Two-Headed Boy: Ten
PART TWO
January 2002
Dean,
I’ve sent this letter to Bobby because I know if anybody can find you and get this letter to you, it’d be him. My address is at the bottom of the page here and on the envelope. Please write back to me, okay? I just want to make sure you get this.
It’s almost your birthday. Two days away. It’s harder for me to deal with alone than Christmas. Stupid, huh? You never acted like you cared about your birthday, but I could tell that you did, at least a little bit. It was always when you had a good birthday, or when something happened that surprised you. It’s why I loved to give you presents. To see you happy when you didn’t expect to be. I hope you have a good one, Dean.
It’s been five months since I’ve seen you. Can you believe that? I remember when I tried to stay the night at Timmy Anderson’s house in the third grade and I cried when it was time to go to bed because I couldn’t see you. I was so afraid that something would happen to you and I wouldn’t know until it was too late. Timmy’s parents talked me into staying, but I had nightmares about you and Dad leaving in the middle of the night without me. I feel brave enough now, with all this distance between us, to admit that I still have those nightmares. Even though I was the one who left.
There’s a chance that you won’t read this. That you’re too mad at me to even get to the end of this.
School’s going well. I thought finals last semester were going to kill me, so I’m determined to do better this semester. To study harder and to be better prepared. It’s the most challenging thing I’ve ever done, but it’s so rewarding. It’s kind of stupid, but I feel like I understand you more now. I know that hunting makes you feel like this, makes you feel good, like you’re really doing something, sinking your teeth into something that you care about. I’ll give you a second to roll your eyes before I keep talking.
There. You done? =)
I don’t really have a lot of friends here yet. I have a roommate, Andrew, and a couple of guys that I hang out with, but no one that I really talk to. I kind of feel alone, for the first time in my whole life. I’ve always had you, never had to explain myself to you, really. You always just understood. You were the only person that has always been there the whole time. I can’t even relax around my friends and just let myself say whatever I want. I always have to hide some part of myself, but I guess I always have. It’s making me realize that I haven’t stopped censoring myself since I was very young, no matter who I talk to or what the situation is. Some part of me is always hidden, kept separate. Kept safe, maybe. Even when I was with you.
But it’s always been my fault and not yours. There’s no way you could have ever known.
It feels weird writing to you. It feels too formal, like I’m reading from a script, or giving a speech. Or writing a letter that’s going to end up in a book someday or something. I’m sorry if I sound weird. I’m sorry if I sound too proper.
I’m not even drunk enough to be writing this letter.
Basically, I just feel kind of alone. A different kind of alone than I’ve ever felt before. And sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think about you and worry that maybe you feel alone like that, too. That it’s my fault, and you didn’t have a choice in any of this. I just made the decision for us both. Sometimes I can still hear you like you were that last day I saw you. I can see your face so clearly and I hate myself for making you feel like that, or look like that.
I’m sorry, Dean. Please understand that none of this was about you. I had to get away from Dad. I had to get away from him, and you will never leave him alone. Do you see how impossible it all was? I couldn’t stay and you couldn’t leave. And here we are. Or here I am, and there you are. And I’m sorry.
Happy birthday, big brother.
Sam
A reply from Dean comes nearly a month later in the form of a postcard. It has a terribly inaccurate drawing of a Native American woman in a war bonnet on the front, complete with the words “Greetings from Okmulgee, Oklahoma! Glass Center of the Southwest” beside her.
The postcard reveals no return address, no further details. There is no message on it. Nothing except Sam’s name and address, a stamp, and a postmark. It had taken three days to get here. God knows where Dean is now.
It’s just a postcard, a flimsy piece of paper without a single word of communication. But it’s here, in Sam’s sweaty fingers, and it says enough.
Sam smiles for the first time in days.
He doesn’t really touch it much anymore. The scar. It hides like a secret under long sleeves, under flannel and hoodies and blankets. Sam doesn’t press his fingertips to it much, doesn’t dig bitten-down nails in anymore. He’s aware of it, especially when he’s feeling nervous or anxious or alone. Right before a test or on a night spent by himself when the air is starting to smell warm again from the open window. Or when he’s out on a Friday night, surrounded by people he doesn’t know.
Like tonight.
Dean hasn’t replied to his letter. It’s been three months and nine days. Plenty of time to scrounge up a pen. Empty postcards are great only for a certain amount of time, then it feels personal. Like maybe Dean doesn’t really have anything to say to him. Hasn’t forgiven him for leaving yet.
And it hurts more than Sam ever would have guessed that the one person he thought would forgive his every fuck-up, his every cruel word or mood or directionless moment of anger, isn’t talking to him.
Loneliness creeps in on him at random times. Sitting in the library, in the middle of the attentive silence of studying and learning. Hanging out at Philz Coffee on a Wednesday night, listening to his friends talk about TV shows and celebrities and politics and each other. When he comes out of the shower and pads back into his room every night and finds himself without the familiar glow of Dean’s television, without Dad’s chainsaw-snoring, without the smell of fried foods and whatever smart-ass remark Dean has saved up for him while he was in the bathroom.
Sitting on a couch, watching people be social and young and fucking normal and he feels like the nerd in all the John Hughes movies, like the wallflower that Dean’s always thought he was anyway. It’s Friday night so Sam wonders what Dean’s up to. Where he could be. Who he’s with.
He watches a few people across the room play a videogame for awhile, can’t really see what’s going on in it, but it’s something to focus on. He wants to pull the hood on his hoodie up over his head and burrow into the couch. Wants to go home and pile on blankets until the air is thick and soupy and hard to breathe in.
He stands up instead and heads to the kitchen, in search of something stronger than the beer everybody else seems to be content with. He’s craving whiskey in the flavor of Dean’s mouth and he shoulders his way through people in his search for it.
The kitchen is cluttered with people and red cups and empty beer cans, and Sam doesn’t look directly at any of it. He starts rooting around in the cabinets like he owns the place, only realizing as an afterthought that he doesn’t remember who does.
He finds half a bottle of bourbon, the label mostly peeled off, the cap a bit dusty, right next to a box of Cap’n Crunch and stacks of beef Ramen. He unearths the bottle and swirls it around, finding the liquid inside as dangerous and innocent-looking as it would if it was brand new.
It’ll do.
He forgoes a cup and heads back out of the kitchen on his way to the couch that he’s claimed as his own, only to bump smack into Brady. Brady whose eyes are bright with cocaine and narrowed down to sharp, black dots. He’s sweating and his smile is beatific and trembling and when he snakes an arm around Sam’s shoulders, Sam can barely hold in a shudder.
“Hey, man, where the fuck have you been? Got somebody I want to introduce you to. Think she can fuck the emo right outta you, what do you say?”
Sam’s eyes are dancing over the crowd in the old livingroom, a sea of black and brown and blonde with dots of orange, buzzing with girl laughs and guy hollers and sweat and the sour stink of beer and Jimmy Eat World playing from the shitty corner stereo. He closes his eyes and dreams himself far away, maybe into the Ozarks deep in Arkansas, camped out with Dean on the look-out for something unmistakably evil. Maybe on a beach outside of Corpus Christi, tucked away from any locals or tourists, water reaching for him and leaving him in a cosmic rhythm, tickling his toes with seafoam and salt and the forever of the ocean.
Maybe wherever Dean is right now, even if it’s a dive bar, even if it’s between some girl’s legs, even if it’s arguing with Dad who is red and reckless with the same kind of liquor sloshing around in Sam’s sweaty grip. There. Yes, there.
He slides from under Brady’s grip after what feels like hours but it’s only a few seconds, the smile on his face more of a grimace.
“Not in the mood just yet, man. Gimme like an hour and I’ll see what I can do.” With that Sam disappears from Brady’s eyes, ducks into the crowd and stays low to get back to the couch. He has no intentions of meeting anybody new tonight, not getting anything fucked out of him or into him.
The couch is still empty and the dust clings to Sam’s hand when he pries the bottle open. The bourbon tears fire down his throat and into his empty belly, making his eyes sting and his entire body clench up, starting to reject the cheap poison Sam is forcing into it.
He sinks down low into the cushions and closes his eyes again and forces himself to relax, to focus. The liquor starts to swim around immediately, zapping through his blood and sinking in warm behind his trembling eyelids, making him feel lazy and loose. He takes another drink and follows it with a smaller one, and he finally sighs. Gone. He’s gone. Finally.
There’s a weight beside him on the couch, a slight shift and he tenses, pushes himself tighter into the corner to get away from it. He keeps his eyes closed tight, a stubborn child. Can’t make me open ‘em.
