mon. You can't — you can't
blame yourself."
"Why not?" Dean shakes his head. "Why else would he have left us here?"
"Maybe because he wanted something more for you than driving around in that
beat up car, watching him drink hisself to death?" Uncle Bobby's voice carries
across the barn, and Sam and Dean whip around, Sam nearly knocking them both
over when he throws himself off balance. He's grown five inches in the last
several months, and his body just doesn't behave for him anymore. Uncle Bobby
shakes his head at them, coming inside to lean against one of the barn poles.
"Dean…Sam…I know it hurt you boys, getting left here. But your daddy…he did the
right thing. I truly believe that."
Dean's quiet beside Sam, his face shuttered in a way Sam knows means he's
trying to shut the emotions out. So he asks what he knows they both wonder, and
what he knows Dean never will ask, himself. "But why? Why'd he leave us? Didn't
he love us anymore?"
Uncle Bobby sighs. "It's because he loved you that he brought you here." The
ever-present cap is lifted and Bobby runs his fingers through graying hair
before settling it back on his head. "Boys, he loved your momma…I ain't never
seen a man love a woman so hard… and I don't think he could handle life here
without her. But he knew it wasn't fair to the two of you, neither, to keep
dragging you all around, while he mourned."
"You said — you said 'loved'." Sam looks down at the floor, at the straw
scattered everywhere under his feet, then back up at Uncle Bobby. "D'you think
Dad's still… is he—" His throat closes over the words, though, and beside him,
Dean goes rigid.
"I don't know, Son," Uncle Bobby says, after a long minute. "I know he didn't
want to be living without Mary, but I don't know if he'd…I don't know if he'd
take his own life, or be intentionally reckless. I knew your daddy a while,
loved him like the brother I never had, but losing someone you love like he
loved your momma…it changes a person."
Sam swallows hard, and in the quiet left behind after Uncle Bobby finishes
talking, he hears Dean breathing fast and rough. He won't look to see if Dean's
eyes are wet, because, well, that's a private thing. Sam doesn't like Dean to
know when he cries; he figures Dean doesn't want him to know. But in the space
of a heartbeat, hardly longer than it takes Sam to think that, Dean's off like
a shot, running out and away from the barn. Sam turns to go after him, fear
rippling down his spine, but Uncle Bobby lays a hand on his arm.
"Let him go, Sam. He needs to work it out on his own, his own way."
"But." Sam shakes his head. "It's getting dark—"
"Ain't nothin' out there your brother can't handle." Uncle Bobby sighs and
turns. "Let's finish up here, so we can get to bed before it's time to get back
up."
Sam takes one last look out the barn door, to where Dean is hardly more than a
speck against the setting sun, then sighs and turns away. "Yes, Sir."
                                     ~~~~~
Sam spends a couple of hours sitting up in bed, quilts pulled up nearly to his
chin against the nighttime chill, eyes trained on the door and ears straining
to hear any creaks or groans from the front door or stairs. He's waiting for
Dean to come back, yeah, but he's also thinking about what Uncle Bobby said
earlier. Could a person really love someone so much they didn't want to live,
if that person died?
Sam tries to imagine a life without Dean, and all he gets is an ache in his
chest that feels like he's been hollowed out.
"Stupid," he mutters to himself, and knuckles stinging eyes impatiently. The
whole world's at war, there's all sorts of people here at home who don't have
enough to eat or a job, and he's crying over…stupid things.
But the thought of his life without Dean in it lingers like cold fingers
streaking over him, leaving uneasiness in their wake.
He doesn't remember falling asleep — had, in fact, planned to stay awake until
Dean came home — but Sam wakes up when the mattress dips and shifts, bedsprings
creaking in protest. Dean's a dark silhouette against the light of the moon
streaming through thin curtains.
Sam yawns and shifts over, making room. "How far didja run?"
Dean's quiet for so long Sam's nearly asleep again before he answers. "Creek
bed by the old Larson place."
That's over five miles away. Sam wants to throw his arms around Dean, hold him
close, comfort both of them. Instead he rolls onto his side, shifting so he can
see Dean, and yawns again. "You should get some sleep. It's gonna be time to
get up before long."
"Mmm. In a minute." Dean settles himself on the side of the bed, sitting up
with his back against the brass headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. He
must've left his boots downstairs, Sam thinks drowsily. He blinks up at Dean,
trying to wake up enough to ask if he's okay when Dean combs his fingers
slowly, gently, through Sam's hair. "Sorry," he says, the word hardly more than
a whisper.
That wakes Sam up a little. "For what?"
"Takin' off like that."
Sam manages a half-shrug and wiggles a little closer to Dean. The fingers in
his hair comb and pet, tugging now and then, and it's soothing in a way nothing
else has ever been. "I get it," he says. "I shouldn't have…shouldn't've brought
all that up anyway."
"Nah, it's fine." Dean tugs a little harder, and Sam tips his head to try and
see his brother's face better, to see what he's trying to say without words. "I
— you know I wouldn't…leave you. Like he did. You know that, right?"
Sam swallows, his eyes prickling again. "Y-yeah. I know."
"Good." There's a moment when Sam thinks Dean's going to say something else,
and his heart stutters in his chest, like a hiccup. Instead Dean sighs. "Get
some sleep, little brother."
When he moves like he's going to get off the bed, Sam grabs at Dean's arm.
"Stay here, tonight? Please?" Sam hates sleeping alone, and while they're both
almost too big to fit in the same bed, and Dean has his own room, with his own
bed, there's as many nights as not the boys end up sleeping together, curled up
like it's them against the world.
"Sure," Dean says, voice soft. "But you gotta promise me something."
"Anything," Sam breathes, anticipation shivering through him. Anticipation of
what, he doesn't know. But — something.
The pause drags out, and Sam's ready to wriggle out of his skin when Dean's
voice finally washes over him. "You gotta promise not to hog all the covers. A
fella could freeze to death, sleeping with you."
It feels like all the air leaves Sam's body in a whoosh, and he stutters before
finding his voice again. "You — Dean!"
"Shhh." There's a hint of a smile in Dean's voice, now, and it's worth the odd
let-down feeling for Sam to hear it. "Don't wake Uncle Bobby."
"You're such a jerk." Sam closes his eyes, sleep tugging at him again, and
stretches one hand out to rest it on Dean's leg.
"Yeah, and you're a pain in my ass." The hand in his hair rubs gently, though,
and Sam hears all Dean doesn't say in the words he is saying.
He's drifting again, almost asleep, when warm hands push him onto his side and
the solid weight of Dean's arm slides over him; the heat of Dean's body close
against his back. Later, Sam isn't sure if it's real or just his hopeful
imagination, but he's sure he feels Dean's lips brush the back of his neck.
                                     ~~~~~
"You need me for planting today?" Sam's busy skimming cream off last night's
milk when Uncle Bobby comes into the kitchen, and he breathes out in relief
when Bobby shakes his head no, already veering toward the coffee pot burbling
on the back burner of the stove.
"Nah. I reckon me an' Dean can finish up. I'd rather you finish up the school
year, this year." The scent of the coffee mingles nicely with the bacon and
potatoes frying, and Sam steps around Uncle Bobby to open the oven and check on
the toast. "No eggs?"
Sam shakes his head. "Hens wouldn't let me close enough to get 'em. Stupid
birds."
He'd rather finish up the school year this year, too. Not that not finishing
the year has ever been a problem in the past; he's always been able pass the
exams and progress into the next grade at the beginning of the next school
year. But it's easier if he can finish the year out.
Uncle Bobby laughs. "Self-preservation ain't stupid, Sam. Chickens are
smarter'n people give 'em credit for."
"Yeah, well, I wanted eggs this morning."
"I wanted a million bucks when I woke up, but you don't see me whining." Dean
bops Sam on the head with his fist, and squeezes around both Sam and Bobby to
get to the coffeepot. "'Morning, Uncle Bobby, Sammy."
"Hey!" Sam rubs his head and scowls, but all Dean does is grin at him.
"Someone's in a good mood this morning. Bet the livestock appreciated that."
Bobby deftly tips the potatoes into a serving bowl and heads for the table.
"Sam, didn't you make any oatmeal?"
"Sorry, I forgot." Sam didn't really forget, and he's not really sorry, because
he can't stand oatmeal. But he smiles apologetically, flashing his dimples, and
Uncle Bobby sighs.
"S'okay. I can live one morning without it, I suppose."
There's a loud clatter and a smothered curse from Dean. "Someone remind me to
fix this damn drawer later? I'm tired of dropping forks and knives all over my
feet every morning."
"Language, boy." Uncle Bobby helps him pick the silverware up and get it and
the plates to the table while Sam gets the toast out of the oven and takes the
bacon up. "Sammy, make sure you pour you and Dean both some milk, then set the
rest of it back in the icebox. I'm going to take some over to the MacKenzie's
place later."
"Yes, Sir." Sam pours some of the milk into a battered tin pitcher and sets it
aside, then puts the rest of the big jug back in the refrigerator, giving Bobby
a grin. "You know we don't actually put ice in there any more, right? What with
that fancy new electricity?"
"Boys with smart mouths end up with extra chores," Bobby fires back, sitting
down at the table. "Dean, I told Sam we didn't need him to finish up planting
today."
Dean groans. "Can I go back to school? Or go in Sammy's place? Let him stay and
drive the mules."
It's funny now, a little, but it was a sore subject for a while, because Dean
didn't get to finish school. There was no local school for what should've been
his last two years of senior high school; the county ran out of funds and
couldn't pay the teachers nor keep the building heated. There'd been some talk
for a while about charging tuition — some rural counties around the country
were resorting to doing that — but there wasn't anyone in their district who
could afford that. So Dean didn't graduate.
"The mules like you better," Sam says quickly, and ducks when Dean pretends
he's going to throw his toast. "Hey, it's not my fault if they recognize one of
their own!"
"Is it too late to trade him in for a new plow?" Dean asks in an imploring
voice. He shrugs when Uncle Bobby raises an eyebrow. "A puppy? New radio? No?
Damn."
"Gettin' awful free with that cussin', aren't you? Might oughta send you back
to Sunday school." Uncle Bobby tosses back the rest of his coffee back and
stands up to pour another cup. "Best get to eatin', Dean, so we can get to
work. Crops ain't gonna plant themselves. Sammy, make yourself some sandwiches
with the rest of the bacon, for lunch. Me an' Dean will have somethin' else
when we take a break."
"Will do." Sam's already shoveling food in; he still has some homework to
finish up before heading out for school, and of course, the ever-present chores
that just don't do themselves. "'S'it okay if I finish up the laundry after
school? I'll hang the sheets out before I leave, so they're all dry."
"Just don't forget," Uncle Bobby says, slurping at his coffee. "Lemme have some
of that milk, huh?"
Things quiet down after that as they all concentrate on eating. It's not a big
farm, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a lot of work to be
done to keep it operating smoothly, not to mention the household chores that
seem to be never ending. With it being only the three of them, they all put in
long hours at often back-breaking work. Sam wouldn't have it any different,
though; he loves the farm and all that goes with it: harvest and planting both,
lazy summer afternoons spent swimming in the small lake at the far northern
boundary of the farm, and cozy winter nights spent making and eating popcorn
and listening to the radio with Dean and Uncle Bobby. He remembers the fear and
uncertainty of life with his Dad, when he and Dean never knew for sure if they
were going to have something to eat at the end of the day, or where they might
sleep. Uncle Bobby might not be rich, or even particularly well-to-do, but he's
always made sure they had plenty to eat and the same pillow to lie their heads
on every night.
Sam tunes out the low back-and-forth between Dean and Uncle Bobby about getting
the last field planted. He knows he and Dean will work on the vegetable garden
this next weekend, but between him and Dean, Dean is actually a better farmer.
Sam can do the work — doesn't mind getting dirty, or sunburned, or lifting/
chopping/hauling until his body aches — but Dean has a better feel for it. He
seems to understand, instinctively, what needs doing, and when.
There's going to be a dance at the high school on Friday, and Sam wonders if he
should go. He doesn't have much interest in dancing, but he knows Uncle Bobby
likes it when he socializes some with the other kids in the area. Even with
attending school, and various church functions, they're still pretty isolated
out here, so school and church activities are really the only time to
socialize. The only reason they have that 'new-fangled electricity', as Uncle
Bobby likes to call it, is because the big-money farm in the county ponied up
most of the money to get things going.
And that brings his thoughts back to school, and the dance, which they're
having to kick off having electricity.
The thing is...Sam doesn't want to go to the dance and hang out or dance with
the girls he knows. He kind of wants to go to the dance with Dean, as his date.
The person he dances with. Which is never, ever going to happen anywhere or
anytime other than in his dreams, even if it's not just a school dance, but
more a community thing, to celebrate, and Dean could come with him if he
wanted.
He shouldn't even think about dancing with Dean, though this isn't just a
crush, or a physical attraction, like he's been trying to tell himself for
months.
Oh, Sam knows if he said something to anyone, if he could, they'd say to him,
"You're too young to know how you feel; you can't be in love, that takes time
and you're so young." Or something like that. But he's had his entire life,
almost fifteen years, to know Dean. To love Dean. To know that Dean is his
whole world.
"Whose turn is it for dishes this mornin'?" The question breaks through Sam's
thoughts, and he glances over at his brother, saying "Dean's" at the same time
Dean says "Sam's". Uncle Bobby snorts. "Sam, you get all your homework done
last night?"
"Mostly." Sam finishes his milk and pushes back his chair. "I can finish up my
reading at lunch." Dishes don't take that long, anyway. "You guys go get
started; I'll get the dishes done. Gotta make my lunch anyway."
Dean shoves away from the table. "Don't have to tell me twice!"
"Never, when work's involved," Sam shoots back. He grins when Dean sticks his
tongue out. "Bring some more water in for me, though?"
"Yeah, sure." Dean makes a big show of flexing his muscles until Uncle Bobby
shoves at him with a gruff, "Get on with it, Boy."
Now that the county has electricity, Sam's kind of looking forward to
eventually getting an electric pump, for the well, and a hot water heater. No
more heating gallons of water on the stove to do dishes, or laundry, or take a
bath. He keeps his thoughts to himself about the bathing part, though, because
Dean teases him about being a girl when he mentions that.
Dean and Uncle Bobby clear out of the kitchen, and the house, in a scuffle of
boots on hardwood floors, and a slamming of doors. Dean's back in and out
twice, bringing water, then he's gone, too, leaving Sam to the quiet of the
house in early morning.
Maybe too quiet, because his thoughts wander while waiting for the water to
heat up, and making his lunch. He woke up this morning with Dean curled around
him like a living blanket, breathing warm against the back of his neck. That in
itself would be enough to get Sam hard, and he was, like pretty much every
other morning of his life. Except this morning, with Dean around him like that,
Sam felt Dean's morning erection pressing against him, throbbing even through
the fabric of their pajamas. He made it out of bed and into the bathroom before
making a mess all over himself, but it was a close thing.
Thinking about it now makes Sam flush all over and he presses his hand against
his fly, feeling his growing erection, lengthening and thickening as he rubs.
He shivers and presses harder, fingers splaying outward until he's basically
humping into his hand.
He knows it's not a big deal to masturbate. Uncle Bobby was pretty matter-of-
fact about it when he sat Sam and Dean down one evening, years ago, to talk
about it (though he did say that not everyone was as liberal-minded about it as
he was, and to keep quiet about it with other kids). It's a much bigger deal to
masturbate in the kitchen, while day-dreaming about what your brother might
look like, hard and flushed and wanting you back. Sam doesn't care. No one's
around; even Buster's outside. It's just Sam and his thoughts, and he jerks the
buttons on his pants until they open and he can reach inside his underwear and
draw his dick out.
It feels so good to touch himself; it would feel a hundred times better if it
was Dean touching him. Sam strokes himself slowly, then faster, pausing only to
spit into his hand to ease the burn a little. He closes his eyes and thinks of
his brother, tall and broad, skin freckled from so much time spent out-of-
doors. Sam wants to kiss those freckles, follow them with his tongue. Taste
Dean's bellybutton, and the hair growing downward from there. He grunts as heat
sweeps through his body, boiling his blood. Imagines Dean standing before him,
pushing his pants down over strong thighs. Imagines Dean's erection, how it
would look and feel. Wonders if he tastes the way Sam does, semen a little
bitter, kind of salty.
The heat's reached flashpoint inside him, and Sam pants as he jerks himself
faster, harder, his balls drawing up against his body. He feels so hot, shaky,
sweat prickling his neck in spite of the cool breeze blowing in through the
kitchen window. Coming feels like a lightning storm inside him, hot and cold
streaking through him, moving outward from the base of his spine. It's
pleasure-pain at its finest, and Sam grips at the wood of the counter with his
free hand, panting out the one word still floating through his mind: "…Dean…"
He's barely caught his breath, chest still heaving and body still shivering,
when Sam hears a noise behind him. It's like an intake of breath and a gasp all
at once, a strangled noise of shock or surprise, and Sam whirls around to see
Dean standing there in the doorway, staring at him, eyes wide and dark. Sam
stumbles back a step or two as Dean takes one forward, trying desperately to
find the dishtowel to wipe his hands. He's hanging out of his pants, and Dean's
still staring, not saying a word, not moving any more.
Sam swallows roughly, not sure if he should even try to say anything; not sure
what he could say. Dean holds his position for another agonizing few seconds,
then turns and darts back out the door, but not before Sam sees the erection
pushing against Dean's pants.
                                     ~~~~~
For the first time in a long time, Sam has trouble focusing on school, on his
teachers, on anything. He wants to get home, find Dean, and see if he's
sickened by what he saw, or angry, or anything else.
Dean said he wouldn't ever leave Sam, not like Dad did. But that was before
this morning. Before Sam made a mess out of everything.
"Sam, are you going to the dance on Friday?" It's a soft, feminine voice
calling him, and Sam turns around to see Becky Summers watching him from the
doorway of the Chemistry lab. Not for the first time he wishes he could like
her the way she obviously likes him.
"I dunno," he says finally, dodging around a couple of younger kids racing down
the hallway. "We're busy doing a lot of planting right now, and we gotta get
the garden in, this weekend."
"You aren't going to miss the rest of the school year, are you?"
"I sure hope not. Uncle Bobby said he an' Dean can probably finish up the rest
of the field crops without me, but that doesn't mean there isn't still a lot to
do." Sam smiles at the expression on Becky's face. Her family farms, too, but
unlike his home, at hers, there are six kids and her parents, plus her grandpa
lives with them. Lots of people to divide the chores up between.
"I'll save a dance for you, Sam," she says, smiling shyly at him. "Just in
case."
Sam can't help grinning, even as his face heats up. Last fall, Becky asked him
to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and he didn't have the heart to tell her no. It was
kind of a disaster, because Sam isn't very coordinated under the best of
circumstances, and that's only gotten worse since he started growing like
crazy. But it ended up being fun, because Becky is a fun person. She's pretty,
and smart, and interesting to talk to. He honestly likes her, but that's all it
is. She's a friend. He doesn't want to court her, or anything else.
"Okay," he says finally, nodding. "I'll, um. I'll try to be there."