“Um. Hello?” It’s a new voice, a female one, a hesitant one. Good. Hesitate all you want. Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as change the rhythm of his breathing. She’ll go away. They always do.
Then the weirdest thing happens. He feels a phantom tickle in his left nostril, like a feather passing just barely into his nose, just enough to make him jerk and drive him absolutely insane. The sneeze that explodes out of him is gigantic and startles at least a dozen people nearby, but Sam’s already too tipsy to care.
He glares over at the intruder with everything he’s worth, watches as she puts her guilty hand down from where it had been at Sam’s face. She’s gorgeous, like stupidly gorgeous, but he doesn’t really care, in general and right now. Her eyes are blue like cartoon eyes and her hair is in sitcom blonde curls all around her face. She’s watching him expectantly, perfectly groomed eyebrows raised, like he’s supposed to be giving an answer to a question.
He dislikes her immediately.
“What?”
“Brady told me to come over here and introduce myself since you’re too shy.”
Sam smirks down at his hands, at his glassy, bourbon-filled friend, not looking over at her again because he knows how genuinely sweet girls warm his heart. How they sneak right in and before he knows it, he’s on top of one of them in a bed with their legs on his shoulders and his latexed dick plowing into their soaked, pink pussy. He can’t help but shift on the couch at the thought. He dares a glance over at her.
“I’m not shy. Just not in the best mood tonight.”
She’s quiet next to him for a few beats, and it makes Sam nervous. Like he’s being examined, like she’s actually paying attention to him. Or cares, or something.
“Having a problem in a class?” Her voice is deeper than a girl as pretty as her usually likes it to be, or so Sam has gathered over the years. It’s deep in a way that sounds like confidence, like intelligence, like she has strong opinions and doesn’t mind sharing them. His ragged thumbnail finds the scar and scratches at the raised curve of it.
“No. Just. Just personal stuff, I guess.”
“Girl problems?”
Sam can’t help but snort and he looks away from her, eyes finding the bookcase to his right.
“No. Definitely not girl problems.”
His wildly swimmy eyes dart over spines and titles, looking for something interesting but new to him. She doesn’t answer for a long minute.
“Boy problems?”
He freezes for that, for how dangerously close she is to hitting the mark. And it scares the shit out of him. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his finger bump over a few more books before he sees one he’s never heard of before, one that just looks like a random horror novel and it’ll have to do for now. He plucks it free and stands up, the entire world swimming around him like he’s in the bottom of the sea.
“Wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m Jessica, by the way.” The girl stands up and she’s tall, impressively so, close enough to be almost eye-to-eye with him. Her eyes are sky-colored and piercing him, invading him, knowing him without even having to ask permission first, without needing a single word from him. “Brady just thought that we would be good friends.”
“Sam.” It’s the only word he offers, the only goodbye he has for this girl right now. He takes a sharp right and finds himself outside, the night as perfect and soft as all early spring nights are in Northern California are. But this is Sam’s first spring here, so he’s just learning.
The backyard of this decommissioned frat house is grown up wild, too wild for such a quaint town. He makes his way through it, the grass tall and whipping at his calves as he wades through. He finds an old bench swing out under the giant Coast Live Oak that dominates most of the sky with its ancient limbs and he sinks down on the swing. It whines and groans but holds his weight, and he turns until his back is against one arm, legs in a long, lazy sprawl over the seat.
The bottle of bourbon settles in between his legs and he cracks the book open, bypassing the reviews and acknowledgements and settles into the story: Drawing Blood by Poppy Z. Brite.
He’s out there for nearly two hours, the bottle empty and he’s probably quite drunk now but he’s utterly lost in the story in front of him, in the pain and history of Trevor and Zach and their journeys to get to each other. It’s gory and sentimental and cruel and romantic and like nothing Sam’s read in a long time.
He’s at the part where Zach and Trevor are about to meet, where Zach sees Trevor standing in the doorway of a kudzu-drowned house haunted by Trevor’s dead family, holding a hammer, when a shadow appears in front of Sam and sucks up all the light from the moon and the streetlight that Sam’s been reading by.
He closes his eyes to calm down, like he always does when someone needlessly interrupts him while he’s reading. Clearly if someone is reading, they are lost in a world that you are not apart of and they want to stay there, thanks so much. He finally looks up and sees none other than Jessica, the perfect girl from earlier, Brady’s cure-all.
He goes back to Trevor and Zach.
Jessica finally sighs and shifts in front of him, probably putting her hands on her hips or crossing her arms under her perfect tits.
“Seriously? Brady said you were a nice guy. If I’d known I was chasing a moody jerk all night, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Sam shrugs, eyes paused on the words but he doesn’t look up. “Well. Now you know.”
Not another word for what feels like too long. Sam keeps his eyes on the shadowy pages, waiting her out. She crouches down into his line of vision, the pale, honeysuckle smell of her perfume drifting over him pleasantly. He tips his eyes up to look at her through his lashes.
“Look, I don’t know what’s wrong or why you shut yourself off from people, but. I’m here to talk. You know. If you ever wanted.” She sounds like she knows she shouldn’t be saying it, like she’s going against her better judgement by doing so. Like she can hear her mom’s voice in the back of her head, saying to avoid guys exactly like Sam. They’re too much trouble.
He’s shocked by her words, by how nice she’s been even though Sam has barely looked at her the entire time they’ve been interacting. He tightens his grip on the love-worn paperback, nails digging half moons into its yellowing pages.
“I just. I just want to be left alone tonight. I just need to be left alone. Okay? Please?” His words are a little sloppy, a little slurred thanks to the bourbon but he gets them out and they’re as nice as he can manage on a night like this. And he’s too drunk to realize how much they really just sound like pleading. He doesn’t meet her eyes even then, just curls in even tighter on himself, shoulders drawing in like a little boy.
“Okay.” It’s a whisper and a concession and Sam sags back in the seat with relief when he hears it. She reaches out and rests a hand on his kneecap, on the bony knob of it through faded denim. He watches her stand up, watches her turn and leave without looking back. He watches her open the door and get swallowed back up into the raging party and close the door behind her, muffling all those rowdy sounds and leaving Sam alone again with his oak tree and his book and the moon and himself.
He rubs his thumb obsessively round and around his scar and tumbles back into the story in front of him.
He finishes the book before dawn, eyes barely open by the last few pages. He’s floating away by the end, imagining Dean’s hands in his hair, stroking it back while he reads to Sam in that leather-polished voice of his, that voice right against Sam’s ear, telling him a love story of blood and tears and electrifying connection and Birdland and Sam falls asleep and floats away with it all, dreaming his way into being okay again, just for a little while.
----
May 2002
D-
Are you excited that it’s finally getting warm? I know how much you hate the cold and the snow. It’s still chilly here, but I can finally go out in just a jacket without freezing my balls off.
It’s weird to spend so much time in one place. Like, the other day I realized that I had dust. Like a TON of dust. So I spent a couple of hours last weekend cleaning my side of the dorm. And I found a sock under my bed, a book that was all bent up from being stuck, and a pair of girls underwear.
(No, they weren’t MINE. But yes, I do know how they got there. Ahem.)
It was just a little weird, you know? Like, just being somewhere long enough to misplace stuff and have dust. I don’t know. I know we spent some time in a few places, but this is different. I have a regular seat in the cafeteria. Weird shit, man.
So the story about the girl. My dorm mate, Andrew, who I think I mentioned in my last letter? He broke up with his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. (Ironic, right?) Well, he comes up to me sometime last month and informs me that April (girlfriend) is interested in me and how did I feel about taking her out?
… WHAT?!
But she’s cute, you know? And she was always nice to me, so I figure what the hell, why not? So I say yes, and I take her out for Lebanese (that’s food, Dean, not another name for a lesbian) and we go back to my dorm. And. Well, yeah.
The panties.
It was too awkward to go out with somebody who dated my closest friend for so long, so we kind of ended it after a few dates. It was okay, I guess, just strange. Yes, I passed up perfectly good, free sex to keep a friendship with a guy.
I know how gay that makes me sound, but you already know I’m a little gay anyway. So there!
(Yes, I may be a little stoned right now. Otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d never say I was gay in any fashion at all, even on a piece of paper that will be leaving me tomorrow morning.)