"Swell!" She leans in and gives him a hasty kiss on his cheek before giggling
and darting off, calling behind her, "Bye, Sam!" Sam stares after her, bemused,
until he realizes the bell just rang and he's late to his last class of the
day.
Swell, indeed.
He's sitting in class and listening to Mr. Dryer drone on about Shakespeare
when it occurs to Sam that Friday is his birthday.
There won't be any going-to-the-dance, because the tradition for both Sam and
Dean is to go to the movies for their birthdays, and the birthday boy gets to
pick the feature. Sometimes Uncle Bobby goes, sometimes he doesn't; it really
depends on what the movie of choice is. Uncle Bobby's kind of odd about movies;
he likes the ones that don't talk. Says the 'talking pictures' make his head
hurt.
Citizen Kane is supposed to be released into theaters this week, according to
the advertisements Sam's heard on the radio. Their little town will probably
even get this one, though Sam will happily make the trip to Rapid City, if
that's what it takes. Assuming Dean will even go with him after what he saw
this morning.
"…and who can tell me what Shakespeare's telling us, with Romeo and Juliet?
Sam?"
Sam startles when Mr. Dryer calls his name, and feels heat crawl across his
face. "Um. That, uh. That love's…love's a tragedy?"
Someone behind him snickers, and Mr. Dryer gives Sam a pained look; a look that
plainly says I expected more and better from you. Sam sighs. Today's been the
worst day in the history of ever, and it just will not end.
He's saved from any further humiliation by the bell ringing. Mr. Dryer calls
out a reminder that their essays on Shakespeare are due Friday and there will
be no leniency for late papers. Sam slams his book closed and sets about
buckling his bookstrap tight. It would only make a bad day that much worse to
lose his books this close to the end of the school year.
The day's over, and after the heart-stopping incident this morning, Sam's not
sure he's going to be able to go home and face Dean. He loves his brother so
much, it's going to kill him to have Dean tell him what a sick, disturbed
person he is. Still, he's not a coward, or at least he likes to think he's not,
so Sam squares his shoulders and starts the mile-plus walk home.
                                     ~~~~~
As it turns out, Sam doesn't see Dean until Friday morning when he drags in
from the neighboring farm where he's been helping out with a mare birthing its
first colt. He looks as tired as Sam's ever seen him, but there's a
peacefulness to his face Sam hasn't seen in a while, either.
Sam and Uncle Bobby are in the middle of getting breakfast, and Sam's heart
stutters once at the smile Dean gives him. He hadn't thought he'd get to see
that smile again; had been torn between elation and fear at getting to put off
the anticipated confrontation when he got home and Uncle Bobby told him Dean
was gone for at least a day or two. It warms him clear through when Dean's eyes
linger just a moment longer than they need to as he sits down at the table.
"Well?" Uncle Bobby's already pulling out another set of silverware.
"Twins," Dean tells him, nodding his thanks when Sam hands him a cup of coffee.
"Prettiest little filly you ever seen, and a colt with enough attitude for the
both of 'em."
Uncle Bobby nods. "And the mare?"
"She's fine. It was touch and go for a while; the colt was breach, and we
weren't sure we were gonna be able to get him turned around without breaking
her pelvis."
"But you did?" Sam's busy dishing up potatoes and eggs — stupid hens weren't
going to keep him from the eggs forever, hah — and pauses to spoon oatmeal into
two bowls. He hates the stuff, but Dean and Uncle Bobby both love it, and it'd
be too much of a stretch to 'forget' it two days in the same week. Besides,
Dean looks like he hasn't eaten in at least two days, which is probably pretty
likely. He and Mr. Thompson both get pretty single-minded when it comes to
delivering baby anythings.
"Don't forget the sugar," Dean says, reaching for the oatmeal. There's another
look Sam can't quite interpret, and his fingers linger, taking the bowls.
Dean's warmer than the bowls but Sam shivers anyway, goose bumps breaking out
all over his arms. "And hey, Sammy?"
Sam's just turned away to get the bowl of brown sugar, so he glances back over
his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Happy birthday." The smile that comes with the words makes it hard for Sam to
breathe for a minute.
"Th-thanks." He grabs the sugar, and the pitcher of milk on the counter, and
heads for the table.
Uncle Bobby's giving both of them an odd look. "You boys okay?"
Dean nods, in the process of grabbing the sugar from Sam's hands. "Yep. Just
wasn't sure I was gonna get home in time to wish Sam a happy birthday."
"Mmm." Uncle Bobby eyes Sam again over his coffee cup, but turns his attention
to his breakfast and the things that need done around the house and farm. "I
finished up the planting yesterday. Thompson sent his two youngest boys over to
help out in your place. You an' Sammy still gonna do the vegetable garden this
weekend?"
"Yes, Sir," both boys say at the same time. Sam smiles down into his potatoes
and eggs, feeling light-hearted for the first time in days. Dean doesn't hate
him, isn't mad at him, isn't leaving him. "It's Sam's birthday," Dean
continues, and Sam looks up.
"It is," Uncle Bobby says evenly, spooning up oatmeal.
"Movie night." Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam. "If you still want to go?"
"Citizen Kane opened yesterday," Sam breathes. "And I think it's playing in
town."
"Gonna take that as a yes, then." Dean's smirking now. "Hopefully there'll be
some kind of horror film playing with it. Uncle Bobby, you gonna go with us?"
Bobby looks from Sam to Dean, and back again. "You're not going to the dance at
the school, then?"
Sam swallows. "Uh."
Dean frowns. "School dance?"
"I saw Mister Summers at the general store yesterday; he said something or
other 'bout Becky bein' excited you were goin' to the dance with her?"
Sam flushes; the flush turns into a tight knot of panic when Dean looks at him,
some of the happy dimming in his eyes. "No! No, I said I didn't know if I was
going," he says, the words tumbling out. "She said she'd save me a dance if I
did, but I talked to her before I remembered it was gonna be my birthday today.
I don't—."
"You boys could go to the pictures tomorrow, after you do the garden," Bobby
says, not unkindly, but Sam shakes his head.
"I never said I was taking her. Or going. I said maybe. It's my birthday, I
want…I want to go to the movies." I want to go to the movies with Dean.
"Then we're goin' to the movies." That odd gleam is back in Dean's eyes and a
little of Sam's panic recedes, though the adrenaline pumping through him has
pretty much killed his appetite. "Uncle Bobby? You goin'?"
Bobby shakes his head. "You know how I feel 'bout these new-fangled picture
shows. Too loud; it's kind of like being stuck inside the tool shed when
there's a hail storm." Sam snorts and pokes at his plate while Dean snickers.
Uncle Bobby rounds on them both. "Just wait 'til the two of you ain't so young
and pretty. It's gonna happen one-a these days, you'll wake up and be old."
"You're not old, Uncle Bobby." Sam kind of feels obliged to say it, but he also
kind of believes it. Uncle Bobby looks the same as he looked when they first
came to live with him, like he just doesn't age, except for his hair, which is
more silvery than it used to be.
"Kid, there are days I feel downright ancient. And them talking picture shows
you boys like so much are just one of the things makin' me feel that way."
Bobby slurps down the rest of his coffee and pushes back from the table. "What
time you reckon you'll be leavin' for the show?"
Dean looks at Sam. "You wanna play hooky today? We could go to Rapid City,
instead. Leave after we finish up chores."
It's tempting. Sam almost says yes, just to see if the light in Dean's eyes
gets any brighter. But then he remembers the Shakespeare essay he has to turn
in, and the fact that Dean's likely not had much sleep, if any, in the last 48
hours.
"Can't," he says finally, pushing back from the table. "Got stuff I gotta do at
school. Papers due." He makes a face. "We've been reading Shakespeare's stuff,
and had to write essays about three of his plays."
"Sounds like a party," Dean says, scraping his spoon around the bowl his
oatmeal was in. "Guess I can wash up the dishes this mornin'. Bein' it's your
birthday, and all."
"You should get some sleep." Sam busies himself with making some cheese and
tomato sandwiches and finding a small tin to put the leftover fried potatoes
in. He can take those with his sandwiches, too. Seems like more and more often
he's searching out things to take in his lunch pail, since he's always hungry.
Always. "Don't want to end up sleeping through the movies."
"I'll sleep later." Dean bops Sam on the head as he walks past him.
"Hey!" Sam scowls. "What's with you and hitting me on the head all the time?"
"Be glad it's not a birthday spanking." Dean bops him again, and for just a
second, Sam thinks he feels a warm caress instead. "You're not too old or too
big, is he, Uncle Bobby?"
"Never too old or big for a spankin'," Uncle Bobby returns, laughing outright
at the look on Sam's face. "Could take both-a ya over my knee, if I needed to."
Sam looks at Dean and they both laugh. Dean's taller than Uncle Bobby, and
thanks to the phenomenal growth spurt earlier in the spring, Sam's nearly as
tall as his brother.
"I think I ought to, just to reinforce that whole 'respect your elders'," Bobby
grumbles, heading toward the mudroom. "Dean, you get some sleep after you do
the dishes. If you boys want to make the haul to Rapid City, you go right
ahead. Just be sure you fill the truck up before you leave. It's close on to
empty."
"Yes, Sir." Dean leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and
it's all Sam can do not to close his eyes, remembering the last time he and
Dean were in the kitchen together. He was standing right where Dean is now,
dick out, jerking off. He swallows and turns to find the bag he carries his
lunch in.
Warmth immediately behind him makes him freeze in place, and he has to force
himself to breathe when Dean's hands land on his shoulders. Dean's voice is low
and gravelly, and almost right in his ear. "Sure you gotta go to school today?"
"I ,uh." It takes two tries before Sam has enough spit in his mouth to actually
answer. "I gotta turn my essay in. But, um." He wants to lean back against
Dean. Wants to feel Dean warm and solid against him, and for a minute he sways
with indecision. "Mr. Dryer didn't say we had to, uh, turn 'em in in class. I
could just. We could stop at the school and I could run it in." Those large,
warm hands squeeze his shoulders lightly and Sam quivers. "But you need to
sleep, Dean."
"I can sleep in the truck. You could drive us. Sammy." Dean's closer, now,
leaning into Sam, and Sam's heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, everywhere.
"Sammy, I. What the hell am I doing? What's happening? You're my brother," he
adds, low and rough. "But I want—."
The tone of Dean's voice, the want and ache Sam hears there — that matches his
own — makes Sam decide to take a chance. He turns slowly; Dean shifts his hands
but doesn't move them, and God help him, Dean's so close. So close, and all Sam
wants is him. Nothing else.
"I want it too," he whispers. "Dean. Please. I—"
"Shh. Shh, baby." Dean closes the remaining space between them, breath hot
against Sam's mouth. His hands are warm against Sam's shoulders, and then
cupping Sam's face, thumbs caressing Sam's cheeks. Sam slides his eyes shut
just before Dean's mouth brushes his, so softly it's more a tease than a taste.
Another brush, longer, and Dean sighs raggedly. "Oh, God, Sammy. God."
He presses his mouth to Sam's, lips warm and parted, tongue sliding gently
against Sam's mouth, along the seam between his lips. Gently urging, asking,
wanting; Sam moans and opens for him, clutches at Dean when their tongues slide
against each other. It's slick and hot, and Dean's tasting him, exploring him,
tongue darting everywhere until Sam's lightheaded with the sensations.
Dean pulls back — but not away — way too soon, and not soon enough. Sam's sure
his lungs are going to explode, he needs to breathe so badly, but he wants this
kiss to never, ever end. Dean doesn't move away though, just leans his forehead
against Sam's, his breath almost too much against Sam's hypersensitive lips.
"I don't know…what I'm doing," Dean says, the words scarcely more than a
whisper. "This is so wrong, Sam. We shouldn't do this."
Sam's heart pounds harder, faster, and he's sure Dean hears it. Feels it.
"Doesn't feel wrong, to me. It feels perfect. I want it," he says. "I
want—you."
"It's wrong," Dean says again. His voice is hoarse; rough with emotion, but he
doesn't move away. Just closes his eyes. Sam reaches up to stroke his fingers
over Dean's face, along his cheekbones.
"I don't care. I don't care, Dean." He's done talking, done worrying. Whatever
God says in that great big book of his, he also talks about love. Sam's read
the whole thing, cover to cover, more than once. God has bigger things to worry
about than who he, Samuel Winchester, loves, and it's no one else's business.
"God help me, but I don't either. I should, but." Dean shifts and leans in so
his mouth is brushing against Sam's again. "Wanted this…always, I think."
Sam surges forward, his blood burning through him. It's awkward; he doesn't
know how to kiss and he nicks Dean's lip with his teeth until Dean holds him
still and gentles the kiss, tongue lapping at Sam's mouth, slicking over teeth,
tongue, the inside of Sam's cheeks.
Outside, Uncle Bobby hollers, "—get away, dog!" and Sam and Dean jump apart.
Sam feels like anyone could look at him and tell what he's been doing. He's
mussed and hot, achy in a way he's never felt before. Dean looks flushed, and
his eyes are so dark, the pupils dilated so wide there's almost no green
visible.
"We, uh." Dean clears his throat. "I need to wash up—I got birthin' blood all
over, I expect. And probably some other stuff."
Sam grimaces. "Way to ruin the mood, jerk."
Dean flashes him a grin. It's a little strained around the edges, but mostly
natural, mostly Dean, and something inside Sam loosens, relaxes. "I think it
was ruined a minute ago, and it wasn't by me. Brat."
"You sure you're gonna be okay without sleeping?"
"I caught a couple naps at Thompson's, and like I said, I can sleep while you
drive. You know the way there without me directing, don't you?"
Sam gives in to the urge to stick his tongue out. "You're the one always gets
us lost, not me."
"I'm positive you have me confused with someone else." Dean laughs and dodges
the washrag Sam tosses at him. "Go get whatever you need to get for school. I'm
gonna do the dishes up real quick—"
"I'll do the dishes, Dean. Go on and bring some water in, and I'll start it
heating so you can wash."
"You're a prince among men, Sammy."
Sam nods. "And don't you forget it."
The minute Dean bangs out of the house, yelling for Uncle Bobby and rattling
the water pail, Sam leans back against the sink and closes his eyes. Oh, God.
Dean kissed him.
Dean. Kissed. Him.
Dean feels the same as Sam. It's amazing, in a completely mind-bending way,
because Sam was positive Dean would, at the very least, think he was a freak
and sick in the head. He never, ever imagined Dean might return the feelings.
His stomach tightens with…pleasure? Anticipation? Sam isn't sure what it is,
but it's not a bad feeling, just—new. New and good, and it's the best birthday
present he could've received, ever. Nice as the new pants and book from Uncle
Bobby are, they can't compare with this. Not even close.
Sam hums while he finishes clearing off the table, and while Dean brings the
water in, pouring it into the big pot on that's always on the stove for just
this purpose. He keeps humming while he washes up the dishes, setting them into
the drainer on the counter so they'll dry. The sandwiches he made earlier will
still work for lunch, but Sam makes a couple more, because he's not sure he or
Dean have ever eaten less than two apiece. There's still some cookies left from
the last time the Reverend's wife stopped by, so Sam wraps those up, along with
some apples. He adds the bowl of leftover fried potatoes, figuring one of them
will eat them and finds himself thinking about soda pop and popcorn at the
theater.
And dinner out somewhere, maybe the diner that's across the street from the
theater! Sam tries to remember if he's ever eaten out in a restaurant, beyond
the time he and Uncle Bobby drove all the way to Sioux Falls, to get some
special-made parts for…something. It was a while ago; couple years or more.
Dean stayed back at home because someone needed to tend to the livestock, but
Sam went because Uncle Bobby needed someone to help him with the driving.
Upstairs, Dean's singing off-key, making up his own song to the tune of "Oh,
Susannah". Sam shakes his head and gathers up the schoolwork he needs to turn
in, then takes the jar out of the cupboard where they keep the egg and milk
money. There's a lot of change in the jar, and some folded bills. Sam fishes
out three dollar bills, and another couple of dollars in change, squashing down
the rising guilt at the almost obscene amount of money. He tells himself it's
his birthday, he helps milk the cows every day, and he's the one who fights
with the damn chickens for the eggs.
It still feels strange to know he's taking extra money just so they maybe can
eat at a diner, or the Woolworth's lunch counter (if it's open), plus go to the
movies.
He shoves the money into his pocket and tells himself it's not a date. He's
going to the movies with his brother, for his birthday. It's not a date.
But it sure feels like it.
                                     ~~~~~
They end up not leaving until after lunch, because Dean falls asleep in the
middle of changing his clothes, and Sam doesn't have the heart to wake him up.
Instead, he sits on the edge of Dean's bed for a while, and watches him sleep.
The sun shining through the curtains paints Dean in rich, deep shades of gold
and red, and highlights his freckles. There's a cluster of them on one earlobe
and Sam has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching out to touch.
There's no shortage of things to do, whether Sam goes to school or doesn't, so
he busies himself around the house doing the chores that often get shunted
aside because they're not important to the daily running of the farm: sweeping
the kitchen floor, and the mudroom floor. Running a duster over the furniture
in the front room. Hanging another load of wash out on the clothesline, though
squinting up at the sky makes him wonder if it's worth it, or if he should just
hang them on the rack down in the basement, because to his not unpracticed eye,
it looks like it might rain later on.
Basic busywork done, Sam puts the clean dishes away and wipes down the
countertop and the table, then goes out to lay some more feed down for the
chickens, and check on the feed bags for the horses.
Uncle Bobby comes in while Sam's pitching some hay into feedboxes, and frowns.
"I thought you boys would be long gone by now."
"Dean fell asleep," Sam says, stopping to give the horses each a couple nubs of
carrot. "Figured I'd get some chores done ahead of time. We'll go after lunch.
I made sandwiches, but they'll keep for tomorrow, if you want something else?"
Uncle Bobby shakes his head. "Sandwiches are fine. Heat up some soup to go with
them, though."
Sam nods. "What're you going to have for dinner? You sure you don't want to go
with us?"
"I'm sure, Sam." Uncle Bobby pushes his cap up a little, blue eyes twinkling
under the brim. "And for dinner, I reckon I can figure something out. I cooked
for myself a good many years before you got big enough to reach the stove."
Sam snorts, but manages not to say anything. He'd learned to cook out of self
defense, because while Uncle Bobby could do beans and beef — sometimes with
tomato sauce and seasonings, sometimes without — and eggs and potatoes,
anything else either came from a can or was eaten raw out of the garden. As
soon as Sam could reach the stove without needing a stepstool, he cajoled the
Reverend's wife into teaching him the basics, and from there he just
experimented and supplemented until he could actually make decent, varied
meals.
Except meatloaf. He's never been able to make a decent meatloaf, and can't
figure out why, since he follows the recipe to a T.
He taught himself how to can two summers ago — and suffered through a whole
month of Dean teasing him about how he'd make somebody a good wife someday,
until the day he made Dean help him — and he still can't make the stupid
meatloaf turn out. It really bothers him.
                                     ~~~~~
By the time Sam and Dean stop to drop off Sam's paper at school and get gas at
the station in town, it's after 3:00p.m.