You should go to the beach. I’m going with a few friends when school gets out. I was too tired during spring break. I just kind of slept for a week. It was lame. But we’re heading down to Santa Cruz to stay for about a week. My beach experiences have been limited to chasing sea monsters, possible mermaids, and getting stung by jellyfish over in South Carolina with you and Dad back in ‘96. I remember you getting sunburned and complaining about your freckles.
I like your freckles. And your hands.
I should shut up now before you definitely never talk to me again.
I miss you. Write something on the next postcard.
-Sam
----
Sam-
Look at me, Ma! I learned to write!
No, you’re not dreaming. I’m writing you a real letter. Or maybe it’ll be a note. Who the fuck knows. The cable is spotty in this shithole, so this might end up being a fucking novel by the end of it all.
Man you ramble when you’re high don’t you? I know we only got stoned together a few times, but I don’t remember you being so chatty. Maybe that’s just cause I was stoned too. Huh.
Not surprised that girl wanted in your pants. You’re huge but you’ve got puppy dog eyes and that stupid laugh. Bet she was thinking of you every time she wound up under her boyfriend. Hope she made it good for you when you had her.
Was it your first time? I’ve been sitting here thinking for half a fucking hour and I swear I can’t remember you ever being with a girl before. Not full-stop, flatout sex anyway. Sammy tell me it wasn’t your first time.
I know you were with that Dom guy. But I’m assuming he was the one doing the fucking.
Did you know I broke his nose and probably shattered his cheekbone? Yeah, true story. Do you miss me now?
He didn’t give me my last paycheck if it makes you feel any better.
Can’t go to the beach, man. Dad almost got himself killed last week in Birmingham. Witch hunt gone bad. Me and Dad versus a coven of seriously fucked up witches. I just got a couple of broken ribs and lost a tooth. Dad just got out of the hospital two days ago. And you know how much that man hates hospitals. Anyway he’s fine now. Well, he’s alive.
So yeah, no beach. I’m stuck in Dicksuck, Montana with nothing to fucking do. Makes me wish I could just leave and come hang out with you for a little bit. Embarrass you in front of all your genius friends because you have an uneducated dick of a brother who doesn’t know Proust from Sartre. I’d highlight shit for you in your books and help with your homework like I always have and eat all your food and probably break a few hearts. It’s what I do, right?
I’ll be nice and leave you alone. Have a good summer, Sammy. Have fun at the beach. I hope I don’t need to tell you that I miss you.
Dean
--
“This is Dom, how can I help you?”
Sam smiles at the sound of Dom’s professional voice. The receptionist had been so sweet and accommodating of Sam when he’d asked for Dom, almost like she knows who he is. Like she remembers him. Sam wouldn’t put it past Dom to have told her. He’s accepted the fact that Dom’s in love with him.
“Yes, hi. I was looking for somebody to give me a full body tune-up.”
There’s a pause and then a tiny huff of laughter. Dom’s voice drops lower in Sam’s ear and Sam has to hold back a shiver. “Don’t you say that to me and expect me to be respectful and friendly, you sexy little shit.”
Sam laughs, a grin spreading from ear to ear. He settles back on his bed and sighs.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going. Super busy around here because it’s warming up and people are looking to get the hell out of town. How about with you? How’s school?”
“Finals are this week. Haven’t slept in about three days.”
“Boy, you better. And you better be eating. Don’t make me have food sent to your room again.”
Sam smirks, letting his eyes slip closed. His hand rubs at his empty stomach, distantly savoring that clawing, hungry feeling like he used to when he was young and desperate and alone. He hates how good it still feels.
“I’m going to do both here in a few hours. Scouts’ honor.”
Dom laughs, the smirk evident in his voice.
“Like you were ever a Boy Scout, beautiful.”
“The sentiment is still there.”
“Why are you calling, babe? Don’t get me wrong, I want to talk to you every day for the rest of my life, ‘til death do us part. But you usually don’t call while I’m at work.”
Sam tenses, fingers paused right over his navel. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.
“I got a letter from my brother today.”
Another pause on Dom’s end.
“Is he okay?”
Sam smiles.
“Yeah, Dom, he’s fine. He just.” Sam squirms on the bed, trying to avoid the spring that digs into the middle of his back. “He told me that. That, um.”
“That he broke my nose?” There’s still a smile on Dom’s voice but it’s a little shorter.
“...Yeah.”
“Yeah. He was waiting for me when I got home the day after I took you to the bus station. He asked me if we had sex. I told him no and he punched me. About five times.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
Sam sighs and turns then, curling up on his side, the phone tucked against his pillow.
“I might’ve told him that we did.”
The pause is surprised this time.
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Sam finally admits, his voice small. He feels young, like he’s back in a car with Dad and Dean, choking on his secrets.
“You wanted to make him jealous.”
And there it is, a statement not a question. The truth. And it’s a bigger truth than it seems, and they both know it. Sam is so quiet that the sound of it starts ringing in his ears. He can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart pounding. Here it is.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Dom hums, a tiny, thoughtful sound.
“Does he know?”
Sam wants to ask what, does he know what, but he understands. Does Dean know that Sam’s in love with him? Well, isn’t that the million dollar question?
“Doubt it.”
“Well,” Dom finally sighs after a long moment. “At least you definitely made him jealous. I had to wear one of those face masks for a month.”
“Dom, I’m so sorry.”
He can practically see Dom’s smile, small and sad, see his big shoulder lift in a shrug.
“Not your fault. He made that decision. And we’re okay, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” Sam is quick to reply, nodding so fast that it makes his head hurt. “We are. You’re.”
He swallows, afraid to say it because it feels a little like a betrayal to Dean.
“You’re my best friend.”
“I’m always here for you, Sam. No matter what.”
“Thank you.”
“Alright, beautiful thing. I’ve gotta get back to work. Call me after finals and let me know how it went, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
“Take care of yourself. And call me if you need anything. Anything, Sam, you hear me?”
Sam smiles. His chest hurts.
“I do.”
“Bye, doll.”
“Bye.”
It’s three days after Halloween and Dean is on an official ‘fuck hunting’ tirade that has lasted since Halloween night when little girl dressed like The Little Mermaid had died in his arms, her blood all over his hands. He’d washed up back at the motel and stared at his reflection for so long that he might have gone to sleep standing up, right there.
Hadn’t talked to anybody in whole three days that followed except minimal grunts at the cashier at the spirits store down the road. Tonight he’s showered if not shaved and he’s ready to go out and drink in a seedy fucking bar so at least the early stages of his alcoholism will have some company.
Fucking “One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer” is playing when he walks in and it’s so cliché, so fucking cheesy that he almost walks right back out. But he sees the sign written on white posterboard behind the bar, one that declares beer on draft is $2.00 and then he’s in love again, striding right up to the bar with purpose and his credit card already out.
Two hours later, he’s had as many beers as he’s got fingers with a few shots thrown in, and he’s leaning on the sticky bar, eyes dancing heavily all around him. He’s totally cool, totally fine, he just needs a minute to relax down into his drunkenness and he’ll be good.
“Buy you another, bud?”
The voice comes from Dean’s right and he swings his head that way, seeing a couple of really kind of attractive guys about his age with messy college boy hair and big smiles. The two guys meld into one when Dean’s eyes uncross and Dean just grins at him.
“I don’ drink Bud.”
The guy snorts at the joke and sinks down onto the stool right next to Dean, lifting his hand to get the bartender’s attention.
“Two Miller Genuine Drafts.”
Dean mumbles his thanks and wraps his hand around his current glass that is empty and smudged with greasy fingerprints.
“I’m Luke, by the way.” The guy isn’t looking at Dean, isn’t trying to pick him up but Dean’s spidey sense tells him that Luke probably likes the way Dean looks. And Dean can’t help it. He just looks that way.
“Dean.” He nods to the bartender who wearily passes him another sloshing glass of beer and he and Luke lift their drinks in a lazy salute before taking identical drinks. Dean puts his down and licks his mouth, staring down at his hand that feels so goddamn heavy on the bartop.
“How many have you had tonight, Dean?”
Dean shrugs, his eyes fluttering closed around the way his head is swimming. It feels good, makes him feel a little out of control and reckless and it’s the first time in days that he hasn’t closed his eyes and seen a little girl in a carrot orange princess wig with blood trickling out from beneath it.
Well, fuck.
He downs half his glass and sets it down with a bit of force, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.
“Dunno. Baker’s dozen, I guess.”
Luke whistles low under his breath, taking another couple of drinks of his own as he sorts through his thoughts. Dean just stares off, not caring if Luke talks again or not. Goes through Halloween night again, trying to figure out the details, what he could have altered to get to her a little earlier. Just five minutes. Just five minutes and--
“Break up with somebody?”