"We have plenty of time to get to Rapid City and have dinner," Dean says, when
Sam stares out the window anxiously. "Relax, Sammy. We're not going to miss the
movie."
"You're sure?"
"It doesn't take that long to get there." Dean keeps looking at Sam, turning
his head just a little and staring, and there's a tension in the air Sam's
never felt before. It's thick and heavy, and his stomach tightens a little,
anticipation and uncertainty twisting around inside him, making him think about
the kiss in the kitchen, and all the other things he wants but doesn't know how
or what to ask for. "Sammy? You okay?"
The words are out before Sam can even think about what he's asking. "Have you
ever—gone all the way, before? Um, I mean—"
Dean makes a little choking sound and his hands jerk on the steering wheel,
making the truck skitter sideways briefly. Sam braces against the door and
wonders what he was thinking, asking. He pretty much knows the answer anyway —
his brother isn't very subtle, and there's been a few times he's stayed out
really late, or not come back until the sun was coming up and it was time for
chores. But Sam feels like he needs to know.
They're slowing down, and Dean guides the truck off the road and under the
shelter of a couple of small trees before cutting the engine.
"Not sure I should be driving for this," Dean says in answer to the look Sam
shoots him. "And, uh—yeah. I have."
Sam breathes out, not quite a sigh, but not entirely silent either. "Who?" He
asks quietly. Dean gives a soft snort of laughter.
"I don't kiss and tell, Sammy." The words are said lightly, but the look on
Dean's face is all seriousness. He shifts around until he's facing Sam, and
just like that, that awful, wonderful, incredible tension is back, thrumming
hotly all through Sam. "Why d'you want to know?"
"You know why," Sam says, trying to ignore the pang of jealousy he has no right
to. "This morning—it. It wasn't just that one time, was it? 'Cause I
want…more."
Dean's quiet for a long time, just looking at Sam like he's trying to memorize
him. When he finally shakes his head, he has a look on his face Sam can't
decipher; it's one he's never seen before.
"No," Dean says, reaching out to touch Sam's face gently, thumb rubbing over
Sam's mouth. "Not just the one time. I want more, too."
This kiss is soft at first; Dean's mouth light and gentle against Sam's, his
tongue teasing over Sam's lips before pressing in, asking Sam to open for him.
The slick slide of Dean's mouth on his, of Dean's tongue tasting him, teasing
at his tongue, makes Sam shivery and hot and he leans in closer, hands coming
up to rest on Dean's shoulders.
Dean kisses Sam until he's breathless and aching, his dick hard inside his
pants. Sam breaks the kiss long enough to drag in a couple of deep breaths
before diving back in, Dean's mouth hot and wet and intoxicating.
He shudders when Dean slides one hand down over his chest, fingers catching and
rubbing over his nipples — painfully hard beneath his shirt — before moving
lower. When Dean cups him through his pants Sam groans and arches, pulling away
from Dean to pant, "Dean, God, please—"
Dean rubs him, fingers outlining, stroking; presses hot kisses to Sam's throat
and jaw, nipping here and there. Each touch, each kiss makes Sam whimper and
twist, trying to get closer.
When Dean's hand closes over his dick, hot skin against hot skin, Sam whines, a
needy sound that makes Dean smile against his mouth.
"Feel good?"
Sam can't manage anything as complicated as words; he nods and bites at Dean's
mouth, fingers gripping Dean's shirt, desperate for something to anchor himself
to.
It doesn't take long for Sam to come; he's wound so tight and tense he's kind
of surprised it takes the minute or two it does. It's nothing at all like when
he jerks off, either. This is like heat coiling and curling through him, and
then it slams into him, whitehot pleasure low in his stomach that spreads
outward until all he can do is hang on to Dean and ride it out, hips jerking
helplessly as he spurts over Dean's hand.
He's still trying to catch his breath when Dean brings his hand up to his mouth
and licks at it, sucking on his fingers. Sam groans when Dean gives him a smile
that seems to heat up the air around them.
"Wanna—can I, I wanna touch you." Sam's not sure he can even really make a
coherent sentence until it's out, and then the words are there, hanging between
them. Dean takes one of Sam's hands and presses it to his crotch, to the solid
heat behind his fly.
"Always, Sammy," he says, voice low and rough. Sam squeezes him gently through
the material and it's Dean's turn to groan. "God, yeah, like that."
Sam's hands shake when he reaches for the buttons on Dean's pants, fumbling
them through the buttonholes like Dean did with him. Then it's easy to slip his
fingers into the opening of Dean's underwear, finding hard heat that's nothing
like touching himself. Dean's bigger, thicker, the skin smooth and stretched.
He strokes downward, cups Dean's balls, fingers teasing through the crisp hair
there. When Dean moans he strokes back up, fingers learning the curve and
width.
"Oh, God," Sam manages, dizzy with wanting to make Dean feel the way he did. He
rubs his thumb over the tip of Dean's dick, slippery fluid slicking the way.
"'M I doing this right?"
Dean grunts and rocks his hips forward. "Yeah—oh, yeah." He drags Sam closer,
licks at his mouth, nuzzles at Sam's jaw. "Feels good, so good, Sammy." Another
kiss to Sam's throat, brief suction that Sam wants more of. He tips his head
back, inviting, and Dean mumbles, "God, wanna bite—mark you up."
Sam wants that, too; wants something to say he's Dean's, only Dean's, but the
tiny bit of his brain that's not completely overheated and melted with all this
incredible stuff happening shouts that would be a Very Bad Idea — how would he
explain hickeys on his throat?
Instead he strokes Dean faster, shifting to get his hand further into Dean's
underwear, drawing his dick out to make it easier. There's so much slick at the
tip, pearls of liquid welling up with each stroke, and Sam watches, fascinated,
as Dean's dick swells in his hand, growing harder.
Dean thrusts upward into Sam's strokes and growls when he comes, thick ropes of
white spattering on Sam's hand and wrist. He slumps back against the seat of
the truck breathing hard and fast, rough gasps for air that make Sam feel smug.
He raises his hand to his mouth like Dean did, swiping his tongue over the
sticky, cooling mess. It tastes nothing like his own spunk, a little more
bitter, a little saltier. Dean groans low in his throat and Sam looks up to see
his brother staring at him with dark, hungry eyes.
"What?"
"You're gonna kill me, man." Dean tugs Sam's hand out of his mouth and licks
over the fingers Sam just cleaned off. Dean's tongue feels weird and so good,
and Sam wants to crawl onto Dean's lap and do it all over again. When Dean lets
go of his hand Sam squashes down the urge to do just that; instead he sets to
fastening his pants and straightening his shirt, acutely conscious of Dean
doing the same thing right beside him.
"We gonna be late now?" Sam can't resist the urge to tease a little, trying to
find some small pocket of normal, since everything's tilted sideways now. Dean
starts the truck and gets them back on the road, then cuffs Sam gently on the
side of his head.
"No, we're not. We even still have time to get some dinner beforehand, if
you're starving."
"Because you ever pass up a chance to eat," Sam scoffs, rubbing at his head.
"I'm not the one who's turning into a giant, Sammy."
"Yeah, you're just a little bitty thing." Sam ducks the swat this time and
sticks his tongue out. "Hah. Be nice or I won't help you muck out the stalls
again."
"You be nice, or I won't get you a piece of cake for dessert." Dean laughs at
the face Sam makes, and pokes him in the leg. "Brat."
Sam swats at his hand. "Jerk."
But he feels warm inside, body still a-buzz from kissing and touching, and holy
cow, Dean jerked him off. Sam wishes he could slide over and snuggle up to
Dean, but he knows that's not a good idea, not out on the road like this. He
doesn't need anyone to tell him what they're doing is dangerous — not even
including the part where they're brothers.
Sam's heard the words before: homosexual. Queer. Faggot. He's never thought of
himself in terms of them, and certainly never thought of Dean that way. But
maybe…maybe he needs to. For himself, anyway. Dean might like girls, but for
Sam there's never been anyone but Dean. Never will be anyone but Dean.
                                     ~~~~~
They have dinner at Jerry's Diner, right around the corner from the movie
theater. The waitress coos over Sam when Dean tells her, "it's my little
brother's fifteenth birthday today", and brings him a piece of double-chocolate
cake with coconut in the frosting. Sam shares the cake with Dean and tries
really hard not to think about licking the frosting off his lips.
From the smirk Dean gives him, he doesn't do a very good job of it.
They stand in line to get their tickets, and Sam feels kind of sorry for the
girl in the ticket booth; she looks young, and kind of sad, and it makes him
wonder what made her have to go and get a job. Why she's not safe at home, with
a mom and dad (or an uncle, or whoever) taking care of her. She also looks
frazzled by the time they get up to the counter, and no wonder; there are a lot
of people out at the theater tonight.
"It's Friday," Dean says. "Plus, new movie. Double-feature, even."
Sam doesn't remember what Dean said the second movie's titled, but from the
excitement on Dean's face it must be a horror movie.
"Let's sit up in the balcony," Sam whispers, when they're standing in line for
popcorn. The popper is working overtime in the little cart, filling the lobby
of the theater with the rich scent of hot corn and butter and salt. Dean nods,
looking around, his attention only half on what Sam's saying.
It's always very neat to watch people in places like this, and especially here
in the city, where people dress up fancier than they do back at home. There are
a lot of guys dressed in their fancy suits, and ladies wearing fur coats and
smart-looking hats. Some of them are very pretty, and some of them are pretty
scary. Sam's not really sure why anyone would want to wear something dead like
that, but he's always been creeped out over Mr. Thompson's deer heads-and-
antler collection, too.
"Don't forget we need to get coca-colas." Dean's digging in his pocket for
money for the popcorn, so Sam nods and walks over to the man with the cart full
of small bottles to get two of them.
Sam loves the soda pop. He doesn't get to have it very often, and he loves the
way the bubbles make his mouth tingle, and the sweet, kind of syrupy flavor.
They might have to get another one during the intermission.
Even the balcony is filling up by the time they have their popcorn and climb
the stairs. Dean grabs two seats at the top, to the right of the entryway, and
all Sam can think about as he's sitting down is it's shadowy and almost dark,
even with the lights still on, and he wants to kiss Dean so bad he can almost
taste it. Wants to see if he can taste the chocolate cake, or the salt from the
popcorn. He settles into his seat and hopes no one sits down right beside them,
because if it's just the two of them in this little row, he can pretend they're
all alone here at the movies. Just like on a date.
They're hardly settled, Dean jostling Sam as he sits, when the lights dim then
go out.
The first thing showing are the news reels about what's happening over in
Europe. Sam likes these. Okay, not the content, but it's nice to see the news
stuff instead of just hearing it over the radio. He wonders, not for the first
time, what it would be like to have a television, though it's not like anyone
he knows has one. As far as he knows, no one in Wall, or the surrounding area,
has one. No one has time, as Uncle Bobby likes to say, to waste on talking
pictures you can hardly see anyway.
The news reels are informative and depressing, and really kind of sad, too. Sam
doesn't understand how anyone could treat another person the way the Nazis are
treating the Jews. It makes him uncomfortable to watch the troop movements, and
the equipment that rolls through cities and towns as Hitler's Third Reich takes
over.
"I hate shit like this," Dean whispers into his ear. Sam nods and sinks a
little lower in his seat, wishing they would end and the movies would start. He
sighs when Dean shifts a little, settling closely enough Sam feels Dean's body
heat; feels his arm rubbing against Sam's.
The news reels are segueing into the credits and beginning for the first movie
— something about vampires, but Sam's having trouble concentrating on anything
as pointless as a movie title, because Dean's right there, warm and big and so
close Sam feels a little dizzy again. He looks at the screen, trying to focus,
and thinks about his coca-cola and the bag of popcorn sitting on the floor in
between their seats when Dean shifts again and warmth covers his hand and
twines between his fingers.
Dean's hand. Dean's holding his hand.
Sam's stomach flip-flops, and his breath catches like he just got sucker-
punched. Dean squeezes his hand gently, and it's all over for Sam. There's a
movie onscreen, and Citizen Kane hasn't even happened yet, and Sam's pretty
sure he's not going to remember a thing about anything he saw tonight; not
going to remember a thing, period, beyond Dean's hand warm and strong against
his.
He's just caught his breath when Dean's mouth brushes his ear, soft whisper Sam
barely registers at first.
"Okay, Sammy?"
It takes him a minute — and Dean moving back incrementally — to answer with a
nod, and low, rough, "Yeah." He's not sure he could be any more okay, and still
be breathing. Or conscious.
And he's definitely not going to remember anything about either of the movies.
                                     ~~~~~
Sam doesn't remember the drive home; instead he wakes up to Dean stroking his
bangs back from his face, fingers gentle, careful, touching him almost
reverently. He has his head pillowed on Dean's thigh, and really, this is the
most perfect place to sleep. He doesn't want to move.
"C'mon, sleepyhead. Need to get you up to bed. It's late; gonna be time to get
up and do chores pretty soon."
"Don't wanna," Sam whines, caught between sleep and awake, warm and fuzzy.
"I know. But I can't carry you upstairs, Sammy. C'mon."
It's a huge effort to sit up, and an even bigger effort to force himself to
move away from Dean's warmth. It's cold outside; spring in South Dakota is
seldom warm and this year it's been cooler than usual. Sam shivers and leans
into Dean as they stumble up the porch steps and into the house, both trying to
be quiet because Uncle Bobby gets grumpy when he's woken up.
"Sleep with me?" Sam whispers at the top of the stairs. "It's cold."
Dean nods and disappears inside his room. Sam cleans his teeth and gets his
pajamas on, then slides under the covers. They're cold against his bare toes
and he wishes he'd left his socks on.
He's almost asleep again when the mattress dips, squeaking a little as Dean
settles beside Sam, sliding one arm over Sam's waist so they're spooned
together. Sam sighs and snuggles back against Dean, laughing softly when he
sets his cold feet against Dean's and Dean hisses in response.
"Getcha for that," Dean murmurs, his lips warm against Sam's neck.
"Mmm." Sam slips his fingers between Dean's, holding Dean's hand close against
him. "Remind me to be scared in the morning." He turns his head a little,
whispers, "This—this is real, right? I'm not gonna wake up in the morning and
it's all been a dream?"
"Not a dream." Dean shifts a little closer, pressing tight against Sam. "It's
real. I promise."
"Good." Sam closes his eyes, already so close to sleep. He's warm and safe, and
feels so loved he thinks he might burst with it. "Love you," he whispers,
barely any sound to the words. Words he's said before, and always meant, but
means so much more and so differently, now.
Dean's quiet for what feels like forever, and then the words come, warm puffs
of air that raise goose bumps.
"Love you, Sammy."
                                     ~~~~~
Spring gives way almost overnight to summer.
Warm (hot, actually, but given how much Sam hates being cold he tries not to
complain about the heat) days spent outside tending the garden and riding the
horses. Going swimming with Dean, and friends from church and school at the
lake outside town. Catching up on chores around the house and barn — repairs to
the roof, hanging new doors, nailing shutters back on, re-fencing the chicken
coop.
There are at least a dozen things always need doing at any given time, and Sam
finds himself daydreaming about Dean and this great, new thing between them,
through every one of them.
If the days are long and busy, the nights…well, the nights are slow and sweet,
and theirs.
Summer nights have always been for sleeping out in the barn, up in the hayloft,
to catch the cooling breezes sliding through.
Now they're for exploring. Touching each other, learning bodies already
familiar from years of baths and swimming, and stripping down after hours of
hard labor. Now they're for kisses, slick and hot and endless, Sam learning how
if he kisses Dean's throat and nuzzles under his jaw, Dean will moan for him.
Dean learning that Sam likes to bite and be bitten.
Sam likes to watch Dean stretch out, body strong and lean, muscles rippling
beneath smooth, freckled skin. They lay quilts down on the hay, and strip down
to their smalls, and Dean's beautiful. So much bare skin, and Sam has to touch
it. All of it. He runs his hands down Dean's arms, fingers combing through the
fine, crisp hair in the shadows beneath then, then across Dean's chest, pausing
to pull and rub at the flat nubs of his nipples.
Dean likes to have his nipples played with, pulled and pinched and sucked. Sam
loves the way they harden against his tongue, tiny hard-soft points that beg
for kisses and licks, with Dean writhing and gasping over each touch.
Sam explores his brother's body with his mouth, his hands, with his own long
limbs, body covering Dean's as they rock together, sweat slick between them
It feels so good, so right, that Sam's not sure how he made it fifteen years
without.
Dean touches Sam, looks at Sam, with so much love written plain on his face
that it takes Sam's breath away. It makes him forget about the days he feels
awkward and gawky, too tall too fast, always tripping over his feet, or
anything lying in his path. Dean will kneel over Sam, knees settled to either
side of his torso, and skim his fingertips down the long lines of Sam's body,
raising goose bumps with each touch. Dean's hands, his fingers, are calloused
from years of hard work, holding an axe or a pushing a plow; from holding a
rifle, or a shovel. But touching Sam, they feel incredible, roughsmooth pads
gliding over his skin until he's nothing but a mass of sensation and need.
Many nights they'll curl close to each other, face-to-face, scarcely room for a
breath between them. Those are the nights they kiss until their lips are
swollen, tender, hot to the touch. Sam loves it when Dean threads his fingers
through his hair, holding Sam's head still while he licks around the inside of
Sam's mouth. No other touches, just Dean's mouth, fiery against his own.
They spend hours kissing, until Sam's desperate for release; until Dean's
panting and whimpering into Sam's mouth. It only takes Sam reaching between
them, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of Dean's belly and ruffling the
fine hair trailing from his navel, wrapping around Dean's dick and tugging a
few times before he spills between them. The heavy, rich scent covers them,
blankets Sam, and he thrusts forward against Dean's belly until he comes, his
slick mingling with Dean's, hot, thick and sticky.
"I want to taste you," Sam says one night. His head's on Dean's chest,
listening to Dean's heart still pounding loud and fast. He's been thinking
about this for days; maybe longer than that. Thinks of how Dean feels in his
hand, and what it might feel like to put his mouth on Dean's dick and feel the
heat and hardness of it against his tongue.
He knows men and women do it; he's heard the stories whispered in the boy's
locker room, and at the lake.
"You've tasted me plenty," is all Dean says. His eyes are closed, his lips
turned up in a half-smile.
"That's not what I mean." Sam turns his head, shifting his whole body, and Dean
twitches beneath him. "I mean—I want to taste you." He kisses the flat planes
of Dean's stomach, tongue tracing the muscle definition, licking around Dean's
navel. Dean's breath hitches, catches, and he brings one warm hand down to rest
on Sam's shoulder. Sam kisses downward, shifting onto his hands and knees so he
can angle better. The hair around Dean's dick is darker than on his head; it's
coarser, heavy curls lying close to his body and trapping the heady scent of
musk and sweat and Dean. He hovers there, breathing in that scent, then looks
over at Dean. "I want—can I—?"
"God, Sam." Dean's voice is hoarse, thick with need. He makes a rough noise low
in his throat and pushes gently at Sam's shoulder. "Please. Yes. Please."
Dean's dick juts up from his body, dark red with the flush of blood, gleaming
slickly at the tip. Sam dips his head and licks over it, tasting salt and
bitter, and heat. Dean groans and shudders beneath him, hips working like he
wants to thrust upward. Sam laughs low and licks again, down the hard length
until he's at the base, then back up again, tongue following the large vein
throbbing there on the underside.
"Sammy—Jesus God, please—" Dean's voice is layered with heat and need, thick
with want. He winds his fingers through Sam's hair and tugs, pushes, like he's
not sure what he should do.
Sam's never heard him sound like this, never, including all they've done so
far, seen his brother react this way. Never felt him tremble beneath him, body
tense and ready.
He swallows roughly and glances up at Dean; freezes for a moment at the heat he
sees in Dean's eyes.
"Do it. Sammy, please, do it."
The words are hardly a whisper, but they're raw and needy, and Sam doesn't even
think. Just lowers his head, fitting his mouth down over Dean's dick.
Heat throbs against his tongue, the hot velvety skin gliding, shifting,
moving—no, it's him who's moving, lowering himself, drawing Dean inside him.
He gags once, when Dean pushes up, hips twitching, and Dean hisses when Sam's
teeth catch on delicate skin.
"Careful," is all Dean says, but the word is partially swallowed by the moan
Dean makes when Sam licks all over the tender skin in apology.
He finds a rhythm, slowly, and uses his hand on the length of Dean's shaft he
can't take in.
Sam's never felt as powerful — and humble — as he feels right now, with Dean
writhing beneath him, hips moving in stuttered, jerky thrusts and hands
grasping at Sam's hair, at the quilt beneath them, at anything. He's never
tasted anything as wonderful as the hot, slick slide of Dean's dick in his
mouth, bitter salt leaking with each stroke of Sam's tongue over the head. He
pulls off once to lap at the smooth skin, to tease his tongue over and against
the tiny slit at the top.
Dean growls like it hurts, and manages something that sounds like, "stop
teasing—" before Sam slides his mouth down over again.
He knows Dean's getting close when the fingers in his hair tighten, and Dean's
balls draw up close to his body. Sam cups Dean's sac in one hand and tries to
relax, tries to take Dean as far down his throat as he can. He swallows
roughly, gagging when Dean thrusts upward, shooting thick and hot into his
mouth.
It's not the same as licking Dean's belly or fingers clean after he comes, or
tasting himself on Dean's fingers. This is more, and it's pulse after pulse,
and Sam can't swallow fast enough. He tries, pulls back and swallows over and
over, the thick, bittersalt taste coating his tongue and filling his throat. He
knows he's making a mess; knows, and doesn't care.
Dean's gasping for breath beneath him, and Sam feels something like a
hysterical giggle bubbling up inside him, because oh, God. He just has his
brother's dick in his mouth. He shudders with the effort of pushing it back and
leans in to lick Dean clean while he jerks himself off. It's only going to take
a couple of strokes; he's so ready, needs release right now, before he explodes
from it.
Dean's hand pushes his away; takes over and works Sam to orgasm. He trembles in
his brother's embrace as he comes, crying out softly. Dean kisses Sam, steals
the sound and licks the taste of his own orgasm out of Sam's mouth.
Later, after they've slept twined together for a while, and as night-black sky
is giving way slowly to pre-dawn light, Dean wakes Sam up by kissing down his
body and taking his soft cock into his mouth, licking and sucking Sam to full
erection.
"I can't decide which is better," Sam says later, drowsy and sated, safe within
the circle of Dean's arms.
"Hmm?"
"Sucking you off, or having—having your mouth on me." Sam thinks it's kind of
funny, after all they've done, he still blushes, saying some of the words.
Dean's quiet for a minute, though Sam feels the hitch in his breathing —
probably trying not to laugh — then says, "yeah. It's…that's a hard one."
Just hearing Dean say 'hard' makes Sam dick twitch, though he's pretty sure
he's not going to get it up again any time real soon, teenage hormones
notwithstanding.
"You suck," Sam says, instead. "Jerk."
This time, Dean doesn't even try not to laugh, and Sam feels the twitches and
shifts as Dean's snorts bleed into his own skin. "Brat. And yeah, I do, as a
matter of fact."
Sam pinches Dean, and Dean responds by tickling him, and it turns into a
wrestling match before subsiding into soft kisses and softer touches, and then
into holding each other again, both watching the sky lighten slowly.
Sam's sleepy, but trying to stay awake, because it's going to be time to get up
and get busy, soon. Lot of chores to do, garden to work, all sorts of things.
Plus, it would really be a whole lot of not fun if they fall back asleep like
this — naked, lying together — and Uncle Bobby comes into the barn to wake them
up.
His stomach growls, too, reminding him that supper was a long time ago, and
while it might've been fun and exciting to swallow down a part of Dean, that
didn't really qualify as food. He pushes at Dean's shoulder. "You should go get
us something to eat."
Dean nips at the hand pushing at him. "You should get up and wash up, and go
make us breakfast."
"You're the older brother, here. Aren't you supposed to be taking care of me?"
It's the wrong thing to say, and Sam knows it the instant the words are out of
his mouth. Dean might say he doesn't care if this thing between them is wrong,
but Sam knows better. He doesn't care, but he knows Dean worries about taking
advantage of him, worries about not taking care of Sam the way he thinks he
should.
Beside him, under him, Dean stiffens and it's only a matter of seconds before
he's rolling away from Sam, taking his warmth with him.
"Might as well get up," Dean says, the words clipped and short. "Got a lot to
do today."
"Dean—" Sam scrambles up, grabbing for his clothes. "I didn't—I—"
"Shut it." Dean growls the words, muffled from where he's shrugging into his t-
shirt. "I'll get started on the milking. Don't forget to look for eggs."
He's gone down the ladder before Sam finishes dressing; before he's able to get
his brain working well enough to say what he wants to say: I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to hurt you. I love you so much, I wouldn't hurt you on purpose…but I
always seem to hurt you anyway.
                                     ~~~~~
September 1941
Long days aren't long enough to do everything, though they make good headway on
the list of projects and chores Uncle Bobby's been keeping since last summer.
Summer winds down slowly, reports of the growing war coming in more and more
frequently on the radio, in cinema newsreels, and in newspapers. Everywhere Sam
looks there are signs of a country edging toward greater involvement in the war
effort, as the government buys up any and all surplus crops, and begins
exhorting Americans to conserve and sacrifice.
Sam cans with a vengeance, pulling Dean and even Uncle Bobby into the hot
kitchen — it has to be over ninety degrees inside — and sets them to work
peeling and cutting and pouring. Deep inside he feels a quiver of something,
not exactly panic, but a sense of foreboding. Something's going to happen,
something he'll have no control over.
Fine. He'll bury himself in the things he does have control over.
It's getting cooler as the summer draws to a close, and Sam and Dean both know
their nights sleeping in the barn, with almost complete privacy, are nearly at
an end—at least until next summer. School starts in a few more days, after the
Labor day weekend, and then Sam will be busy with schoolwork and regular chores
while Dean and Bobby start bringing in the final harvest.
Saturday night is theirs, completely. Uncle Bobby's off to Spearfish for the
weekend, gone to visit a buddy he was in the service with back in the Great War
(though privately Sam thinks the war going on now is probably a damn sight
greater, unfortunately).
Supper over and dishes done, evening chores finished, the boys sit on the front
stoop and watch the sun setting, spreading golds and pinks and mauves over the
rugged landscape. Sam nudges Dean's shoulder with his own.
"You wanna call it a night?"
Dean nudges back, corners of his mouth twitching. "Kinda early for sleeping,
ain't it?"
Sam grins. "Did I say anything about sleeping?"
The fake seriousness of Dean's expression makes it hard for Sam not to laugh.
"No…but I can't imagine what else you'd want to call it a night for, Sammy."
"Think about it a minute, I'm sure you'll figure it out." Sam leans into Dean
and nuzzles at the spot beneath his ear that always makes him shiver.
"You know we're gonna have to be a lot more careful after tonight." Dean turns
his head toward Sam, and the nuzzling becomes light kisses, more teases and
wisps of caresses than anything tangible. Sam makes a noise in his throat,
frustration and agreement rising up.
"I know. And I hate that. Hate that we can't just—that we have to watch
ourselves."
Dean shrugs; Sam feels his muscles shift and move. "It is what it is. If we
want it, well. We knew it wasn't gonna be easy."
"World's not ready for us," Sam says quietly.
"World ain't ever gonna be ready for brothers doin' what we're doing, Sam."
"What if we went somewhere…where no one knows we're brothers?" The low tremor
of panic threads through Sam again and he squashes it down impatiently. "I
mean, a city—there's gotta be, somewhere, we can—"
"Live together like a couple of queers?" Dean's voice has an odd quality to it,
and Sam draws back to meet his eyes. "Sam—I. I don't know…if I could. I'm a
farmer, not some city boy. And what about Uncle Bobby? We just gonna up and
leave him?"
"I don't—no. I mean. No, I don't want to leave him. Or here. I don't know
what—what to do. What we could do." Frustration slides hot and prickly all
through him, and Sam kicks at the weathered boards making up the steps they're
sitting on, his good mood of a few minutes ago gone.
"Look." Dean pushes away, settling himself in front of Sam. Backlit by the
setting sun, he's shadows and blood-red, and it sends a chill creeping through
Sam. "You got three years of high school left before any of this is anything
more than just talk, anyway. And Sammy—you're young. Just a kid. You might meet
some girl at school, or," Dean grimaces, like just thinking it is distasteful,
which Sam finds kind of hypocritical, "another guy. Someone else. This, this
isn't—"
"Shut. Up." Sam surges to his feet, puts himself right up in Dean's face.
"Don't even say that. Don't. I don't—I don't want anyone else. Never, ever."
"You say that now, but you're fifteen, Sam. You don't know what you want for
forever."
"How do you know? How can you even say that?" Sam pushes at Dean, shoves him
backward. "You're not me, you don't know how I feel."
"I know, 'cos I've been there," Dean says, the words low and rough. "You got
all this—all this shit, hormones and crap, and it's all new—"
"Oh, my god." Sam stares at Dean, not sure if he wants to laugh, or punch him.
"You're not seriously saying what it sounds like you're saying, are you? You
think this is all just—that I'm just horny?"
"I—yeah. Guess I am." Sam can't read Dean's expression; it's hard enough to see
his face through the bloody shadows falling all around them, but trying to
figure out what he's really saying without words—Sam can't do it.
He draws his arm back and drives his fist into Dean's face before he's even
really aware he's going to do it. The impact sends fire and ice racing up his
arm, sends Dean staggering back briefly before he's on Sam, tackling him down
to the ground, fists flying.
They've wrestled and tussled together for years. Sometimes it was for play,
sometimes not, but Sam doesn't ever remember the intensity he's feeling right
now, like he has to hurt Dean; has to somehow make him feel — make him know —
the way Dean's hurting him.
Dean gets in a couple good right hooks, making Sam's jaw ache from the blows.
They're more evenly matched than they've ever been, Sam actually a little
taller than Dean now, if still beanpole-thin. Sam nails Dean again, fist to his
cheek. Blood smears across Dean's face where the skin splits with the force of
the punch. He grunts and grabs at Sam, pulling and twisting until he has Sam
pinned back against his chest.
"Sam—Sammy, stop, stop it—"
Sam struggles harder, needing to get away from Dean and wanting to tear into
him again.
"Sam. Sam, stop, dammit." Dean's voice is low, soothing, and so close. Sam
gives another pull, but it's half-hearted at best, and he knows it. "Shhh. I'm
sorry. I didn't mean—I don't want you to think I don't… want this. Want you.
Nothin's further from the truth."
Dean guides them slowly backwards, tugging Sam gently with him, still held
tight to his chest. Sam pulls in a great, gasping breath when Dean shifts and
loosens his arms. He doesn't let go, just loosens them up; keeps Sam close
against him.
"Why won't you believe me?" Sam asks, trying to keep the whine out of his
voice. "About what I feel—how it's not going to change?"
Dean heaves a sigh and settles them back down on the stoop. Sitting this way is
nice, with Dean behind and just above him, a warm, solid weight against Sam's
back. He catches himself leaning back and doesn't know whether to pull away or
relax into the almost-embrace.
"It's not that I don't believe you, Sammy. Just. Everything changes, sometimes
whether we mean for it to, or not." He rubs his cheek against Sam's hair and
that's it. Sam relaxes back into Dean. "Remember you used to want to be
president? And for a little while, you wanted to be a cowboy? And then you
wanted to be a veterinarian?"
Sam nods. "Yeah. So?"
"So—what made you want one, and then the other?"
"I don't know. Different things, learning stuff, growing—"
"Growing up," Dean finishes for him, the words quiet in the night. "And when
you grow up some more, and you might wish you—you might regret this. Might
regret you didn't try to meet someone else."
Just the thought makes Sam ache, way down deep inside, and he shivers with the
cold that brings. "I don't think so," he says slowly. He twists just enough to
see Dean's face in profile, the lines and planes shadowy in the falling night.
"Do—do you regret it? This—us?"
"Sometimes." Dean says the word so softly that Sam's not sure he heard him, at
first. Then it's like an icy fist has clenched around him, freezing him and
catching his breath in his chest so he can't breathe out or pull more air in.
"I never wanted…want to hurt you. And I'm so scared I'm gonna, Sammy."
"You won't hurt me," Sam says, trying to blink away the sting in his eyes. "You
can't. You're mine, Dean, and I’m yours, and there's nothing hurting there."
"You say that, but I'm—I should know better. I do know better. And if I was
stronger, if I tried harder—"
Sam stops the words with a kiss, turning in Dean's arms until he's kneeling on
his step, pressing in close. Even like this he's taller, leaning down to take
Dean's mouth, hands cupping Dean's face, thumbs rubbing over Dean's cheekbones.
Sam loves kissing Dean. Loves the taste of his mouth, the silken slickness of
the insides of his cheeks, and the way his tongue teases and slides over Sam's.
The bitterness of after-dinner coffee, flavored heavily with sugar, lingers in
Dean's mouth and Sam licks it out a bit at a time, until all he tastes is Dean.
His knees ache from kneeling on the hard, cold stone, but he doesn't want to
stop; doesn't want to upset this fragile truce. He aches at the idea of Dean
regretting this thing they share and wishes he knew how to tell him that it
doesn't matter what changes might or might not happen; he belongs with
Dean…they belong with each other…forever.
"Let's go to bed," Dean whispers, the words disappearing into their kiss.
"Forget about maybes and what-ifs, and just—have now."
"Yeah." Sam breathes the word onto Dean's lips, then trails little kisses along
Dean's jaw. "Okay."
The trip inside and upstairs is full of kisses, full of touches that fire Sam's
blood and leave him panting and shivering. Dean's aggressive, biting and
sucking hard at every inch of skin he uncovers, and all Sam can do is hang on,
head whirling from the intensity.
"Love looking at you," Dean mutters, undoing Sam's belt and pants. He licks the
thin trail of hair from Sam's navel down to his dick, then noses through the
curls surrounding it. "Smelling you. Tasting you." He licks at Sam's dick,
tongues the big vein throbbing along the underside, and then that spot just
under the head that makes Sam arch and shudder while his fingers clutch at the
bedding.
"Dean—don't tease—"
"Not gonna tease for long." Another long, slow lick from the tip of Sam's dick
downward, until Dean's mouthing at the base and then down further, licking and
sucking at Sam's balls. His fingers slide around, rubbing at Sam's thighs, at
the crease between body and leg, and at the tender place behind Sam's balls. "I
know you love it, Sammy. When I tease."
"Love it better when you get on with it." That's not strictly true, but it's
also not fair that Sam feels like he's about to wiggle out of his skin, and
Dean looks so cool, so composed. Well, except for where he's so hard his dick
is arcing up away from his body. That's how Sam knows Dean isn't unaffected by
this.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath when Dean takes him into his mouth —
finally — and sucks him down. He loses himself in the wet heat of Dean's mouth,
in the way it feels so good, like nothing else ever has.
Dean makes the most incredible noises when he's going down on Sam, and it's the
noises that get to him almost as much as the sensations. Wet, messy, loud
suction, and swallows, and the little grunts and moans Dean makes low in his
throat, like he can't get enough of Sam's dick; like he can't get it deep
enough or fast enough, or long enough. Sam reaches down and rubs his fingers
through Dean's hair, thinking of how much he likes it when he does this to Dean
and Dean tugs and pulls on his. Wishes Dean's hair was longer, so he could tug
and pull. He bucks upward when Dean rubs a finger over the skin behind his
balls, then rubs further, pressing lightly against the little opening there.
One more little push just barely breaches him, but it sets Sam's head to
spinning wildly and he comes with a hoarse shout, body shaking with each pulse.
He's still trying to catch his breath when Dean kneels up over him and jerks
himself hard and fast, hand blurring slightly in the dim light. Dean comes in
thick, warm spurts across Sam's belly and ribs, grunting with each one. He
growls low in his throat when Sam pulls him down to lick and suck at his mouth,
holding him close for kiss after kiss, while sweat and spunk cool and smear
between them.
Sam snuggles down in the circle of Dean's arms while he dozes, and thinks about
Dean's finger, where Dean touched him. He shifts until he can touch himself
there, pulling one leg up awkwardly and stroking until he finds the place where
it gives to his touch. His…asshole. He rubs once, pressing in just enough to
feel the muscle give way, and shivers at the jolt it sends through him. Shivers
again, thinking of Dean putting his fingers there — or putting his fingers into
Dean. Or—more? Sam glances over at Dean and wonders if this is how guys do it.
He knows how a guy and girl do, that's pretty obvious just from living on a
farm all his life. But, doing that with Dean? Dean's body heavy on his, like
when they're kissing, covering and holding him down. Or when he presses Dean
down into bed and ruts against him, bodies sliding together in rhythm.
"Sam?" Dean's awake, looking at him curiously, and Sam wonders if Dean saw
him…fingering…himself.
Sam feels the blush even before he opens his mouth. "Can, uh—how do guys, um. I
mean, if I, if we…how do you go all the way, without a girl?"
Dean blinks for a minute, then a slow smile curves his mouth up. "You askin'
how do two guys fuck?"
The blush intensifies — it's not that he doesn't ever cuss or hasn't ever heard
Dean cuss, but not usually that word…and definitely never after doing what they
just did, and with Sam thinking what he's been thinking. Sam nods. "Yeah. Um.
How?"
Considering Sam's face feels hot enough to fry an egg, it's bizarre and kind of
reassuring when a faint blush appears on Dean's face. "Um. One guy sticks his
dick in the other guy's ass."
"His…in the…" Sam mouths the words, thinking how tight it felt when he pushed
just the tip of his finger in, and trying to picture a dick fitting there. He
shakes his head, certain it couldn't possibly work. "You sure?"
Dean nods, and brings Sam's hand up to his mouth, sucking two fingers in. He
swirls his tongue around them, over and over, until Sam's dizzy from it. When
he lets go of Sam's fingers, it makes a slick, sucking sound that reverberates
inside him.
There isn't enough air in the room, and the chill of the evening? Completely
gone.