Dean frowns at the interruption and looks over to find Luke still there, tan and white teeth and pretty, wild curls and all his attention on Dean. Dean almost smirks for his youth, his curiosity.
“Nah.”
Luke nods, taking the answer and he shifts around on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with Dean’s lack of interest in a conversation.
“Family shit?”
“Watched somebody die,” Dean replies a little too quickly, like it’s been on the tip of his tongue for days, like he’s just been waiting to say it. And maybe he has. Luke sits back and draws a sharp breath, concern written all over his pretty face.
“Jesus, man. I mean. Is. Are you okay? What--”
“I’m an EMT.” It’s as good a lie as any, and it answers almost all the questions on its own. He watches Luke visibly relax a little next to him, and he gulps down the last of his beer. “Little girl. Dressed up like that mermaid, yanno?”
“Ariel,” Luke supplies, his voice soft with what sounds like genuine sympathy. “Wow, I’m. I know it’s stupid to say, but I really am sorry. That she’s gone. That you had to see that.”
Another shrug, and Dean can’t even lift his hand to signal for another beer. Probably a sign he should stop. He catches the barback’s eye and nods and it gets his point across just fine. “Comes with the job. Just kinda hard to bounce back from this one.”
Luke’s palm is warm on Dean’s shoulder, and his hand is big enough to almost span to his shoulder blade.
“If you wanna talk about it. I mean, I know you don’t know me from Adam, but hey. I’m here and you’re here. So, if you need somebody to listen.” Luke finishes his own beer and waves for another one just when Dean’s replacement arrives.
“I’ll be fine.” Dean tenses just for the thought of spilling his guts to a stranger in a bar, no matter how drunk he is. “I see shit like that everyday practically. Just somethin’ about kids though, man. Can’t shake ‘em.”
Luke nods, head down as he rubs his hands over his denim-covered thighs. “I know what you mean. My mom got remarried a couple years back, and the guy has a girl who’s eleven. I just worry about her a lot. More than I ever did Zac.”
“Zac?” Dean figures he owes this guy a little two-sided conversation, to listen to him yammer on for a minute. A girl walks by behind Luke in a short denim skirt, her hips working in a tight figure eight, her long, fake eyelashes fluttering as she smirks at Dean. Dean just watches her, expressionless, and takes another healthy drink of his beer. Couldn’t get it up for her to ride tonight even if he wanted to.
“My kid brother. A few years younger than me.” Luke trails off after that, a frown overtaking his face. Dean waits him out, lost in thoughts of his own kid brother, of long hands and dimples and a mind that could span universes. “We were just never close, I guess. Never really had a lot in common, you know?”
No, Dean didn’t know. Couldn’t even fathom it. Is annoyed just thinking about somebody else feeling that way about their brother. He frowns down into the golden amber of his glass, words sloshing around in his beer-addled brain that won’t find their way out and he knows it.
“Doesn’t mean you two couldn’t be close.”
“Yeah, I guess, but.” Luke sighs, scratches a hand through his wild hair. Dean wants to pull on it hard, to grip the back of his head and just yank. “I mean, I was always into music, you know? Always in bands in middle school and high school. Traveled around Michigan, doing shows on the weekends. Zac just stayed in his room with his video games. All he ever wanted to talk about. Wanted me to play ‘em with him all the time, and it was just boring after awhile, you know?”
Dean tried to imagine, tried to make his brain work enough to do so. Tried to imagine geek-boy Sammy being a video game nerd, excited about new games coming out and leveling up or whatever. Wanting Dean to play with him, hours next to each other on Sam’s bed, shoulders pressed up tight while they conquered pixelated worlds together. And it sounds amazing. Better than fixing cars, than hunts, than being deep inside of some chick.
He finds himself shaking his head, giving a surprised little laugh before he empties some more beer into his throat. “Man, he wanted to spend time with you. I mean. That’s amazin’, y’know? Most lil’ brothers just. I mean, I got this kid brother, too. Four years younger’n me, y’ know? Practically raised him, took care of his smart ass, all that. We couldn’t be more different, but we weren’t even really. Not really. S’like. S’like we had rooms in the same house, just the walls were painted diff’rent colors. Decorated different. Same house though, man. Same fucking house.”
Luke snorts, a bit incredulous and probably not actually understanding a single fucking thing Dean is trying to say, but he doesn’t laugh at him.
“You two still close?”
Dean goes quiet at that, dead quiet. Deader than a dead little girl quiet. He finishes his beer and waves the bartender over, asking for his tab this time instead of a beer.
“Sammy’s in school now. Got himself into Stanford.”
Luke pays for his beers at the same time and he hurries to gulp down the one he’s working on but Dean doesn’t care. Doesn’t notice.
“That’s good, right? I mean, you can still talk to him.”
Dean smirks this time, looks over to lock eyes with Luke, an eyebrow raised.
“You don’t know my family. Listen.” He puts his stolen card back into his wallet and stands up, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “Gonna go pour myself to bed. Call your fuckin’ brother, man. Let him talk about video games or weird furry porn or how he makes his own recycled candles, it don’t fuckin’ matter. Just let him talk and be grateful he has anythin’ to say to you at all.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t look over to see the surprise on Luke’s Abercrombie model face. He just walks back through the bar with as much dignity and aim as he can, staggering only a little because he’s had some practice with this. Comes with the genes, practically, right along with his cocksure smile and the strut of his hips and his perfect aim.
He’s in the parking lot, fingering his keys for the one to the car when he feels a hand on his shoulder, feels it grip and spin him around and he just goes with it, helpless and way too plastered to do anything else. He’s slammed back against the Impala and finds himself face-to-face with Luke for all of five seconds before Luke is smashing his mouth to Dean’s, licking his way in to taste Dean’s sour tongue.
Dean just stays there, letting this guy kiss him, realizing that it’s his first kiss with a dude and he can’t even feel his own mouth to kiss back. Luke finally gets his fill and pulls back, breathless and fat-mouthed and staring hard at Dean.
“Let me suck your dick.”
Dean snorts and slumps back against the car, scrubbing his hands over his face, numb fingers against a numb mouth.
“It’ll only break your heart, man. I ain’t gettin’ it up for nobody tonight.”
“Just let me taste it, then.” It’s a trembling whisper against Dean’s mouth and then Luke is gone, on his knees in the damp, practically empty lot. Dean just sighs and closes his eyes, body swaying as his pants are undone and jerked down just enough to pop his dick free.
He feels how soft it is in Luke’s palm but the sensation is nice, almost comforting. He feels Luke suck it up into his mouth, not even caring how limp he is. Luke moans and holds onto Dean’s hips and sucks on his drunk-soft dick like it’s a tit, like it’s something good and nourishing and just what he’s been craving.
Dean lets him do his thing for a minute, his own eyes closed and Sam’s right behind his eyelids, looking pretty and submissive like he did sometimes, in the most random, alarming moments. Like he’d bare his neck for Dean, roll over and show his belly and let Dean in, claws and all, to do whatever he wanted. Like he’d live on his knees for Dean, if that’s what Dean wanted. Like he’d do what Luke’s doing right now, just be a cockwarmer for him, just make him feel as good as he can when he’s drunk enough to pass out.
He wouldn’t be this drunk if Sam was here and he knows it.
He’s petting Luke’s hair, playing pretend as he strokes those thick curls back, hips working out of instinct but not really getting much done, like a neutered dog humping. He finally pulls back and his dick slips free from Luke’s mouth, dripping with spit and sucked red but still limp, drooping down against his balls. Luke kisses all over those, too, tonguing them and sucking them into his mouth one at a time.
Dean grunts, shifts, a little over-sensitized, too much when he knows he’s not even gonna come and he’s about five minutes from passing out. He manages to nudge Luke away and Luke stands up again, his mouth shiny and suck-pink with spit. Dean shoves his dick back in his pants and gets the zipper done up but not the button, fumbling once again with his keys.
“Call your brother.” He turns his back to Luke and it’s the last thing spoken between them. He finally gets the car unlocked and sinks down into the cradle of the vinyl seat, letting his car take away all the strangeness of the night. He manages to hit the lock on the door before he passes out, sprawled out on the long of the bench seat just as the rain picks up again outside and his dreams are crowded with Sam’s warm, patient mouth nursing from his dick, sucking come out of him without Dean even needing to orgasm.