"Right here," Dean whispers, guiding Sam's hand down and back. Dean pulls his
leg up, like Sam did earlier, and Sam shifts so he can reach better. "Just
push—easy. Not too hard or fast." Dean swallows roughly when Sam rubs his slick
fingers over the small opening, and he hisses when Sam breaches him. "Yeah,
yeah—like that. Like—like you did to yourself, a little while ago."
Sam jerks in surprise and his fingers slide in another fraction of an inch,
making Dean wriggle beneath him. "God."
"Okay?" Sam's torn between this is ridiculous and oh, God, so hot, and feeling
Dean move because of how Sam's touching him…well. So hot is pretty much winning
out. "Dean?"
"Yeah. More, Sammy. Push in further—wait. Wait a sec. Pull out."
"What's wrong?"
"We need something more than spit." Dean rolls off the bed, grimacing at the
sticky mess covering both of them. "Hang on a second." He's across the room and
out the door, and distantly Sam hears him rummaging around in the medicine
cupboard in the bathroom.
Sam flops onto his back and strokes his dick idly, not quite hard, but
definitely getting there. He thinks about the tight heat of Dean's body and his
strokes take on a little more purpose, and he wonders what Dean's getting,
what's going to work better than spit. Wonders if he could taste Dean there,
the way he's licked and kissed and tasted him everywhere else. He thinks the
idea should probably disgust him, but Sam's long gone past the idea of being
disgusted at anything to do with his brother.
"Hey, Sammy—catch."
Sam looks up just in time to not get brained when Dean tosses the small tin
toward him; he turns it over and pops the top off. "Vaseline?"
"It's slick; it'll work a sight better than spit, I reckon."
It works pretty well for keeping lips and hands smooth and easing chapping, so
why not? Sam shrugs and scoops a bit out with his fingers, then spreads it over
two, getting them slick and slippery. When he looks back at Dean, his brother
is on his back, legs spread and up, an invitation if Sam's ever seen one. He
bites his lip and scoots forward, settling himself against Dean.
"Ready?"
Dean nods. "Just—like I said, go slow."
Sam leans in to kiss Dean, tongue sliding into Dean's mouth as he pushes his
fingers forward. The Vaseline works a lot better than spit, actually, because
Dean's body opens for him, muscle stretching and welcoming him in. Sam swallows
Dean's groan when he moves his fingers, working them slowly in and out, taking
his time. Dean is so hot, so tight, he can hardly stand the pressure against
his fingers. Trying to imagine if he puts his dick there, actually fucks Dean,
makes Sam flush from head to toe. He draws back to watch Dean, sees the sweat
gleaming on Dean's chest and forehead, and the slick moisture at the tip of his
dick.
"Can I—can I fuck you?"
The words are out before Sam's finished thinking them, and he flushes again.
Fingers are one thing, but this—
"Yes. God, Sammy, yes." Dean hooks one arm around Sam's neck and draws him back
down, nuzzling Sam's throat. "Want you to. Want you to fuck me, want me to fuck
you, want all of it."
Sam quivers at the words; at the thought of Dean pushing his fingers inside,
feeling the heat of Sam's body tight around his, like Sam's feeling Dean's. He
wiggles his fingers, pushing deeper, and Dean bucks like a horse being branded,
breath hissing through his teeth.
"Holy shit, do that again!"
So Sam presses in and up, searching purposefully for that place that got such a
reaction from Dean. He rubs and pushes against the smooth (hot, so hot) walls,
trembling all over as Dean groans and whines and arches his back, trying to
drive Sam's fingers harder against that spot. Sam adds more Vaseline and
another finger, and Dean jerks beneath him, dick swelling and pulsing as he
comes all over his belly.
"Oh, my God." Dean practically whimpers the words, each one coming on an exhale
of breath. Sam twists his fingers, thinking of the clench of Dean's body around
them as he came, and slides them out.
"Wanna—can I—?"
Dean nods, face relaxed and soft. He shifts and draws his legs further up,
settling them over Sam's shoulders when he moves into place.
"Lotta that stuff, Sammy."
"Y-yeah." Sam's stomach is tight with anticipation, with need, with not a
little fear. Fingers are one thing, but his dick's a lot bigger than his
fingers, and he doesn't want to hurt Dean. But oh, God, it felt so good, having
his fingers inside—he can only imagine what it's going to feel like to push his
dick in there.
Dean stares up at him when he pushes against the small opening, and Sam wishes
they'd turned on one of the lamps so he could see better. Dean's eyes are dark,
pupils wide and dilated, and he looks hungry. Hungry and ready, and Sam wants
him so bad it's an ache all the way through him. He thrusts forward slowly,
listening to Dean's breathing shift and catch as he does.
"Okay?"
"Keep going," Dean says, the words slurred and soft. "Feels—weird. But good.
I—"
Sam doesn't know what Dean might've said just then, but the words end in a gasp
when Sam shifts a little too fast and sinks the rest of the way inside.
For a minute, he can't do anything. Just stays there, holding still, feeling
Dean under him, around him, so so tight around his dick. And he aches with the
need to move, thrust, shove himself in and out and get some friction, but he's
still listening to Dean, to the wheezing gasps he's making, and the faint
quiver of his muscles.
"Dean—"
"Just move, Sam. Just—fuck me. Do it." Dean settles his hands on Sam's waist,
and that's all the encouragement Sam needs. He's going to explode if he doesn't
move, and he'll probably explode as soon as he does move, because he's never
felt anything like this, ever.
They both groan when Sam thrusts, the movement slow, uncertain, then increasing
as Sam gains confidence. Dean's tight and hot, and slick inside, and Sam wants
to bury himself in there and never come out. Wants to feel this, feel Dean like
this, all the time.
Under him, Dean's rocking upward to meet his thrusts, body flexing and moving,
grasping at Sam's. They're slick with sweat now, even in the cool room, and it
stings Sam's eyes when it drips into them.
He doesn't care. Nothing matters, nothing exists, but this. But them. He leans
down and kisses Dean, sloppy and awkward, but it's perfect—this is perfect.
"So good," he pants into Dean's mouth. "Never—felt—nothing like it."
"Wanna do you," Dean gasps, biting at Sam's lower lip. "Later, tomorrow,
whenever. Wanna feel it—"
"God, yes. Uh—"
Dean's clenching down around him, squeezing him, and Sam thinks he's gone
cross-eyed, the pleasure hits so strong. He pushes up for better leverage and
shoves himself in and out, heat coiling heavily at the base of his spine and
then shooting upward and out, sparking all through him like cloud-to-ground
lightning during a summer thunderstorm.
Dean cries out under him when Sam comes, body tightening down like he can keep
Sam in him forever. Each spasm echoes all through Sam until he's drained,
nothing left but aftershocks and trembling arms, and he folds himself down
against Dean shakily.
"You okay?" Dean's voice is like whiskey and honey, slow and thick and smooth,
and it slides over Sam, comforting and easing.
"Mmm. Think my brain leaked out my ears, though." Sam rests his ear against
Dean's chest and listens to the thump-thump-thump of his heart.
"Probably through your dick, actually." He runs a gentle hand through Sam's
hair, a tangled, sweaty mess, and kisses him softly. "You're too heavy to use
me for a mattress, Sammy."
Sam groans, mostly playing but kind of seriously, because—moving? Not really
want he wants to do. Dean solves the problem for him by tipping him over then
settling close beside him, hand smoothing and sweeping over Sam's chest.
"Did you—" Sam swallows and tries not to blush. "Was it good?"
Dean laughs, low and rough, and bumps his pelvis against Sam's hip. "Yeah. It
felt good. Weird…but good." He nuzzles at Sam's jaw, and blows a raspberry
there. "You popped my cherry, Sammy."
"Geez, man." Sam pushes at him, blushing again, but yeah—he kind of did, didn't
he? And, well. "Mine, too."
That gets another laugh, and Sam pinches him lightly in retaliation. He doesn't
think Dean's lying about it feeling good, but he doesn't think he's telling the
whole truth, either, because he's pretty sure Dean didn't come. But how do you
ask something like that? Sam frowns in the near-dark and tries to find the
words.
"How come, uh. You didn't—you didn't come?" Well, straight-forward is always
best, or so Uncle Bobby likes to say. And oh, Sam really doesn't want to think
about their uncle right now. Geez.
Dean shrugs against him, and stills his hand, splaying it out over Sam's heart.
"Came before, when you were fingering me. Liked that a lot." He rubs his thumb
over Sam's nipple, callous catching and sending a little zing of sensation
through Sam's body. "Still felt good—I'd do it again."
Sam's dick gives a half-hearted twitch at those words, and he curls over onto
his side, facing Dean. He wishes he could say what he's thinking, that being
inside Dean like that made him feel closer then he'd ever felt yet, like they
were really two halves joined into one whole. But stuff like that will just
make Dean laugh, and probably tease him, so Sam keeps his thoughts to himself,
instead saying, "good. 'Cause I want to do it again."
"Not tonight, I hope." Dean sounds nervous, but when Sam looks closely his
brother's eyes are twinkling with amusement—and love.
"No—" Sam stops to yawn, wincing when his jaw pops. "Sleep, now."
"Good plan." Dean slides an arm over Sam and kisses him. "Sleep tight, Sammy."
"Mmm." He's already halfway there, unable to make his mouth move any more. He
hears Dean snort, and feels lips brushing warm kisses over his forehead,
whispers of words hidden within.
"Love you, Sammy. So much."
                                     ~~~~~
November, 1941
Fall is gasping it's last, dying breath. The sun is rising later and later in
the mornings, and the grass crunches underneath Sam's boots when he walks to
school in the morning. The trees that haven't dropped their leaves yet don't
have much color left any more; it's all dull, dead browns fluttering in the
cool wind.
All around them the country is gearing up for war. Every day it seems the
newspapers and radio stations are full of propaganda exhorting Americans to
join the armed forces, to serve their country with pride and honor. Uncle Bobby
says it's a lot like the days of the Great War, when every able bodied man was
called to service.
Sam's too young to join, even if he wanted to — which he doesn't. And it's not
that he's a pacifist, because he's not, particularly. But there's so much going
on over in Europe, and in Russia, and Asia that it makes Sam feel insignificant
and small. Like he wouldn't even count for anything if he did enlist, because
what's one person against all that?
So far, Dean doesn't seem to want enlist either, though Sam catches him reading
the "Uncle Sam Wants YOU" posters in town, with a calculating look in his eye.
Nights after Uncle Bobby goes to bed are spent down in front of the fire,
trading caresses and kisses, and Sam wants to ask Dean if he's thinking about
enlisting, but he's afraid to. Afraid to ask, afraid to know. The feeling that
started over the summer, that something-is-going-to-happen feeling that leaves
his skin crawling, is back with a vengeance, and Sam clings to Dean every
chance he gets.
Armistice Day is observed in town at the church, with a pot-luck luncheon and
speeches from the men who served in the Great War. This year it seems ominous,
listening to those men talking about troop movements and the loss of comrades,
and twice Sam looks up to catch Dean staring at him, face unreadable. It gives
Sam chills, and he finds himself at the back of the church basement where
everyone's gathered, trying to get as far away from Dean, from the veterans,
from everything, as he possibly can.
Becky Summers and Betsy Richardson are wiping dishes down in the kitchen; Sam
leans against the far wall and listens to the low murmur of their gossip,
intermingled with giggles. He remembers Dean's words, what if he wanted someone
else, a girl, and came to regret what they were doing. In spite of Dean's
assurances that Sam can't possibly know what he wants for forever, even the
thought of kissing someone — a girl someone, at that — who isn't Dean just
leaves him uninterested.
He's mulling that over when a soft voice says, "…one of us, Sam?"
"Huh?" Well, he's never pretended to be articulate when startled out of his
thoughts. He smiles awkwardly and tries again. "I didn't, um. I didn't hear
what you said?"
Betsy giggles and looks over at Becky, and geez. When did they come out of the
kitchen? Then she leans in closer, small hand reaching out to tap at the
buttons on his shirt. "I asked which one of us do you think is prettier?"
Oh, Lord. Kill him now and just be done with it. Sam glances between the girls,
and a little of his panic must show because Becky gives him a gentle smile.
"You don't have to say if you don't want to. We're just being silly."
Sam swallows. "I just—" What would Dean say in a situation like this? For that
matter, where is Dean? He's always come in to save the day before. Sam looks
around and spots his brother, and is taken aback to see Dean glaring at him,
eyes hot and dark. "I don't know how I'd choose," he finishes weakly. "You're
both awfully pretty."
Betsy pouts, but Becky gives him a smile. "You're very sweet, Sam Winchester."
She leans up on tiptoes and kisses his cheek, before whispering in his ear,
"I'll save a dance for you, always."
He's stuttering and stammering, trying to figure out how he should respond to
that, when Dean pops up beside him like a damn jack-in-the-box, scowl twisting
his mouth. "We need to go," he says curtly. "Uncle Bobby's heading out to
Spearfish, and if we don't wanna walk home, we need to leave with him."
"I—okay." Dean's gone again before he has the words out, and Sam wonders what
did he do? He feels completely lost right now. "I'll, um. I'll see you tomorrow
at school, Becky. Betsy." He nods a goodbye to them and heads for the door
wishing life, brothers, and girls all came with instructions the way things
like refrigerators did. It would make life a lot simpler, really.
                                     ~~~~~
Dean's not in the cab of the truck; he's sitting in the bed, fingers of one
hand tight around the rim, staring off into the distance. Sam's steps falter
for a moment and then Uncle Bobby leans out the window and calls, "get in the
truck, Boy. Daylight's a-wastin'."
"When'd you decide to go up to Spearfish?" Sam pulls the door shut and settles
himself on the seat as Bobby puts the truck in gear. Idly he wonders if Uncle
Bobby's found someone up there to court, maybe his Army buddy has a sister,
because he's never been one to go much and here lately he's gone every month
for at least a day or two.
"Just decided," Bobby says, glancing aside at Sam. "Seems a fitting day for it,
don't you think?"
"Yes, Sir," Sam mumbles. He looks out the window at the passing landscape and
tries to imagine Uncle Bobby courting, then decides that's just too weird a
thought. "You be back tonight?"
Bobby shakes his head. "I reckon not. Probably not tomorrow, either, unless
it's late. You and Dean make sure you do your chores and don't burn the place
down, y'hear?"
"We will. Won't. I mean—" Sam shakes his head and wonders if he's been cursed,
or something. Words are usually his friends, but definitely not today.
"I know what you mean, Sam." Uncle Bobby turns into their driveway and Sam
winces on Dean's behalf when they hit a particularly deep rut in the dirt. The
minute they come to a stop Dean's vaulting out of the truck bed and
disappearing into the house, only a wave in Bobby's direction. Bobby frowns and
looks at Sam. "See if you can't cheer your brother up, hmm? I don't know what's
gotten into him, but he's been scowling at everyone and everything like the
world's his enemy."
"Yes, Sir," Sam says again, and reaches for the handle to let himself out. He's
not sure but what it might be better just to go to Spearfish with Uncle Bobby.
"Have a good trip."
"Will do." Uncle Bobby smiles. "Don't burn the house down."
Sam returns the smile. "We won't. I promise."
Sam stands on the stoop watching Uncle Bobby drive off until the only thing
left is a cloud of dust, and the fading grumble of the engine as the gears
shift. When he can't put off going inside any longer, Sam squares his shoulders
and pushes the door open, wishing he at least knew what'd put Dean in a bad
mood to start with.
He's completely unprepared to be grabbed and shoved up against the wall beside
the door, and Sam's head thumps painfully against the boards. "Dean—what?"
"I know I said you should find someone else, but I didn't think you'd fucking
flirt with someone with me in same damn room." Dean hisses the last word and
shoves Sam again, handfuls of Sam's shirts clenched in his fists.
"I didn't—ow!—I wasn't flirting with anybody—" His head bangs against the wall
again, and Sam tastes blood when he bites his tongue. Dean shakes him again,
eyes flashing green fire at him just before he leans in and takes Sam's mouth
in a kiss Sam feels down to his toes, hot and possessive, like Dean's
determined to leave his mark on Sam.
"I saw you," Dean mutters against Sam's mouth, teeth nipping at his lower lip,
tongue flicking out ease the sting. "All shy smiles and blushes, with those
girls—"
It hits Sam then that Dean's jealous. He saw Sam talking with — more like
ambushed by! — Becky and Betsy, and assumed he was flirting, and wow. Dean's
jealous.
Sam relaxes back against the wall, warm all over in a way that has nothing to
do with Dean pressed against him, nothing to do with hot, wet kisses and bites
like Dean's trying to devour him. Dean's jealous because he thought Sam was
flirting with someone else.
"I wasn't," Sam murmurs into Dean's mouth, then stops trying to speak with
words and lets his body talk for him. He cups Dean's face with his hands and
guides, gentles the kiss slowly until Dean relaxes against him. They trade
slow, easy kisses until they both need to breathe, then it's quick gasps for
air and back to kissing, the slick, wet sounds filling the air around them. Sam
whispers, "I wasn't", and "I wouldn't", and "I love you" into the kisses;
traces the words on Dean's lips with his tongue.
Dean licks "I'm sorry" and "need you" into Sam's mouth, and for just an instant
Sam thinks he tastes salt in the kiss, but when Dean pulls back his face is
dry, eyes dark and hungry but not wet. He stares at Sam for a long, long
moment, then starts, "I don't—"
"Shh." Sam pulls him back in for another kiss, reaching up to push Dean's
flannel over-shirt off. "Doesn't matter."
"I wanted…I got no right, getting mad, Sammy." His fingers are working at the
buttons on Sam's shirt, lips still saying 'sorry'.
"You have every right." Sam rubs Dean through his pants, fingers tracing the
growing bulge there, and leans closer to nip at Dean's ear. "Every right." His
chest is tight with all the emotions swelling inside him, and Sam has to stop
and just press his face to Dean's neck and breathe in the warm, clean scent of
him. "Would you—I want—"
"Sammy." Dean breathes out his name and turns his head for another kiss. "You
sure?"
Sam nods. He's been sure since the first time he fucked Dean, but Dean—Dean
wasn't sure. Wasn't sure about taking his brother's virginity, about crossing
that last line. Not that he'd said as much to Sam, but Sam isn't stupid and
Dean's not as subtle as he likes to think he is. "I am. Please?"
"God, I want to—" There's indecision written plainly over Dean's face; love,
lust, and need warring with concern and uncertainty.
"I want you to. So bad." Sam takes Dean's hand and slides it around behind him,
so it rests on the swell of his butt. "Want you to fuck me." He kisses Dean
again, nips at his mouth, along his jaw, up to his ear. "Love me. Please."
He's never sure, later, when thinking over the moment, if it's the 'fuck me' or
the 'love me' that gets to Dean more, but one minute they're standing there by
the front door and the next they're stumbling upstairs, barely keeping each
other from tripping as they try to undress and touch and navigate the steps all
at the same time.
Sam finishes stripping while Dean fumbles around in the dresser drawer for the
tin of Vaseline. By the time he's naked and on the bed, Dean's standing beside
him, stroking his dick to full hardness.
"C'mon," Sam says, wriggling toward the center of the bed. He holds one hand
out to Dean, but Dean just stands there for a minute longer, eyes skimming
Sam's body up and down until Sam shifts nervously. "Dean?"