May 2003
It’s a year before Sam has any communication with Dean again. He’s started a notebook full of letters he’s written to Dean but hasn’t sent, can’t send, will never, ever send. Sentimental letters, angry ones, heartbroken ones, raunchy ones, sappy ones. He never throws them away. He just turns to the next page and scratches out a new one.
It’s something a psych major friend had suggested. Writing letters to the people that he has issues with. Even if he never sends them.
There are fifty-six letters to Dean. He hasn’t even entertained the idea of writing one to Dad yet.
Two days after his twentieth birthday, he’s shuffling down the hall to his dorm room. It’s after midnight and he can barely keep his eyes open. He unlocks the door, pausing mid-twist of the key to yawn, his nose scrunching up, eyes watering. He takes a step forward and trips over something on the ground just in front of the door that he’d been too stupid to see before.
It’s a padded manila envelope, fat with something soft inside. Sam stares down at it like it’s going to explode. He looks into the room, sees Andrew’s naked back where he’s asleep in his bed. There’s light coming from outside the window, rain falling in quiet patters on the glass. Looks back down.
There’s no writing on it, no address, no stamps. It could just as easily be Andrew’s, but he knows it’s not.
He knows it’s for him.
He snatches it up and hurries into the room, making sure to pull the door closed behind him.
“Andrew.” His voice is shaky, unsure. He leans over and shakes Andrew’s body, hand sprawled out big on his back. Andrew startles awake, but Sam’s too frantic to care.
“What? Dude, what.” Andrew stops, rubs his face. He blinks blurry eyes around the tiny room, a little blind without the glasses folded up on the nightstand. “What’re you doin’?”
Sam thrusts the package in front of him, close enough so that Andrew can definitely see it, glasses or not. His jaw is tense and his eyes are narrowed almost accusingly, but mostly he’s just scared.
“Where did this come from?”
Andrew blinks at Sam, blinks down at the yellow package. Raises his eyebrows.
“Um,” he offers, frowning when he meets Sam’s eyes again. “I don’t fucking know? How’s that?”
“It was outside. It was outside the door when I got here just now.”
“Okay.” Andrew is annoyed now, and awake. He sits up in bed, his blanket falling down around his lap. Sam stands up straight. “And you’re waking me up why?”
“When did you get here?” Sam is gripping the package hard now, very near to just ripping it open, but he’s afraid to. Doesn’t want to see what’s in it, doesn’t want it to maybe not be for him. Not be from Dean. Doesn’t want to share a second of its contents with a stranger. With Andrew.
“Like two hours ago? Me and Brittany went to see a movie and--”
Sam grips the envelope in a tight fist and practically runs from the room.
He makes it back down to the lobby and outside, only pausing when he’s in the parking lot. The rain is picking up now, falling warm and sweet all over him, ever-growing hair sticking to his forehead, water clinging to his eyelashes. Soaking his shirt.
He doesn’t notice. He studies the parking lot with a hunter’s eye, searches for tiny movements in the dark, for anything out of place from his photographic memory. Nothing. Nothing different. Nothing weird.
He looks down at the sidewalk, searching for footprints, for any hint of Dean. He has no idea what, really. His chest is heaving now, a quick, shuddering movement as he accepts that he’s alone. That Dean’s not here. That even if he had been, he’s not now.
Sam looks down at the package in his hand. It’s a tawny brown now, soaked with rain.
Disappointment washes over him so fast and so strong that he nearly collapses with it.
He stays where he is for so long that the rain slows down, tapering off into a lazy, tender drizzle. He’s drenched from head to toe, and his mind is trying to reason through this, to find a way to hang onto this feeling. This fleeting, addictive thought of maybe Dean is here.
He makes his way back inside, standing in the lobby, dripping all over the maroon industrial carpet. He walks over to the couch beneath the bulletin board and sinks down on it. He cradles the envelope in his hands, in his lap. Spreads his hands over it and tries to absorb Dean through the soggy paper.
He digs his fingers in and rips the package open from the middle.
It’s a t-shirt.
He unfolds it and finds a book wrapped up in it. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. There’s a piece of paper sticking out a few pages from the front. He snags it, stares at it, opens it up.
S-
I know this is late. I’m sorry. I got caught up and couldn’t get away fast enough. Figured driving it up would be quicker than mailing it. Some smart looking chick at the bookstore told me to get this book for you. She said it’s her favorite. I told her about how smart you were and where you were going to school and she asked for your phone number. I said no. Sorry. I know I’m an asshole. But I hope you like it. I was going to read it myself but I never got the chance.
Shirt’s yours. You left it in the bathroom back in Denver a year and a half ago so I kind of kept it. It doesn’t smell like you anymore though.
Send it back when it does.
Hope it was a good one,
D
Sam reads the note four times and tucks it back into the book before setting it aside. He’ll start it tonight.
The shirt is butter soft in his hands and spotted with time-worn holes. It’s just a black shirt, nothing special, the tag in it so faded that Sam can’t even tell what brand it is. He wouldn’t even have known it was his shirt if Dean hadn’t told him. But Dean had known it was his, had kept it. He brings it up to his nose, eyes falling closed. The lobby is so silent it thrums. He inhales.
Dean.
He’s flooded with the immediate, undeniable fact of Dean. It’s not a particular smell, nothing he could pen down in a shitty, lovesick poem about leather and whiskey and sunshine. Nothing so exact. It’s just Dean, just the smell Sam has known his entire life as home, as constance and comfort and sanctuary and strength. It’s still warm, like Dean had pulled it off in the car and wrapped it around the book while it still rained outside. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying, doesn’t have the presence of mind to be aware of anything outside of black dyed cotton, soft from generic detergent and years on his body, on Dean’s body.
It’s a smell that Sam had known but not been able to evoke, not in all these months. But it’s all back now, all of those emotions that he normally keeps just beneath his bones, running low under his blood now bursting up out of him in bright, muffled sobs. He aches like he’s ancient, he folds in on himself like he can’t stand the weight of being upright anymore. He curls on the couch, on his side, the book shoved into the cushions beside his feet.
He’s smothering himself in the shirt, the thought of breathing anything else impossible.
In a book, in a music video, maybe, Dean would appear right now. He’d step into the lobby from out of the rain, his cheeks flushed with running, with a love that he just can’t ignore anymore. He’d look around and his eyes would find Sam and see how much Sam needs him, how much Sam loves him loves him loves him. The music would swell and flutter and Dean would come to him, touch him with warm fingers and they would crash together, melt and sigh and clutch and it would be perfect, so perfect. It would be everything Sam has suffered for over the past nine years. It would make all of it, every second, worth it.
The front door stays closed, and the rain stops. Sam falls asleep right there, curled up as small as he can be anymore, lulled to sleep by the smell of the shirt in his hands and the rhythm of his own gasping breaths.
next.
January 2002
Dean,
I’ve sent this letter to Bobby because I know if anybody can find you and get this letter to you, it’d be him. My address is at the bottom of the page here and on the envelope. Please write back to me, okay? I just want to make sure you get this.
It’s almost your birthday. Two days away. It’s harder for me to deal with alone than Christmas. Stupid, huh? You never acted like you cared about your birthday, but I could tell that you did, at least a little bit. It was always when you had a good birthday, or when something happened that surprised you. It’s why I loved to give you presents. To see you happy when you didn’t expect to be. I hope you have a good one, Dean.
It’s been five months since I’ve seen you. Can you believe that? I remember when I tried to stay the night at Timmy Anderson’s house in the third grade and I cried when it was time to go to bed because I couldn’t see you. I was so afraid that something would happen to you and I wouldn’t know until it was too late. Timmy’s parents talked me into staying, but I had nightmares about you and Dad leaving in the middle of the night without me. I feel brave enough now, with all this distance between us, to admit that I still have those nightmares. Even though I was the one who left.
There’s a chance that you won’t read this. That you’re too mad at me to even get to the end of this.
School’s going well. I thought finals last semester were going to kill me, so I’m determined to do better this semester. To study harder and to be better prepared. It’s the most challenging thing I’ve ever done, but it’s so rewarding. It’s kind of stupid, but I feel like I understand you more now. I know that hunting makes you feel like this, makes you feel good, like you’re really doing something, sinking your teeth into something that you care about. I’ll give you a second to roll your eyes before I keep talking.
There. You done? =)
I don’t really have a lot of friends here yet. I have a roommate, Andrew, and a couple of guys that I hang out with, but no one that I really talk to. I kind of feel alone, for the first time in my whole life. I’ve always had you, never had to explain myself to you, really. You always just understood. You were the only person that has always been there the whole time. I can’t even relax around my friends and just let myself say whatever I want. I always have to hide some part of myself, but I guess I always have. It’s making me realize that I haven’t stopped censoring myself since I was very young, no matter who I talk to or what the situation is. Some part of me is always hidden, kept separate. Kept safe, maybe. Even when I was with you.
But it’s always been my fault and not yours. There’s no way you could have ever known.
It feels weird writing to you. It feels too formal, like I’m reading from a script, or giving a speech. Or writing a letter that’s going to end up in a book someday or something. I’m sorry if I sound weird. I’m sorry if I sound too proper.
I’m not even drunk enough to be writing this letter.
Basically, I just feel kind of alone. A different kind of alone than I’ve ever felt before. And sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think about you and worry that maybe you feel alone like that, too. That it’s my fault, and you didn’t have a choice in any of this. I just made the decision for us both. Sometimes I can still hear you like you were that last day I saw you. I can see your face so clearly and I hate myself for making you feel like that, or look like that.
I’m sorry, Dean. Please understand that none of this was about you. I had to get away from Dad. I had to get away from him, and you will never leave him alone. Do you see how impossible it all was? I couldn’t stay and you couldn’t leave. And here we are. Or here I am, and there you are. And I’m sorry.
Happy birthday, big brother.
Sam
A reply from Dean comes nearly a month later in the form of a postcard. It has a terribly inaccurate drawing of a Native American woman in a war bonnet on the front, complete with the words “Greetings from Okmulgee, Oklahoma! Glass Center of the Southwest” beside her.
The postcard reveals no return address, no further details. There is no message on it. Nothing except Sam’s name and address, a stamp, and a postmark. It had taken three days to get here. God knows where Dean is now.
It’s just a postcard, a flimsy piece of paper without a single word of communication. But it’s here, in Sam’s sweaty fingers, and it says enough.
Sam smiles for the first time in days.
He doesn’t really touch it much anymore. The scar. It hides like a secret under long sleeves, under flannel and hoodies and blankets. Sam doesn’t press his fingertips to it much, doesn’t dig bitten-down nails in anymore. He’s aware of it, especially when he’s feeling nervous or anxious or alone. Right before a test or on a night spent by himself when the air is starting to smell warm again from the open window. Or when he’s out on a Friday night, surrounded by people he doesn’t know.
Like tonight.
Dean hasn’t replied to his letter. It’s been three months and nine days. Plenty of time to scrounge up a pen. Empty postcards are great only for a certain amount of time, then it feels personal. Like maybe Dean doesn’t really have anything to say to him. Hasn’t forgiven him for leaving yet.
And it hurts more than Sam ever would have guessed that the one person he thought would forgive his every fuck-up, his every cruel word or mood or directionless moment of anger, isn’t talking to him.
Loneliness creeps in on him at random times. Sitting in the library, in the middle of the attentive silence of studying and learning. Hanging out at Philz Coffee on a Wednesday night, listening to his friends talk about TV shows and celebrities and politics and each other. When he comes out of the shower and pads back into his room every night and finds himself without the familiar glow of Dean’s television, without Dad’s chainsaw-snoring, without the smell of fried foods and whatever smart-ass remark Dean has saved up for him while he was in the bathroom.
Sitting on a couch, watching people be social and young and fucking normal and he feels like the nerd in all the John Hughes movies, like the wallflower that Dean’s always thought he was anyway. It’s Friday night so Sam wonders what Dean’s up to. Where he could be. Who he’s with.
He watches a few people across the room play a videogame for awhile, can’t really see what’s going on in it, but it’s something to focus on. He wants to pull the hood on his hoodie up over his head and burrow into the couch. Wants to go home and pile on blankets until the air is thick and soupy and hard to breathe in.
He stands up instead and heads to the kitchen, in search of something stronger than the beer everybody else seems to be content with. He’s craving whiskey in the flavor of Dean’s mouth and he shoulders his way through people in his search for it.
The kitchen is cluttered with people and red cups and empty beer cans, and Sam doesn’t look directly at any of it. He starts rooting around in the cabinets like he owns the place, only realizing as an afterthought that he doesn’t remember who does.
He finds half a bottle of bourbon, the label mostly peeled off, the cap a bit dusty, right next to a box of Cap’n Crunch and stacks of beef Ramen. He unearths the bottle and swirls it around, finding the liquid inside as dangerous and innocent-looking as it would if it was brand new.
It’ll do.
He forgoes a cup and heads back out of the kitchen on his way to the couch that he’s claimed as his own, only to bump smack into Brady. Brady whose eyes are bright with cocaine and narrowed down to sharp, black dots. He’s sweating and his smile is beatific and trembling and when he snakes an arm around Sam’s shoulders, Sam can barely hold in a shudder.
“Hey, man, where the fuck have you been? Got somebody I want to introduce you to. Think she can fuck the emo right outta you, what do you say?”
Sam’s eyes are dancing over the crowd in the old livingroom, a sea of black and brown and blonde with dots of orange, buzzing with girl laughs and guy hollers and sweat and the sour stink of beer and Jimmy Eat World playing from the shitty corner stereo. He closes his eyes and dreams himself far away, maybe into the Ozarks deep in Arkansas, camped out with Dean on the look-out for something unmistakably evil. Maybe on a beach outside of Corpus Christi, tucked away from any locals or tourists, water reaching for him and leaving him in a cosmic rhythm, tickling his toes with seafoam and salt and the forever of the ocean.
Maybe wherever Dean is right now, even if it’s a dive bar, even if it’s between some girl’s legs, even if it’s arguing with Dad who is red and reckless with the same kind of liquor sloshing around in Sam’s sweaty grip. There. Yes, there.
He slides from under Brady’s grip after what feels like hours but it’s only a few seconds, the smile on his face more of a grimace.
“Not in the mood just yet, man. Gimme like an hour and I’ll see what I can do.” With that Sam disappears from Brady’s eyes, ducks into the crowd and stays low to get back to the couch. He has no intentions of meeting anybody new tonight, not getting anything fucked out of him or into him.
The couch is still empty and the dust clings to Sam’s hand when he pries the bottle open. The bourbon tears fire down his throat and into his empty belly, making his eyes sting and his entire body clench up, starting to reject the cheap poison Sam is forcing into it.
He sinks down low into the cushions and closes his eyes again and forces himself to relax, to focus. The liquor starts to swim around immediately, zapping through his blood and sinking in warm behind his trembling eyelids, making him feel lazy and loose. He takes another drink and follows it with a smaller one, and he finally sighs. Gone. He’s gone. Finally.
There’s a weight beside him on the couch, a slight shift and he tenses, pushes himself tighter into the corner to get away from it. He keeps his eyes closed tight, a stubborn child. Can’t make me open ‘em.
“Um. Hello?” It’s a new voice, a female one, a hesitant one. Good. Hesitate all you want. Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as change the rhythm of his breathing. She’ll go away. They always do.
Then the weirdest thing happens. He feels a phantom tickle in his left nostril, like a feather passing just barely into his nose, just enough to make him jerk and drive him absolutely insane. The sneeze that explodes out of him is gigantic and startles at least a dozen people nearby, but Sam’s already too tipsy to care.
He glares over at the intruder with everything he’s worth, watches as she puts her guilty hand down from where it had been at Sam’s face. She’s gorgeous, like stupidly gorgeous, but he doesn’t really care, in general and right now. Her eyes are blue like cartoon eyes and her hair is in sitcom blonde curls all around her face. She’s watching him expectantly, perfectly groomed eyebrows raised, like he’s supposed to be giving an answer to a question.
He dislikes her immediately.
“What?”
“Brady told me to come over here and introduce myself since you’re too shy.”
Sam smirks down at his hands, at his glassy, bourbon-filled friend, not looking over at her again because he knows how genuinely sweet girls warm his heart. How they sneak right in and before he knows it, he’s on top of one of them in a bed with their legs on his shoulders and his latexed dick plowing into their soaked, pink pussy. He can’t help but shift on the couch at the thought. He dares a glance over at her.
“I’m not shy. Just not in the best mood tonight.”
She’s quiet next to him for a few beats, and it makes Sam nervous. Like he’s being examined, like she’s actually paying attention to him. Or cares, or something.
“Having a problem in a class?” Her voice is deeper than a girl as pretty as her usually likes it to be, or so Sam has gathered over the years. It’s deep in a way that sounds like confidence, like intelligence, like she has strong opinions and doesn’t mind sharing them. His ragged thumbnail finds the scar and scratches at the raised curve of it.