Dean blushes then, which should look funny from a guy who's standing there,
dick in hand, but Sam likes it. It makes him think Dean's as nervous about this
as he is—because he is nervous, no lie there. He's had Dean's fingers inside
him a bunch of times now, but Dean's dick is a lot bigger. Wider, thicker,
longer, and Sam's not scared, he wants this so bad he can taste it, but yeah.
Dean mumbles something Sam can't make out, then kneels on the bed and kisses
Sam. Sam's pretty sure if he couldn't have anything but Dean's kisses for the
rest of his life, that'd be enough. Just hours of Dean's mouth against his,
slick and sweet, tongue teasing naughty suggestions without ever saying a word,
lips warm and firm, guiding and promising. He squirms under Dean and gasps when
Dean's fingers find that spot, when they press slow and slick inside him. It
makes a dull ache spread through him and Sam shifts, rocks down against the
pressure until Dean's fingers are fully inside him, twisting and turning,
stretching him open. There's more pressure when Dean adds a third finger, and
Sam whimpers, just once, the sound disappearing into Dean's mouth. Then those
fingers find that place inside him that makes him see stars when Dean rubs and
pushes against it. He keeps rubbing, massaging it, until Sam's rocking his hips
up and up, begging with little whines and grunts.
"Please, god, Dean, please—" Sam thinks he's going to die if Dean doesn't stop
teasing and fuck him.
"Shh, yeah, I got you, hang on." The tin of Vaseline skitters out of Dean's
hands, and it's then Sam realizes just how nervous Dean is. He stretches his
arm out and snags it from the edge of the bed and scoops a generous dollop out,
then reaches up for Dean, watching him intently.
Dean shakes when Sam strokes the slick stuff over his dick, but then he's
moving in between Sam's legs, pushing them up and open, the blunt head of his
dick hardsoft against Sam's body. Dean takes a deep breath and pushes,
breaching Sam, and—oh.
Oh.
Distantly, Sam's aware he's making noise, but he doesn't care. Can't focus on
anything beyond the pressure and burn as his body stretches, opening to
accommodate Dean's. It hurts, but it doesn't, pain sliding into pleasure and
back again until Sam's dizzy with it, with the feelings swirling around him.
He hears Dean say, "Sammy, Jesus—" and then Dean shifts, dick pushing deeper
inside him until there's no where left to go. Dean's seated fully inside, and
Sam's throbbing around him, body sizzling with sensation.
He clears his throat and rocks his hips up, body tightening around Dean's. It's
enough to shock Dean into moving, slow thrusts that gain speed and rhythm until
Dean's fucking into him fluidly, muttering, "feels so fucking good, God, Sam."
Lips touch his neck, his jaw, and Dean's still mumbling, words that make the
heat inside Sam flare up hotter, brighter, until he's in danger of burning
right up. "Want you so bad, wanted this, love the way you're tight and hot,
don't ever want to stop—"
Sam turns his head and catches Dean's mouth with his; he has to, has to stop
the words or he'll incinerate on the spot.
Dean slides a hand in between them and wraps it around Sam's dick. He's gone
partially soft, the shock of penetration and god, so much to sort out and feel,
but it only takes a few strokes to get hard again, a few more for moisture to
begin slicking the head, easing the burn of friction as Dean jerks him off in
time with his thrusts.
Those thrusts get faster and uneven, stuttering and jerking as Dean loses his
rhythm. Sam pushes Dean's hand away and jacks himself hard and fast, panting
into Dean's mouth. The pleasure coalesces into something burning hot that
streaks through him, and he groans as he comes, striping his chest and stomach
with thick spurts of white.
Dean growls when Sam comes and thrusts a few more times before shoving deep
inside and holding there. Sam feels Dean's dick swell and throb, feels the
pulses of wet heat as Dean comes.
It's over in a rush, Sam relaxing boneless back onto the bed and Dean slumping
against him. Sam turns his head to nuzzle, tasting the salt on Dean's skin from
sweating. He licks at the spot just under Dean's jaw, body still buzzing with
pleasure and contentment.
"Gonna eat me?" The words are slurred, thick with drowsiness, and Sam smiles.
"Maybe. Whatcha gonna do about it?"
"Mmm. Not a damn thing." Dean shifts, and Sam grabs at him; wants to keep him
inside for forever.
"No—not yet?"
"Gonna happen pretty quick anyway. Can't stay in if 'm not hard." Dean gives
Sam a long, serious look, and then presses a kiss to the side of Sam's face
before saying, "thank you."
Sam doesn't even bother asking Dean what he means. He nods and snuggles closer,
wishing he could think of something to say that wouldn't sound as inane as
'you're welcome'. Because really, the pleasure was his.
                                     ~~~~~
December 7, 1941
Sam actually likes winter — aside from being cold — because the pace is a lot
slower. There are still chores and things to do around the house, but he has
more time to read in the winter, because there aren't any crops to plant or
tend or harvest. The bulk of farm work is on hold for a few more months.
Church runs over by a bit, with new birth announcements and wedding
announcements, and Sam's so hungry by the time they head back home he's sure
his stomach thinks his throat's been cut.
"You ate plenty of breakfast," Dean says when Sam mentions this. "Don't tell me
you're growing again."
"You just hate that I'm taller'n you, now." Sam pokes around in the pockets of
his overcoat, but nothing. Sometimes he'll find some pieces of carrots, or
apple — he keeps them handy to feed the horses — but either he ate what was
there, or fed them to someone already.
"You're not taller than me." Dean always grumbles the same thing, any time Sam
mentions it. It's Dean's version of denial, because the doorway to the kitchen
tells the truth in smudged pencil marks. Sam's been about a half an inch taller
than Dean for the last couple of months.
"Whatever, shorty." Sam pokes Dean in the side, then jumps out of the truck as
soon as Uncle Bobby puts it in park. "Short little legs, betcha can't catch
me!"
"Oh, them's fighting words!"
"Don't go scampering off, boys," Uncle Bobby calls. "Dinner's bound to be ready
by now." Sam almost stops, thinking of the roast in the oven, with lots of
potatoes and carrots and onions, and his mouth waters because the Reverend's
wife sent home a dozen fresh-made yeast rolls to go with dinner and he's
hungry.
But the urge to tease his older brother is stronger than hunger, at least for
the moment, so Sam shouts again, "short legs, can't get me!" And sprints toward
the far side of the barn.
"Be back in a minute, Uncle Bobby," Dean calls over his shoulder. "Just gotta
grind Sam into the ground."
Bobby's bark of laughter follows them as Dean chases Sam into the barn, and if
there's straw in both boys' hair when they reappear in the house ten or fifteen
minutes later, stomping snow off their boots, well. They do live on a farm,
after all.
                                     ~~~~~
Dinner's finished and dishes done, and Sam's just about to start in on the rest
of his homework. He's set out a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies (also in the
package from the Reverend's wife, and a nice, unexpected surprise), and a big
glass of milk, and he's been staring at his English book for half an hour,
dreading the essay he needs to write. At least Charles Dickens is easier to
understand — most of the time — than Shakespeare. Though Sam knows better than
to count chickens before they're hatched; the way his luck runs, it'll be
Shakespeare again, come spring.
He's just picked up his pen, and thinks it sure would be nice to have one of
those fancy, new ball-point pens (though Uncle Bobby's fond of saying, 'if
wishes were horses, beggars would ride'), when there's a frantic knock at the
door.
By the time Sam's out of his chair and halfway to the front door, Uncle Bobby's
got it open. Dean's hovering in the doorway of the living room, and when Sam
looks at him, question in his eyes, he shrugs.
Frank Thompson — Mr. Thompson, their closest neighbor — is standing on the
stoop, hat in his hands. Uncle Bobby motions him inside, but he shakes his head
abruptly. "Got other houses I got to get to quickly." He looks from Uncle
Bobby, to Dean, to Sam, then says, "You all need to turn your wireless on—the
Japanese bombed the Pearl Harbor Naval Base this morning."
And just like that, the world turns topsy-turvy, and upside down, and Sam knows
nothing will ever be the same again.
                                     ~~~~~
December 8, 1941
"School's cancelled," Sam announces, banging the door shut behind him.
"Principal Woollsey said for us to all go home and listen to President
Roosevelt's speech. He said 'history is happening right now, everything is
changing', and we need to pay attention."
Uncle Bobby and Dean are sitting at the kitchen table, the pieces of their
hunting rifles spread out in front of them, obviously cleaning them. They look
up at Sam's entrance, concerned frowns fading at his explanation.
Sam drops his books and lunch pail onto the floor beside the door, and goes to
pour himself a cup of coffee from the ratty pot still simmering on the back
burner of the stove. It's strong and bitter at the first sip, and he grimaces.
"Dean made this pot, didn't he?"
"Fu—screw you, Sammy." Dean glances over at Uncle Bobby. "Sorry."
"Hmph. I was serious about repeating Sunday school, Boy. Your mouth's only
getting worse, I think." Bobby nods toward Sam. "Sure you oughta drink that?
Might stunt your growth."
Sam and Dean snort at the same time. "I'm not too worried," Sam says, even
while Dean's saying, "I should be so lucky."
That makes Uncle Bobby snort. "What time's the President gonna do his speech?"
Sam stirs milk and sugar into his cup and tastes it once before adding more
sugar. "About twelve-thirty, is what Principal Woollsey said." Just thinking
about it makes Sam's stomach tighten with anxiety. He's pretty sure he knows
what's going to happen — they all know. There's no way the United States can
let this go and not retaliate.
"Well, sit yourself down and help us clean the rifles. We'll keep busy until
time for the speech, and then we'll just see what happens after. No sense in
fretting before we know what's to fret about."
"Yes, Sir." Sam and Dean answer together, long accustomed to Bobby's laid-back
approach. Sam settles himself at the table and takes the nearest cleaning rod
in hand. It's just past ten in the morning; a little over two hours to go.
It's going to be the longest, and shortest, two hours ever.
                                     ~~~~~
December 8, 1941, 12:30p.m.
"Quit fartin' around and get in here—it's almost time!" Uncle Bobby sounds
about as pissed off as he's ever sounded, and Sam glances over at the doorway
anxiously.
"Dean—"
"Here, I'm here." Dean settles heavily onto the sofa beside Sam, and it's only
Uncle Bobby's presence that keeps Sam from reaching out for him.
"Finally," is all Uncle Bobby says, but he turns the radio on and fiddles with
the dial until the local station stops fizzling with static, and the radio
announcer's voice fills the room.
"—was Tommy Dorsey and his band. And now ladies and gentlemen, all you good
folks listening to us at home, we bring you the President of the United States:
Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, Members of the Senate, and of the House of
Representatives:
Yesterday, December 7th, 1941 — a date which will live in infamy — the United
States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air
forces of the Empire of Japan.
The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of
Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking
toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese
air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the
Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleagues delivered to our
Secretary of State a formal reply to a recent American message. And while this
reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic
negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or of armed attack.
It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious
that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During
the intervening time, the Japanese government has deliberately sought to
deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for
continued peace.
The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian islands has caused severe damage to
American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many
American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported
torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.
Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last
night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong. Last night, Japanese forces attacked
Guam. Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night,
the Japanese attacked Wake Island. And this morning, the Japanese attacked
Midway Island. Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending
throughout the Pacific area.
The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United
States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications
to the very life and safety of our nation. As commander in chief of the Army
and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.
But always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught
against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated
invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to
absolute victory. I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of
the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the
uttermost, but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall
never again endanger us.
Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our
territory, and our interests are in grave danger. With confidence in our armed
forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the
inevitable triumph — so help us God.
I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack
by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a state of war has existed between the
United States and the Japanese empire.
They listen to President Roosevelt's speech in silence, horrified at what's
happened, and what's going to happen, next. It's quiet in the living room, when
the speech is over, the radio announcer telling them that they will break into
programming with any updates, and then it's back to soft music. The only other
sounds are the crackle of the logs in the fireplace, and Buster's snores.
"I want to enlist," Dean says suddenly, and to Sam it seems like his voice
echoes loudly in the near-silence of the room.
"Dean—" Sam says his name, then stops, not sure what else to say. He looks
helplessly over to Uncle Bobby, but Bobby's nodding.
"I understand, Son." He draws a breath in and lets it out in a sigh. "I was a
bit younger'n you when I joined the Army. Got sent overseas almost immediately,
since they needed troops over there. Was proud to do my part for freedom."
"Yeah." Dean swallows, and Sam can't look away from the movement, like his
brain is trying to latch on to something — anything — to distract it from
Dean's leaving oh God Dean's leaving. "That's — that's what I want to do. Help
out, do my part." Dean shoots Sam a look that somehow says please understand, I
need to do this and all Sam can do is nod his head, a quick, jerking motion.
"When?" He manages, trying to swallow the thick lump of anger and fear clogging
up his throat.
"After Christmas," Dean says finally, staring off into space. "January." He
focuses back on Sam and gives him a weak smile. "Bootcamp for a birthday
present, how 'bout that?"
Sam doesn't think it's much of a joke, so he just nods again, trying to ignore
the cold beginning to slither through him. The more he thinks about Dean
leaving, the colder he feels, and finally he lurches to his feet, needing to
get outside, away from all this.
"I’m gonna go—make sure the barn doors are shut tight," he mumbles, and
stumbles from the room. Behind him he hears Dean say his name, and Uncle Bobby
murmur something in reply, but Sam doesn't turn back. He can't. If he does,
he'll lose what little composure he still has.
                                     ~~~~~
Outside is bitter cold, but the air feels good on Sam's face. He stands by the
corner of the house for a few minutes, taking deep breaths until he thinks he's
got a handle on things, and then he goes to the barn. He's still not ready to
go back inside; not ready to have to smile and pretend like everything's okay.
He understands that Dean feels like he needs to help, to do something. But
beyond the ache of Dean leaving is a terror that something will happen to Dean.
The barn is warm inside, shut up tight and snug against the bitter winter
winds, and the livestock seem content, if the lowing from the cows and the
quiet whinnies from the horses is anything to go by. Sam throws down a handful
of corn for the roosting birds and makes his way over to the horses' stalls. He
spends some time scritching noses and patting flanks, enjoying the quiet warmth
of the barn. Shadow and Smoke press close against him, almost like they
understand he needs the comfort.
Standing squashed in between two grown horses gets uncomfortable after a while,
so Sam pets them once more, then pushes out from between them. The pitchfork is
leaning right where Dean left it last night, so Sam takes it up and starts
filling the mangers. Shadow stomps his foot and huffs out a breath when Sam
bangs the pitchfork against the wall, and Sam scowls.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm just…mad, okay? Didn't mean to upset you."
He's talking to the horse. Because he's too much of a coward to go in and tell
Dean that he's mad and hurt and angry and scared.
Shadow doesn't answer — Sam's pretty sure Shadow answering him would be the
scariest thing in the world — just snorts out another breath. Kind of an equine
version of rolling his eyes.
"Smart aleck," Sam mutters.
Troughs filled, Sam heads up to the hayloft and finds a quilt left over from
last summer. He wraps himself up in it and curls up against a bale of hay and
closes his eyes. Maybe he's dreaming, and in a little while he'll wake himself
up from it and everything, including the attack on Pearl Harbor, will be
nothing but a bad memory.
                                     ~~~~~
He wakes a short while later — the sun hasn't moved much, so he probably didn't
sleep more than a half an hour — to the warmth of Dean's embrace, arms tight
around him, and the heat of Dean's mouth against his. Sam curls in closer to
his brother gratefully; snug as the barn is, up here away from the animals and
their added heat, it's chilly—and he's gone beyond cold.
"You okay?" Dean asks finally, one last quick kiss to Sam's mouth before
drawing away. He smoothes Sam's hair back off his forehead and presses another
kiss there.
Sam shrugs. "I will be," he says, and closes his eyes when Dean leans in and
rests his forehead against Sam's. He waits the space of a few heartbeats, then
asks, "are you…sure?"
Dean's breath is warm against Sam's face when he exhales, bittersweet with
coffee and strawberry preserves. He sighs again and Sam wants to burrow into
him, figure out a way to keep him here forever. To keep him forever, period.
"Yeah, I am. It feels like…something I need to do." He hesitates, and tightens
his hold on Sam. "I'm coming home, Sammy, I swear. I promised you I wouldn't
leave like dad did…and I won't. It's not forever."
"Feels like it," Sam mumbles. The words stick in his throat, held tight by the
tears he refuses to let out.
"It's not," Dean says again. He leans back and cups Sam's chin, thumb smoothing
over Sam's lips. "I won't leave you. I'll be back, and we—we can. We can figure
out, things. Can figure out…maybe go somewhere. Like you want."
Sam's breath catches in his chest, love and hope and sorrow clenching tight.
"Just come back," he says. "I don't care about anything else, okay? Just come
back. Come back to me."
"I will." Dean nods, and leans in to brush a kiss over Sam's mouth. "I swear I
will, Sam." He wipes away the stray tears Sam couldn't keep back, and sucks
them off his thumb before pushing himself up. "C'mon. It's cold out here, and
you'll get sick. Uncle Bobby's heating up some soup for lunch, and we're
waiting for word from Washington." He holds his hand out and Sam uses it to
leverage up off the floor. He doesn't want to leave here, doesn't want to go
back inside and hear the radio announcer tell them they're going to war.
But, he thinks, this is just the beginning of having to accept things he
doesn't want to do.
                                     ~~~~~
Shortly after 4pm — hours spent alternately sitting or pacing, both boys and
Bobby full of nervous energy — the radio announcer breaks through the afternoon
broadcast once again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word that President Roosevelt has
signed the Declaration of War. We are at war with Japan. I say again, we are
now officially at war with the country of Japan. There will be more news to
follow, as we have updates. God Bless America."
Sam tries to blink away the stinging in his eyes; he's not going to cry. He
isn't . He's not a baby, and he knows Dean isn't leaving him, he's only doing
what he feels he needs to do. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
                                     ~~~~~
February 1942
Dean enlists the Monday after his birthday—there's no movie this year, for the
first time Sam can remember. The day after that he gets his orders for boot
camp — Camp Shelby, outside Hattiesburg, Mississippi — and that's when Sam
begins to realize this isn't just a bad dream and he's not going to wake from
it any time soon.
The orders include reporting for duty no later than six p.m. ("1800 hours,
Sammy, guess I need to start thinking like a soldier, huh?") on Saturday, the
7th of February. Dean's going to take the bus since Mississippi is so far away
Sam's eyes cross thinking about it, and Uncle Bobby's beat-up truck wouldn't
likely survive the trip. It'll take almost four days, even by bus, with so many
miles to cover.
The night before Dean leaves, he and Sam sneak out of the house and go to the
barn. It's bitterly cold outside, wind whipping and howling, driving little
bits of snow so hard they feel like icicles when they hit bare skin. Inside the
barn is warm, and up in the hayloft they make a nest out of blankets and
quilts, surrounded by bales of hay.
Later, when Sam can think about it and be rational, he knows they made love.