“No. Just. Just personal stuff, I guess.”
“Girl problems?”
Sam can’t help but snort and he looks away from her, eyes finding the bookcase to his right.
“No. Definitely not girl problems.”
His wildly swimmy eyes dart over spines and titles, looking for something interesting but new to him. She doesn’t answer for a long minute.
“Boy problems?”
He freezes for that, for how dangerously close she is to hitting the mark. And it scares the shit out of him. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his finger bump over a few more books before he sees one he’s never heard of before, one that just looks like a random horror novel and it’ll have to do for now. He plucks it free and stands up, the entire world swimming around him like he’s in the bottom of the sea.
“Wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m Jessica, by the way.” The girl stands up and she’s tall, impressively so, close enough to be almost eye-to-eye with him. Her eyes are sky-colored and piercing him, invading him, knowing him without even having to ask permission first, without needing a single word from him. “Brady just thought that we would be good friends.”
“Sam.” It’s the only word he offers, the only goodbye he has for this girl right now. He takes a sharp right and finds himself outside, the night as perfect and soft as all early spring nights are in Northern California are. But this is Sam’s first spring here, so he’s just learning.
The backyard of this decommissioned frat house is grown up wild, too wild for such a quaint town. He makes his way through it, the grass tall and whipping at his calves as he wades through. He finds an old bench swing out under the giant Coast Live Oak that dominates most of the sky with its ancient limbs and he sinks down on the swing. It whines and groans but holds his weight, and he turns until his back is against one arm, legs in a long, lazy sprawl over the seat.
The bottle of bourbon settles in between his legs and he cracks the book open, bypassing the reviews and acknowledgements and settles into the story: Drawing Blood by Poppy Z. Brite.
He’s out there for nearly two hours, the bottle empty and he’s probably quite drunk now but he’s utterly lost in the story in front of him, in the pain and history of Trevor and Zach and their journeys to get to each other. It’s gory and sentimental and cruel and romantic and like nothing Sam’s read in a long time.
He’s at the part where Zach and Trevor are about to meet, where Zach sees Trevor standing in the doorway of a kudzu-drowned house haunted by Trevor’s dead family, holding a hammer, when a shadow appears in front of Sam and sucks up all the light from the moon and the streetlight that Sam’s been reading by.
He closes his eyes to calm down, like he always does when someone needlessly interrupts him while he’s reading. Clearly if someone is reading, they are lost in a world that you are not apart of and they want to stay there, thanks so much. He finally looks up and sees none other than Jessica, the perfect girl from earlier, Brady’s cure-all.
He goes back to Trevor and Zach.
Jessica finally sighs and shifts in front of him, probably putting her hands on her hips or crossing her arms under her perfect tits.
“Seriously? Brady said you were a nice guy. If I’d known I was chasing a moody jerk all night, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Sam shrugs, eyes paused on the words but he doesn’t look up. “Well. Now you know.”
Not another word for what feels like too long. Sam keeps his eyes on the shadowy pages, waiting her out. She crouches down into his line of vision, the pale, honeysuckle smell of her perfume drifting over him pleasantly. He tips his eyes up to look at her through his lashes.
“Look, I don’t know what’s wrong or why you shut yourself off from people, but. I’m here to talk. You know. If you ever wanted.” She sounds like she knows she shouldn’t be saying it, like she’s going against her better judgement by doing so. Like she can hear her mom’s voice in the back of her head, saying to avoid guys exactly like Sam. They’re too much trouble.
He’s shocked by her words, by how nice she’s been even though Sam has barely looked at her the entire time they’ve been interacting. He tightens his grip on the love-worn paperback, nails digging half moons into its yellowing pages.
“I just. I just want to be left alone tonight. I just need to be left alone. Okay? Please?” His words are a little sloppy, a little slurred thanks to the bourbon but he gets them out and they’re as nice as he can manage on a night like this. And he’s too drunk to realize how much they really just sound like pleading. He doesn’t meet her eyes even then, just curls in even tighter on himself, shoulders drawing in like a little boy.
“Okay.” It’s a whisper and a concession and Sam sags back in the seat with relief when he hears it. She reaches out and rests a hand on his kneecap, on the bony knob of it through faded denim. He watches her stand up, watches her turn and leave without looking back. He watches her open the door and get swallowed back up into the raging party and close the door behind her, muffling all those rowdy sounds and leaving Sam alone again with his oak tree and his book and the moon and himself.
He rubs his thumb obsessively round and around his scar and tumbles back into the story in front of him.
He finishes the book before dawn, eyes barely open by the last few pages. He’s floating away by the end, imagining Dean’s hands in his hair, stroking it back while he reads to Sam in that leather-polished voice of his, that voice right against Sam’s ear, telling him a love story of blood and tears and electrifying connection and Birdland and Sam falls asleep and floats away with it all, dreaming his way into being okay again, just for a little while.
----
May 2002
D-
Are you excited that it’s finally getting warm? I know how much you hate the cold and the snow. It’s still chilly here, but I can finally go out in just a jacket without freezing my balls off.
It’s weird to spend so much time in one place. Like, the other day I realized that I had dust. Like a TON of dust. So I spent a couple of hours last weekend cleaning my side of the dorm. And I found a sock under my bed, a book that was all bent up from being stuck, and a pair of girls underwear.
(No, they weren’t MINE. But yes, I do know how they got there. Ahem.)
It was just a little weird, you know? Like, just being somewhere long enough to misplace stuff and have dust. I don’t know. I know we spent some time in a few places, but this is different. I have a regular seat in the cafeteria. Weird shit, man.
So the story about the girl. My dorm mate, Andrew, who I think I mentioned in my last letter? He broke up with his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. (Ironic, right?) Well, he comes up to me sometime last month and informs me that April (girlfriend) is interested in me and how did I feel about taking her out?
… WHAT?!
But she’s cute, you know? And she was always nice to me, so I figure what the hell, why not? So I say yes, and I take her out for Lebanese (that’s food, Dean, not another name for a lesbian) and we go back to my dorm. And. Well, yeah.
The panties.
It was too awkward to go out with somebody who dated my closest friend for so long, so we kind of ended it after a few dates. It was okay, I guess, just strange. Yes, I passed up perfectly good, free sex to keep a friendship with a guy.
I know how gay that makes me sound, but you already know I’m a little gay anyway. So there!
(Yes, I may be a little stoned right now. Otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d never say I was gay in any fashion at all, even on a piece of paper that will be leaving me tomorrow morning.)
You should go to the beach. I’m going with a few friends when school gets out. I was too tired during spring break. I just kind of slept for a week. It was lame. But we’re heading down to Santa Cruz to stay for about a week. My beach experiences have been limited to chasing sea monsters, possible mermaids, and getting stung by jellyfish over in South Carolina with you and Dad back in ‘96. I remember you getting sunburned and complaining about your freckles.
I like your freckles. And your hands.
I should shut up now before you definitely never talk to me again.
I miss you. Write something on the next postcard.
-Sam
----
Sam-
Look at me, Ma! I learned to write!
No, you’re not dreaming. I’m writing you a real letter. Or maybe it’ll be a note. Who the fuck knows. The cable is spotty in this shithole, so this might end up being a fucking novel by the end of it all.
Man you ramble when you’re high don’t you? I know we only got stoned together a few times, but I don’t remember you being so chatty. Maybe that’s just cause I was stoned too. Huh.
Not surprised that girl wanted in your pants. You’re huge but you’ve got puppy dog eyes and that stupid laugh. Bet she was thinking of you every time she wound up under her boyfriend. Hope she made it good for you when you had her.
Was it your first time? I’ve been sitting here thinking for half a fucking hour and I swear I can’t remember you ever being with a girl before. Not full-stop, flatout sex anyway. Sammy tell me it wasn’t your first time.
I know you were with that Dom guy. But I’m assuming he was the one doing the fucking.
Did you know I broke his nose and probably shattered his cheekbone? Yeah, true story. Do you miss me now?
He didn’t give me my last paycheck if it makes you feel any better.
Can’t go to the beach, man. Dad almost got himself killed last week in Birmingham. Witch hunt gone bad. Me and Dad versus a coven of seriously fucked up witches. I just got a couple of broken ribs and lost a tooth. Dad just got out of the hospital two days ago. And you know how much that man hates hospitals. Anyway he’s fine now. Well, he’s alive.