Not fucking, not sex, but love. They take their time, stripping down and
touching each other slowly, carefully. Sam kisses every freckle he can find on
Dean's chest and stomach and makes him come with his mouth and his fingers.
Then he turns Dean over and spreads his legs and licks downward from his
shoulders to his ass, tonguing the small muscled opening until it's slick and
loose while Dean writhes and groans beneath him.
"I'm going to miss you," he mumbles, shifting up to cover his brother's body.
He presses his face against the back of Dean's neck and bites down, sucks a
bruise into the tender, fair skin. It'll be hidden beneath Dean's collar from
Uncle Bobby, and anyone else who sees it will just assume Dean's got a girl
back home.
The hysteria that wants out bubbles up Sam's throat, and he bites again,
answering Dean's growl with one of his own.
Dean pants out words, nonsense and real, when Sam enters him slow, so slowly,
eyes closed as he tries to memorize the way Dean feels under him and around
him.
He wants to say don't forget me and don't stop loving me, but Sam promised
himself he would be as strong as possible, put on a brave face, all that jazz.
He knows Dean isn't going to forget him, and he's not going to stop loving him.
He's just going to be so far away for so long it makes Sam ache.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, tightening around him. "Sammy." His voice is rough,
hoarse, like he's been yelling for hours into the wind. Sam hears the fear and
uncertainty there; feels the love in the way Dean takes him, holds him, keeps
him.
"Love you, Dean. So much." Sam shifts backward until he's sitting on his
haunches, drawing Dean with him. He keeps his arms tight around Dean and rocks
his hips until Dean's groaning, head back against Sam, face drawn up in
pleasure.
He strokes Dean's dick slowly, long, teasing strokes that Dean thrusts upward
and into before sinking back down onto Sam's shaft.
They keep the rhythm slow, easy, losing themselves in the motion, in the
sensation, in each other. Sam wants to draw it out for as long as possible;
wishes they could stay like this until the sun comes up.
He increases his strokes gradually, until Dean's begging wordlessly,
breathlessly, hips hitching forward and back impatiently. Sam laughs, low and
ragged, and sucks another bruise into his throat.
"More?"
"God, Sam. You're killing me." Dean shudders in Sam's arms. "Yes, more.
Please."
"Don't have to beg me, Dean. Never." Sam licks over the bruise he just made,
and tips them forward. Dean grunts and catches himself on his hands, and gives
Sam a look over his shoulder that makes Sam's blood boil in his veins.
He pounds into Dean then, setting a fast, furious rhythm that has them both
gasping. Sam reaches around to stroke Dean, working him until Dean's
stiffening, dick swelling within Sam's grasp. He comes hot and sticky over
Sam's fingers, panting through each spasm. His panting turns to groans when Sam
thrusts in and holds, emptying himself inside Dean in several long pulses. He
sobs as he comes, dry sobs that clog up his throat, choking him. Beneath him,
Dean shakes like Sam, but like Sam, his eyes are dry, too.
"I wish you weren't leaving," Sam says later, when they're curled together
under the blankets, the straw prickly beneath them.
"Sam—"
"No, I know. Just. I'll." He swallows hard, then forces a smile. "I'll miss
you. Shorty."
"You're a little shit, you know that?" Dean draws Sam nearer and kisses him.
"I'm gonna miss you too, Sam. Thinking—about. About not...seeing you. Kinda
feels like I'm empty inside."
"Yeah," Sam says, softly. "I feel empty, too."
They lay silent for a while, breathing in each other's air. Dean shifts so his
hand rests over Sam's heart. "I'll write. Every day I can."
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he won't actually cry. That would be beyond
embarrassing. "And you'll come back." He's not going to make it a question.
"I promise, Sammy."
"I'll be waiting," Sam says, lacing his fingers with Dean's. "No matter how
long it takes."
"You should get some sleep," Dean says after a while.
"What about you?"
"Got four days on a bus to sleep. 'M not worried about sleeping."
Sam shakes his head and shifts closer, tangling his legs with Dean's. "I don't
want to waste—I got plenty of time to sleep, later, too."
Dean gives him a small smile. "We just gonna lay here and stare at each other
all night, then?"
"Yeah, I guess we are." Sam smiles, too, just a twitch of his mouth.
"Okay, then. Glad we got that settled." Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's mouth.
"Be good while I'm gone, huh?"
Sam kisses Dean's thumb, then sucks the tip into his mouth. "You be good while
you're gone, too."
That startles a laugh out of Dean, and he reaches out and tugs Sam in close, so
close there's hardly room for air between them, and presses his face to Sam's
neck. "You're such a brat, Sammy. This…I gotta do this, but God, it hurts to
leave you. I hope you know…I wouldn't, if I didn't…if I didn't think it was
something that's right. I just—" He makes a face, Sam feels it against his
neck, and his voice is thick with frustration.
"Dean." Sam takes Dean's face in his hands and kisses him, stilling the flow of
words. "I get it, okay? It hurts…but I get it. You're not…like Dad. You're
coming back."
"Damn straight." He gives Sam a wobbly smile. "Let's go back inside, okay? I'm
freezing my ass off, out here. Let me have one last night in a real bed." With
you is unspoken, but Sam hears it anyway, and smiles and nods.
                                     ~~~~~
Morning comes far, far too early.
It's ordinary in that the morning chores still need to be done, and breakfast
cooked and eaten. Sam tries a couple bites of flapjacks and ends up gagging on
them before giving up. Dean pushes his food around his plate, and even Uncle
Bobby doesn't eat like he usually does. In the end, Buster gets a heck of a
treat when everyone scrapes their plates into his bowl.
Then it's time to head in to town to the bus depot, so Dean can get his ticket
to Hattiesburg. Uncle Bobby hands him money for the ticket and some extra cash
so he has a little bit on-hand, and Sam gives him the packet of sandwiches he
put together while Dean was shaving and dressing.
Sam goes with Bobby to drop Dean at the bus depot in Wall, and it's all he can
do to keep a grip on himself. He tells himself over and over that he's not
going to cry; he won't embarrass himself, or the others like that. But it's a
near thing inside the depot when Dean turns from the counter, ticket in hand,
his face blank.
They said their goodbyes early this morning, between kisses and touches that
brothers should never share. Sam feels like his heart's been scooped out of his
chest, leaving him empty and hollow inside, and he knows Dean feels the same
way. He wishes he could have one last kiss; wishes he could taste the bitter
flavor of coffee and the sweet of maple syrup on Dean's tongue, but squashes
that down. No more kisses now, until the war is over and Dean's come home.
The loudspeaker squawks to life, announcing Dean's bus is boarding, and this is
it. Time's up.
"Well," Uncle Bobby says, stepping forward, arms open to hug Dean. "Reckon this
is it, Son. You take care, y'hear? Write when you can, let us know you're safe
and sound."
"I will." Dean hugs Bobby tight. "Bye, Uncle Bobby." He turns to Sam and every
word Sam wants to say to Dean is shining there in Dean's eyes, liquid and
glittering. "Sammy?"
Sam launches himself into Dean's arms and squeezes hard, like he can keep Dean
here through force of will, if he tries hard enough. "Be safe," he whispers.
"Come home." I love you.
"You too," Dean says roughly. He squeezes back once, then releases Sam and
turns to grab his duffle. "I'll write as soon as I can."
Sam nods; if he says anything at all, opens his mouth even a tiny bit, he'll
start crying.
They wait until Dean's on the bus before heading back to the truck, and if
Uncle Bobby notices Sam's cheeks are damp, he's kind enough not to say anything
about it.
                                     ~~~~~
February 8, 1942,
Dear Sam and Uncle Bobby:
We're not going to be allowed mail out (but you can write to me) for the first
four weeks of training, but our drill instructor said we can write one letter
to let our families know we got here all right. So, I got here all right. It
was a long trip on the bus, and I didn't think my legs were ever going to
straighten out completely. We're in barracks right now, twelve of us to a room.
No indoor latrines, except for some sinks for shaving, and a shower. There's
eleven other guys in my squad, three of 'em are married and brought their
families with them — they're staying in town since there aren't any family
quarters here on post. We start the day early with reveille, four-thirty a.m. —
oh-dark-thirty, our D.I. calls it. Calisthenics, then running or marching (and
sometimes both). Weapons training, more calisthenics, more marching. Everything
is 'Yes, Drill Sergeant' or 'No, Drill Sergeant', and learning ranks and how to
address officers (and don't ever call an NCO "Sir", unless you want to do a LOT
of pushups). Chow isn't too bad, but yours is better, Sam. Still, plenty to eat
and a lot of time outside running around. Some of the guys hate it, but minus
the livestock and crops, it's not a lot different from a normal day, for me.
There's four squads to a unit, and within our unit there's a guy from Minot,
and another from Rapid City, so I'm not the only Dakota territory fella.
Okay, Drill Instructor says we gotta wrap it up. I'll write again when I can,
but it probably won't be until training is over.
Love to you both,
Dean
                                     ~~~~~
May 2, 1942,
Dear Sam:
Happy birthday, Sammy. Sweet sixteen! Can't say you've never been kissed
though, can you?
I miss you like crazy, kiddo. It's nuts over here, with soldiers everywhere —
we're all kind of lumped together, Army, Air Force, Navy, Marines, they just
call all of us soldiers. I guess probably there's not too many Navy guys
onshore, and I don't know about the Marines. Lotta Army green and brown,
though.
The folks I've met over here so far are nice enough, though we don't spend a
lot of time with the local populations. Mostly to barter for food to supplement
the rations we get from the mess hall. C-rats suck, I just want to say. Kind of
like old Miss Edna's goulash. Yeah, like that. (There's a packet of Tabasco
sauce in every single meal packet. They're that bad.)
Right now we're sleeping in makeshift barracks—they're basically like huge
tents. Like the church used for the revival meetings in the summer? Only not as
nice as those. These are ugly and smell like mold and dirty socks (like YOUR
dirty socks!). We have camp cots and some blankets, and I got lucky and got a
pillow, though I've put my head on softer bricks, I think. It's rained a lot,
lately, so everything's damp, which makes the mold smell that much worse.
I actually miss getting up to feed the livestock. Did you guys get all the
planting done okay? Uncle Bobby said he might hire someone, or maybe a couple
of the Thompson kids could come help. I hate like hell that I'm not there to
help, Sam. I really hope you and Uncle Bobby understand why I felt like I
needed to do this.
Speaking of missing things—I miss doing that thing in the mornings that we
always did. You know the one, right? And call me crazy, but I even miss you
putting your ICY COLD FEET on my feet.
Take care of yourself, and take care of Uncle Bobby.
Love,
Your brother, Dean
                                     ~~~~~
May 23, 1942
Dear Dean—
I know that thing in the mornings you're talking about, and I miss it, too.
I miss YOU, man. It's not the same here, without you. At all. Me and Uncle
Bobby got all the planting done; Jeremy and Tony Thompson came over and helped
after school. I skipped a week (or two? I don't remember, now), but made the
work up no problem. (We're studying Shakespeare. Again. Don't the teachers have
anything new to teach us? Honestly. At least this year it's something neat —
The Merchant of Venice, and Hamlet. Romeo and Juliet last year was awful.)
Thanks for the birthday wishes, by the way.
I'm kind of thinking about college, when I finish up high school. Maybe being a
lawyer. I know you like farming and stuff, and you're good at it. But Dean, I
don't want to do it for the rest of my life, at least not without having
something to back me up. What do you think? God, I wish you were here, so I
could talk to you about this stuff.
Oh—You remember Terry Drummond, right? He enlisted, too. He ships out in a
couple weeks, his momma said. I saw her at the general store a few days ago. He
got married last fall, to Anne Thompson, and she's gonna have a baby. So she's
pretty upset, I reckon.
Buster died. He got sick not long after you left; Uncle Bobby said mostly it
was just that he was an old dog, and I know that. But I miss him.
I'll bet Europe is cool. I'd like to visit, someday. The war can't last
forever, right?
Please be careful. Remember to duck, okay? I miss you.
Love you,
Sammy
                                     ~~~~~
June 13, 1942
Hey, Sammy—
By the time you get this letter, it's probably going to be the end of June or
maybe even July. I write every night that I can, even when I'm waiting for a
letter from you, but it's usually only a few minutes before I have to turn in.
Don't get a whole lot of sleep, so I have to take it when I can. So these
letters are probably going to ramble around a lot, maybe seem like they don't
make sense. (And I can hear you thinking how I don't make sense anyway—shut it,
Brat.)
We've been in Belgium, and they have got wicked good chocolates here. One of
the guys I hang around with — his name is Delbert, the poor guy, so we call him
Del, or just call 'him by his last name — got himself a girl in town, and she
gets him cocoa so we can have cocoa in our coffee in the morning. Makes it
taste almost decent.
God, the mosquitoes here are more blood-thirsty than the ones back there at
home! I didn't think that was possible.
It's been really hot lately—especially since we're carrying forty-odd pounds of
gear around with us when we march. Had a couple of guys keel over the other
afternoon. They weren't drinking their water when we stopped like they were
supposed to, the idiots. I showed 'em how to wet down a bandana and wrap it
around their heads, under our helmets, or around their necks. City boys, don't
know a thing about keeping cool while working hard.
More marching today. We cover a lot of ground on the days we go like that. Got
tanks as our escorts, and you should hear the noise from those things! I always
thought the big trucks on the roads were noisy; they got nothing on these
things. It's noisy all the time — I keep thinking about Uncle Bobby saying he
doesn't like going to the movies because of the noise. He'd hate this. Gunfire,
and people shouting, and the tanks are loud (and you should hear them when
they're firing).
Food poisoning hit most of my unit a couple nights ago. We're not sure what we
ate, but we all had it, and it was awful. Puked my guts up for hours, and then
had the runs so bad everything was raw. Yeah, I know you wanted to know that.
One of the guys, we call him 'Rabbit' 'cause he's damned fast like one, he got
it the worst. Maybe because he's an itty bitty guy, I don't know. But they had
to send him off in a medical transport to the nearest hospital. He ain't come
back yet; I hope he's okay.
You absolutely should go to college, Sam. I know I tease you about all your
reading and crap, but you're the smartest person I know — and I'm proud of you,
for that. If anyone deserves something better, it's you. And yeah, the war will
end and then I'll be home and I'll be there for your graduation. From high
school, and from college. And you can be the one who makes all the bucks for us
while I help Uncle Bobby with the farm. Right?
I want…I want good things for you, Sammy. I know what you want, and I hope that
it's good for you. I worry about that. You're…you're still so young, Sam. I
know you think you're all grown and shit, and you're probably laughing at me,
reading this 'he's only four years older than me, not like he's ancient' — but
you know what I mean, right? I don't know how to say it without SAYING it, and
there's some things I'm just not going to put into a letter. That's asking for
all kinds of trouble. But maybe you should think about a
different…relationship, than the one you're in. Just think about it, all right?
Take care. I miss you.
Love,
Dean
                                     ~~~~~
July 11, 1942
Dear Dean,
YOU SUCK. Okay? I know exactly what you're saying, and you are SO WRONG. It is
good for me. Nothing could be better, all right? God, I'm so mad at you right
now. I can't write any more, I have to go do something. Anything.
July 13, 1942
Don't say shit like that anymore, please? Uncle Bobby actually threatened to
take a belt to me if I didn't shape up—guess he didn't like me sassing him and
stomping around. How come you can get away with that and I can't? I don't
understand.
But seriously—I appreciate your concern, BIG BROTHER, but that relationship I'm
in is the only one I want. It's the only one that feels right, and it's felt
right for as long as I can remember. I know you remember me telling you that,
the one other time we talked about it. I said I didn't want anything or anyone
else. I hope you believe me and will respect that.
Food poisoning sucks. Whatever happened to the Rabbit guy? Did he get better?
Can people die from food poisoning?
It's been super hot here, lately, and really dry. Uncle Bobby keeps looking at
the fields and at the sky, and muttering about how bad we need rain. I heard
one of the guys that plays checkers at Anson's store saying the Sioux elders,
on the reservation, were talking about doing a rain dance. Or something. Or
maybe he was just pulling my leg, I don't know. But if it doesn't start raining
soon the vegetable garden's going to be in big trouble, never mind the corn and
wheat.
Oh! We got a couple new heifers. There's been a couple families selling out,
and Uncle Bobby bought some of the cattle. I think most of 'em will get sold
for beef, but I know two of the heifers are going to be milk cows. Greta and
Marlene (only YOU would name the cows after movie stars) are starting to dry up
some. We're going to try some cheese-making this fall. Well, Uncle Bobby is. I
plan on laughing a lot.
You know what I miss? Watching you shave. How stupid is that? But yeah. I can't
do it as well as you can (and yeah, I know, I don't NEED to do it as much,
thank you), but it was always kind of, I don't know, soothing. Watching you, I
mean. I also miss kicking your butt at checkers.
Love you,
Sammy
                                     ~~~~~
August 2, 1942
Sammy,
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, and I won't bring it up again, okay? I
just wanted you to know you had options. I'm…glad…you don't want those options.
Rabbit's fine; he came back (I almost said 'home', how sick is that?) a couple
days after I mailed the letter off to you.
We're marching again tomorrow, I have no idea where to. They don't tell us
much, beyond whatever minimum we need to know (a lot of 'sit down, shut up,
stand at attention, at ease'), but we're definitely moving out. I'll try to
write more later, but I’m going to post this now, so you get it. I'm sorry. You
know I love you, right? You've been mine my responsibility since Dad gave you
to me, so, yeah.
Love you,
Dean
                                     ~~~~~
August 15, 1942
Dear Dean,
You're an idiot, but I love you anyway. Brothers do that, I hear. You know what
I mean.
School starts back up again in a few weeks, and then it'll be harvest time. We
finally got some rain. Not as much as we really needed, but enough to squeak
by. Uncle Bobby says if we clear enough off this year's crop, he's going to get
a water heater installed! We're going to redo the plumbing (such as it is) so
we can pipe water from the well straight into the house — for the water heater
— and then to the kitchen and the bathroom. No more heating up water on the
stove. He's also looking at the possibility of getting (in his words) "one of
those new-fangled oven things". It would be pretty nifty to be able to make
toast without having to stoke up the fire, first. We're also going to get the
whole house wired up, and get heaters for the bedrooms. Radiators in every room
would be nice, but I don't know if that'll happen this year. The crops look
pretty good, but you know what they say about counting chickens before they
hatch.
Speaking of chickens, the stupid birds pulled one over on me but good — we have
three dozen new chicks! I have no idea where the hens hid their eggs, but damn.
Hens: 1, Sam: 0.
On the other hand, I guess that means we'll have more chickens to fry up. I'm
all right with that.
Becky Summers got married last week. I don't know to who; she moved away at the
end of last school term. But one of her friends exchanges letters with her, and
told me when I went in to town last week to get our mail. Seems like a lot of
folks are going off and getting married—and then the girl stays home while the
guy goes off to war. And do not even THINK what I'm sure you're thinking right
now. Just shut it.
Uncle Bobby's hollering for me, so I'm going to close this, and get it ready to
mail.
Love you,
Sammy
                                     ~~~~~
Sept 10, 1942
Hey, Sammy!
I'm a marked man, now. Got myself tattooed when we had a day of R&R — she's a
beaut. Got it on my left upper arm, up near my shoulder; it's an Eagle wrapped
up in the flag, with "USArmy" at the bottom. Bunch of us went and did it
together. I might or might not have been halfway to drunk when I had it done,
and the headache the next day was a bitch. But I'm glad I did it. Wish I had
some way of showing you a picture of it. Guess I'll just have to wait to show
it to you when I get home.
Rabbit got a pin-up girl for his, and we're all wondering what his wife's gonna
say when she sees it. He says she's a wild little dolly; that she might get one
of her own.
How 'bout you, Sammy? You wanna get tattooed?
Gotta go, we got roll call and a briefing.
Take care,
Dean
                                     ~~~~~
September 22, 1942
Dean,
A tattoo? Really? I can't wait to see it — and sure, I'll get one. We could
have matching tattoos, couldn't we?
Uncle Bobby's started his cheese-making venture. Between you and me, I don't
think it's going to last very long. He can't cook his way out of a paper bag
anyway, and cheese-making is cooking. After a fashion, anyway. It's pretty
entertaining, though. (Except for the smell. That is NOT entertaining, yuck.)
We had an unexpected visitor last week. One of Grandpa Singer's brother's sons.
I think that makes him a cousin, of some level. Honest, I didn't know we had
any cousins. Uncle Bobby says there's a few Singers still scattered around,
most of them back east, in Ohio and Kentucky. Grandpa Singer came west but
everyone else stayed put. Anyway, his name is Herbert, but he calls himself
Bert, and he was a hoot. City boy to the core, though, and he pestered me into
letting him help with the milking and gathering eggs. Want to guess how well
that went over? The hens don't like me—they sure didn't like him. He got pecked
a lot. (It was pretty funny, but I managed not to laugh until I was well on my
way to school.)
Bert stayed for three days, then headed on. He said he was going further west,
was going to check out Montana, but me and Uncle Bobby figure he'll wind up in
California. He's definitely not a farming type.
The Thompsons have a granddaughter now. Her name is Elizabeth, and she was born
a couple weeks ago. I'm not sure which kid she belongs to—there's so many of
them I lose track. Mr. Thompson said to tell you that the mare that foaled last
spring is pregnant again. He's really hoping the birthing goes easier this time
around, since he doesn't have you to vet for him.
Cleo had kittens the other day. I didn't even know she was pregnant! Not that
I've seen her a lot lately. We've had a big problem with mice in the granaries,
so she's been busy. Maybe she felt like she needed the extra help? I don't
know.
Well, that's all the news I got, and I have two chapters of algebra problems to
work, plus chemistry and English to do. I hope you're taking care of yourself,
Dean. I think about you all the time, and I miss you something awful.
Love you always,
Sammy
                                     ~~~~~
October 2, 1942
Sammy,
Don't know how much I'll be able to write for a while. Things are a mess over
here, really ugly, and we're moving around a lot. You can keep writing — if you
stop, I'll kick your butt when I see you again — the mail will catch up with us
eventually. But I probably won't have much in the way of opportunities to write
or write back.
Tell Thompson he can birth his own foals; the man's been breeding horses for
longer than I've been alive. (You maybe should say it nicer than that but you'd
think the guy would have a little confidence by now.)
My tattoo's mostly healed now. It looks pretty nifty.
Gotta go, it's time for briefing.
Love you,
Dean
                                     ~~~~~
October 27, 1942
Hey, Dean,
It really sucks that on top of everything, you're not able to write. But I'll
keep writing, and I know Uncle Bobby will, and Jessa Alden told me yesterday
that her sister's 2nd grade class is going to do letters and pictures for you.
So there will be mail. I think the Ladies Club at church is doing something,
too, but it's probably supposed to be a surprise, so I won't say anything else.
It doesn't seem like it's been almost year since Pearl Harbor happened, does
it? I don't know if you heard what's happening over here to the folks who are
Japanese or have Japanese ancestry. Per an Executive Order by President
Roosevelt, they're being "relocated" — sent to internment camps. People say
it's for their protection and ours, but I think that's a load of bull. It makes
me sad and sick to think our government is doing that to its own citizens.
There's people who would call me a traitor to my country for saying that, but I
feel it's true. The Japanese people who live here, who were born here, they
aren't to blame for what happened in the Pacific.
I said as much to Uncle Bobby the other night, and he got this funny look on
his face and said I already sound like a lawyer. I don't know if he meant it as
a compliment or an insult, but it was kind of neat either way.
We have to do essays for English next week; I think I'm going to do mine on
that. I'll either really impress Mr. Dryer, or I'll flunk out of English. Ha-
ha.
I hope you're remembering to duck, and that you're taking care of yourself.
Love you,
Sammy
                                     ~~~~~
November 12, 1942
Sam,
I know I told you the mail would catch up with us eventually, but I guess I was
wrong. Nothing so far, and I'm sure you've been writing. Right? You and Uncle
Bobby. I got a letter from Jeffery Tipton last week, though. That was kind of
cool. He says he's still in town, sees you around once in a while.
Yesterday was Armistice Day. Did you guys have a gathering this year? Man, I
wish I was there and not here. It's ugly, Sam. Ugly and I'm no coward, you know
I'm not, but I spend half my time scared to death. We don't ever know what
might happen or when, and it's tiring to try and stay alert all the time.
War can't last forever though, right? I'll be home again in no time, you'll
see.
Love you,
Dean
Post-script: make sure you eat a lot of turkey for me on Thanksgiving. I know
we'll have a prayer and stuff over here, but dinner will likely be c-rats
unless we're camped down for a bit, and c-rats just ain't the same.
                                     ~~~~~
December 25, 1942
Merry Christmas, Dean. I don't know how to put into words how much I miss you.
The holidays were nothing special this year; neither me nor Uncle Bobby feel
like celebrating when we know you're over there, wherever 'there' is, putting
your life on the line.
We sent you a Christmas package, though I don't know if you'll have gotten it
yet or not. It snowed this morning, early; when I got up to milk the cows it
was all still and white outside. Do you remember the, not the first Christmas
we were here, but our first real Christmas here? It snowed then, too, and we
spent the day running in and out, playing outside and then coming in to warm
up. You showed me how to make snow angels and we built a snowman and Uncle
Bobby let us use his muffler and old cap for it. I think we (okay, me) even
named it "Bob", in honor.
I say prayers every night for you. That you stay safe, that you stay healthy,
that you come home soon. And next Christmas you'll be home. I have to believe
that.
I love you,
Your brother, Sam.
                                     ~~~~~
February 3, 1943
They come just before sundown; a dark-colored, unfamiliar car that sends plumes
of dust up behind it as it bumps over the uneven drive. Rusty hears it first
and sets up yapping and barking; by the time the car's parked and two men
inside it are getting out, Sam and Bobby are both waiting in front of the door.
They're government men. Sam isn't sure how he knows that, but he does. Generic-
looking, dressed alike in basic black suits with heavy, dark overcoats and
matching hats.
The taller of the two men looks from Sam to Bobby, then asks, "Mr. Singer?"
Uncle Bobby pushes the door open. "I'm Bobby Singer."
"We have a telegram for you, Sir, from the Department of Defense."
Sam's blood goes icy-cold in his veins. "A telegram?"
The man's eyes flicker back to him and he gives a slight nod, handing the piece
of paper over. Uncle Bobby's hand is steady when he reaches out for it, and
Sam's glad for it. He knows his wouldn't be.
                                      [/]
Dead? Dean's dead? Sam shakes his head. "No. No—he's—No!"
"Sam." Uncle Bobby settles a hand on Sam's arm, fingers squeezing gently.
"No! No, he's not. He can't be! He's coming home to me, he has to! He promised
he'd never leave me!"
Dimly Sam's aware that he's bleeding; he feels something sharp biting into his
fingers, where he's gripping the doorframe and there's something warm dripping
down his fingers. The men standing on the porch are looking at him with pity
and discomfort, and maybe a little bit of disgust, but Sam doesn't care. Uncle
Bobby's trying to pull him back, but Sam can't move. Can't move, can't breathe,
can't think. Can't feel. He's numb, frozen, and oh God. Dean.
Dean.
"No. God, no. Uncle Bobby—"
"I know, Son. C'mon, inside. Sam, come on."
His face is wet. That's the only thing he feels, the only thing Sam knows.
Everything else, it's just blank.
He hears a loud crack and blinks when part of the door frame splinters against
his fingers. The government men tip their hats at Uncle Bobby and mutter
something unintelligible before turning heel and walking away.
Distantly Sam hears Rusty, and then Rufus, barking—setting up a howl Sam wants
to join. He can't breathe, can't get any oxygen into his lungs and claws at his
throat with bloody, burning fingers, words welling up in gasping sobs. "Uncle
Bobby, he's not—he can't be dead. Please, please, he's not, tell me he's not
dead."
"Shh, Sam. Shh. I know, Son." Uncle Bobby's arms are solid and steady around
him, holding him close. He pats Sam's back soothingly, but it's not enough. Not
ever going to be enough. Sam gags on the tears and snot and shudders, trying to
draw breath in.
"He promised…promised h-he'd come home, that he w-wouldn't leave me. H c-c-
can't be dead, please tell me he isn't—"
Uncle Bobby makes quiet shushing noises and sinks to his knees, taking Sam down
with him so they're kneeling in the foyer. He holds Sam there, rocking him
gently, and lets him sob in the warm, loving circle of his arms, their tears
mingling together. "That's it, Sammy. Let it out. Just let it all out."
He can't, though. Can't let it all out, because if he does there'll be
absolutely nothing left of him.
Feels like there's nothing left, now. Just a big, hollow nothing.
                                     ~~~~~
Sam wakes repeatedly over the next several nights, never able to sleep for more
than an hour or two at a time before nightmares pull him screaming out of
slumber. He dreams of Dean dying, burning up or riddled with bullets, his body
exploding from impact with bombs or grenades. He sees Dean, lifeless and still,
over and over again until, after a week or so, he stops trying to sleep
altogether.
Instead he lays on his bed — their bed, where they touched and kissed, where
Dean took Sam into his body and he took Dean into his — wrapped in a flannel
shirt that even now still smells faintly like Dean and thumbs through the aged
and worn scrapbook he's kept since not long after they came to South Dakota.
Stares at the pictures of him and Dean, and the one of Dean in his uniform,
rubbing his thumb along the edge like he could touch Dean for real.
                                    [alt=]
Uncle Bobby leaves him alone, for the most part, letting Sam have the space he
needs.
Sam doesn't think there'll ever be enough space, or oxygen, or anything else.
He feels completely numb, except for the burning ache where his heart used to
be, and a tiny part of him that's ashamed, because Uncle Bobby has to be
grieving, too, and Sam should be there for him.
There's a knock on his door a week or so after the telegram, and Uncle Bobby
pokes his head around the door after a minute.
"Sam? Got some mail here for you."
Sam rolls onto his back and looks over at Uncle Bobby. "Mail?"
"A letter—from Dean, I think. Prob'ly sent it before he passed."
Sam's throat closes up, so instead of speaking he just nods and holds his hand
out for it. Bobby hands it over, then stands awkwardly just inside the door.
When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, like Sam might use to coax a stray
dog or cat out of the brush.
"Come down for dinner tonight, Sam. Ain't gonna help you at all to stay up here
the rest of your life."
"I'm not hungry," Sam mutters, sliding his finger carefully under the flap of
the envelope. It's postmarked somewhere in Europe, from back in January, so
Uncle Bobby's probably right. "I don't think I'm ever going to be hungry." He
shifts to sit up on the side of the bed, and Bobby comes further into the room.
"I feel like I died inside, Uncle Bobby."
Bobby gives him a careful look. "Losing someone you love can do that. Reckon
that's how you boys ended up on my doorstep, your dad feelin' that way."
There's a lot being said that's not being said, and Sam frowns, looking up from
the envelope in his hands, hands which are trembling suddenly, in a way that
has nothing to do with the letter. He swallows.
"I don't—"
"Sammy." Uncle Bobby sits down on the bed beside Sam. "I'm old, and I'm not
always the sharpest tool in the shed—but I ain't blind, and I'm not stupid,
neither. I saw…how you and Dean looked at one another. The way you lit up
around each other."
Sam's sure he's stopped breathing. He closes his eyes and waits for the final
blow, for Uncle Bobby to tell him to get out, or that he's going to Hell,
or—something. Anything. He wants to speak up, wants to say something, but there
isn't anything he can say. He's not going to deny it; he won't ever do that. He
loved Dean…loves him…with every fiber of his being.
"It's okay, Son." Uncle Bobby pats his leg awkwardly. "It ain't likely right;
lotta people would just as soon string you up as listen to why, but you didn't
hurt no one, so who am I to judge? Seems to me love is a rare enough thing in
this world; it should be celebrated, not condemned." He sucks a breath in
around his teeth, an odd gesture he's always done, for as long as Sam's known
him. "Mind you, I don't think I'd go about advertising it. Most folks ain't
gonna be as understanding as me. But I—I don't think any less of you for it."
Sam swallows and blinks fast, trying to keep the stinging in his eyes from
becoming full-blown tears. He whispers, "Thank you," and turns to hug Bobby.
Maybe Uncle Bobby didn't father him, but he's been a father to him—longer now
than the man he use to call 'Dad'. "Thank you," Sam says again. "I'll—I'll be
down For dinner. For chores."
"Good." Uncle Bobby pats his leg again, then stands up. "The dogs just don't
talk enough to keep me entertained. Been a mite boring without you at the
table."
Sam gives a little sob of a laugh that Uncle Bobby kindly ignores on his way
out of the door, and curls back on himself, letter clutched to his chest. "Oh,
God, Dean. We. God."
His hands shake when he pulls the letter out, and the ink at the top of the
page smudges a bit when a teardrop falls on it. Sam wipes at his eyes
impatiently, and rubs his thumb gently over the page, the familiar script
making his chest tight and achy.
January 9, 1943
Happy New Year, Sammy! I hope you guys are having a mild winter back home.
We're freezing our ever-loving asses off out here in the middle of some
countryside in Germany. (I can't say more than that, and that's probably more
than I should say, about where we're at. Classified and all that.) Tents, Sam.
That's what we're living in. The same moldy, stinky tents we've had all along.
We got space heaters and some stoves we've rigged up aluminum chimneys for, but
it don't do nothing against the cold when the wind really gets to blowing.
Standing guard duty sucks something awful. Me and the guys share cigarettes
around, trying to keep warm. Sometimes it helps, but mostly it doesn't.
I have other ways of tricking my mind into thinking I'm warm. Most of them
involve the swimming hole last summer. Know what I'm saying? (Imagine me
grinning like an idiot right now—and then imagine yourself smacking me and
calling me names. Because you know you would.)
There's a really odd vibe around camp lately, which is why I'm making this
letter short so I can send it out. I don't know what's up, or what's happening,
but everyone's on edge, even our supply Sgt, who is the most cheerful fellow on
the planet, usually.
I don't want to do one of those "if anything happens to me" things, because I
figure if I say that, you'll kick my ass for real, probably even through the
mail. I just have an odd feeling in my gut, so I'm gonna say some things I
maybe shouldn't, but feel like I need to. Okay?
If…if something happens with that relationship you're in, if it ends for any
reason, I want you to find someone else, okay? I know you hate when I say this,
but it's true: you're still so young. Not even seventeen, man. So promise me
you will. If anything happens, and I ain't saying it's going to.
Don't ever forget me. And don't ever forget I love you, Sammy. More than life
itself. Okay? Promise me that, too, that you won't ever forget those two
things.
Take care of yourself, and take care of Uncle Bobby. Go see a horror film for
me on my birthday, would you?
Love you,
Dean
Sam stares at the page until it blurs, but he doesn't know if it's his eyesight
going funny or if it's the tears he feels, hot and wet on his cheeks.
"As if I'd ever forget you, idiot," he mumbles, wiping at his face with his
arm. "Dean. God. This is killing me. Killing me. You promised you wouldn't ever
leave me. How can you tell me to find someone else? Who am I going to love even
half as much as I love you? I can't. I won't."
He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at the letter in his hands; at
the way Dean looped certain of his letters and didn't loop others. Sam pictures
Dean staring at the paper, and smudging the ink when he tries to correct his
spelling — always an atrocious speller, Dean. He thinks about Dean's hands,
broad and strong, callused from hard work and play. The way those hands felt
touching him, gentle strokes that always became harder, faster, impatient and
wanting. The reverence Dean always touched him with.
He's never going to feel those hands on him again. Never see the love shining
from Dean's eyes, even if his lips twist in a sneer, or anger. He'll never hear
"Brat" or "Sammy" with the inflection only Dean ever managed.
There just aren't any tears left. Sam wants to cry some more; longing and loss
are a huge, aching knot inside him and he wants desperately to let it out. But
there just isn't anything left in him. He doesn't know how to get it out.
Doesn't know if he'll ever be able to.
                                     ~~~~~
May, 1943
Dean's body and his effects aren't returned to them until mid-May. By that time
Sam's able to face people again; able to smile stiffly when they offer their
condolences. Uncle Bobby hires Jeremy Thompson on a semi-permanent basis to
help with planting, because while Sam tries, and Bobby tries, neither of them
are working at one hundred percent. Sam knows he's not the only one suffering;
not the only one missing Dean. Uncle Bobby raised him from a boy to a man, and
Sam's caught tears shining in his eyes more than once when looking at something
or other that they shared together.
                                    [alt=]
They bury Dean at the edge of the farm he loved, with only a few close friends
there to witness it. There's a memorial service afterward, at the church, along
with a pot-luck luncheon Sam knows Dean would've appreciated. There isn't
anyone else Sam's ever known who loved food as much as Dean.
Sam and Bobby go through Dean's effects together. There isn't much; the Army
kept all his standard-issue gear, and he only had a couple changes of civilian
clothes with him. But there are some postcards tucked into a small, water-
proofed bag that make Sam smile when he flips through them. Different scenes of
different towns and cities Dean visited while in Europe. Scrawled on the back
of each one is the date and location, and sometimes a note like, "remember to
tell Sammy about this place" or "Sam would probably like this thing". There's
also a small notebook that Sam sets aside to go through later. He's doing a lot
better these days at putting on a brave front, but anything Dean felt was
secret enough to hide away in between layers of things is probably going to
require a shot of something like whiskey and some privacy.
"Here, you probably want these." Uncle Bobby breaks into Sam's thoughts and he
looks over.
"What are they?"
"His tags." Bobby hands them over, two dog tags on a silver chain. They're
oddly flattened around the edges, and the imprinted letters look smudged and
dirty. Sam takes the chain and holds it close for a moment, staring at the
small bits of metal that reduced his brother to name, rank and serial number.
It's hard, but he pushes back the urge to cry again, and loops the chain over
his head. It hangs down, centered on his chest, and for a brief moment — the
first in almost four months — a little of his grief eases and he can feel Dean
there with him.
                                    [alt=]
                                     ~~~~~
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.
                                    [alt=]
                                     ~~~~~
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.
                                    [alt=]
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."
                                     ~~~~~
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~
End Notes
     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 believed 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 :)
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