So yeah, no beach. I’m stuck in Dicksuck, Montana with nothing to fucking do. Makes me wish I could just leave and come hang out with you for a little bit. Embarrass you in front of all your genius friends because you have an uneducated dick of a brother who doesn’t know Proust from Sartre. I’d highlight shit for you in your books and help with your homework like I always have and eat all your food and probably break a few hearts. It’s what I do, right?
I’ll be nice and leave you alone. Have a good summer, Sammy. Have fun at the beach. I hope I don’t need to tell you that I miss you.
Dean
--
“This is Dom, how can I help you?”
Sam smiles at the sound of Dom’s professional voice. The receptionist had been so sweet and accommodating of Sam when he’d asked for Dom, almost like she knows who he is. Like she remembers him. Sam wouldn’t put it past Dom to have told her. He’s accepted the fact that Dom’s in love with him.
“Yes, hi. I was looking for somebody to give me a full body tune-up.”
There’s a pause and then a tiny huff of laughter. Dom’s voice drops lower in Sam’s ear and Sam has to hold back a shiver. “Don’t you say that to me and expect me to be respectful and friendly, you sexy little shit.”
Sam laughs, a grin spreading from ear to ear. He settles back on his bed and sighs.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going. Super busy around here because it’s warming up and people are looking to get the hell out of town. How about with you? How’s school?”
“Finals are this week. Haven’t slept in about three days.”
“Boy, you better. And you better be eating. Don’t make me have food sent to your room again.”
Sam smirks, letting his eyes slip closed. His hand rubs at his empty stomach, distantly savoring that clawing, hungry feeling like he used to when he was young and desperate and alone. He hates how good it still feels.
“I’m going to do both here in a few hours. Scouts’ honor.”
Dom laughs, the smirk evident in his voice.
“Like you were ever a Boy Scout, beautiful.”
“The sentiment is still there.”
“Why are you calling, babe? Don’t get me wrong, I want to talk to you every day for the rest of my life, ‘til death do us part. But you usually don’t call while I’m at work.”
Sam tenses, fingers paused right over his navel. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.
“I got a letter from my brother today.”
Another pause on Dom’s end.
“Is he okay?”
Sam smiles.
“Yeah, Dom, he’s fine. He just.” Sam squirms on the bed, trying to avoid the spring that digs into the middle of his back. “He told me that. That, um.”
“That he broke my nose?” There’s still a smile on Dom’s voice but it’s a little shorter.
“...Yeah.”
“Yeah. He was waiting for me when I got home the day after I took you to the bus station. He asked me if we had sex. I told him no and he punched me. About five times.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
Sam sighs and turns then, curling up on his side, the phone tucked against his pillow.
“I might’ve told him that we did.”
The pause is surprised this time.
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Sam finally admits, his voice small. He feels young, like he’s back in a car with Dad and Dean, choking on his secrets.
“You wanted to make him jealous.”
And there it is, a statement not a question. The truth. And it’s a bigger truth than it seems, and they both know it. Sam is so quiet that the sound of it starts ringing in his ears. He can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart pounding. Here it is.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Dom hums, a tiny, thoughtful sound.
“Does he know?”
Sam wants to ask what, does he know what, but he understands. Does Dean know that Sam’s in love with him? Well, isn’t that the million dollar question?
“Doubt it.”
“Well,” Dom finally sighs after a long moment. “At least you definitely made him jealous. I had to wear one of those face masks for a month.”
“Dom, I’m so sorry.”
He can practically see Dom’s smile, small and sad, see his big shoulder lift in a shrug.
“Not your fault. He made that decision. And we’re okay, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” Sam is quick to reply, nodding so fast that it makes his head hurt. “We are. You’re.”
He swallows, afraid to say it because it feels a little like a betrayal to Dean.
“You’re my best friend.”
“I’m always here for you, Sam. No matter what.”
“Thank you.”
“Alright, beautiful thing. I’ve gotta get back to work. Call me after finals and let me know how it went, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
“Take care of yourself. And call me if you need anything. Anything, Sam, you hear me?”
Sam smiles. His chest hurts.
“I do.”
“Bye, doll.”
“Bye.”
It’s three days after Halloween and Dean is on an official ‘fuck hunting’ tirade that has lasted since Halloween night when little girl dressed like The Little Mermaid had died in his arms, her blood all over his hands. He’d washed up back at the motel and stared at his reflection for so long that he might have gone to sleep standing up, right there.
Hadn’t talked to anybody in whole three days that followed except minimal grunts at the cashier at the spirits store down the road. Tonight he’s showered if not shaved and he’s ready to go out and drink in a seedy fucking bar so at least the early stages of his alcoholism will have some company.
Fucking “One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer” is playing when he walks in and it’s so cliché, so fucking cheesy that he almost walks right back out. But he sees the sign written on white posterboard behind the bar, one that declares beer on draft is $2.00 and then he’s in love again, striding right up to the bar with purpose and his credit card already out.
Two hours later, he’s had as many beers as he’s got fingers with a few shots thrown in, and he’s leaning on the sticky bar, eyes dancing heavily all around him. He’s totally cool, totally fine, he just needs a minute to relax down into his drunkenness and he’ll be good.
“Buy you another, bud?”
The voice comes from Dean’s right and he swings his head that way, seeing a couple of really kind of attractive guys about his age with messy college boy hair and big smiles. The two guys meld into one when Dean’s eyes uncross and Dean just grins at him.
“I don’ drink Bud.”
The guy snorts at the joke and sinks down onto the stool right next to Dean, lifting his hand to get the bartender’s attention.
“Two Miller Genuine Drafts.”
Dean mumbles his thanks and wraps his hand around his current glass that is empty and smudged with greasy fingerprints.
“I’m Luke, by the way.” The guy isn’t looking at Dean, isn’t trying to pick him up but Dean’s spidey sense tells him that Luke probably likes the way Dean looks. And Dean can’t help it. He just looks that way.
“Dean.” He nods to the bartender who wearily passes him another sloshing glass of beer and he and Luke lift their drinks in a lazy salute before taking identical drinks. Dean puts his down and licks his mouth, staring down at his hand that feels so goddamn heavy on the bartop.
“How many have you had tonight, Dean?”
Dean shrugs, his eyes fluttering closed around the way his head is swimming. It feels good, makes him feel a little out of control and reckless and it’s the first time in days that he hasn’t closed his eyes and seen a little girl in a carrot orange princess wig with blood trickling out from beneath it.
Well, fuck.
He downs half his glass and sets it down with a bit of force, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.
“Dunno. Baker’s dozen, I guess.”
Luke whistles low under his breath, taking another couple of drinks of his own as he sorts through his thoughts. Dean just stares off, not caring if Luke talks again or not. Goes through Halloween night again, trying to figure out the details, what he could have altered to get to her a little earlier. Just five minutes. Just five minutes and--
“Break up with somebody?”
Dean frowns at the interruption and looks over to find Luke still there, tan and white teeth and pretty, wild curls and all his attention on Dean. Dean almost smirks for his youth, his curiosity.
“Nah.”
Luke nods, taking the answer and he shifts around on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with Dean’s lack of interest in a conversation.
“Family shit?”
“Watched somebody die,” Dean replies a little too quickly, like it’s been on the tip of his tongue for days, like he’s just been waiting to say it. And maybe he has. Luke sits back and draws a sharp breath, concern written all over his pretty face.
“Jesus, man. I mean. Is. Are you okay? What--”
“I’m an EMT.” It’s as good a lie as any, and it answers almost all the questions on its own. He watches Luke visibly relax a little next to him, and he gulps down the last of his beer. “Little girl. Dressed up like that mermaid, yanno?”
“Ariel,” Luke supplies, his voice soft with what sounds like genuine sympathy. “Wow, I’m. I know it’s stupid to say, but I really am sorry. That she’s gone. That you had to see that.”
Another shrug, and Dean can’t even lift his hand to signal for another beer. Probably a sign he should stop. He catches the barback’s eye and nods and it gets his point across just fine. “Comes with the job. Just kinda hard to bounce back from this one.”
Luke’s palm is warm on Dean’s shoulder, and his hand is big enough to almost span to his shoulder blade.
“If you wanna talk about it. I mean, I know you don’t know me from Adam, but hey. I’m here and you’re here. So, if you need somebody to listen.” Luke finishes his own beer and waves for another one just when Dean’s replacement arrives.
“I’ll be fine.” Dean tenses just for the thought of spilling his guts to a stranger in a bar, no matter how drunk he is. “I see shit like that everyday practically. Just somethin’ about kids though, man. Can’t shake ‘em.”
Luke nods, head down as he rubs his hands over his denim-covered thighs. “I know what you mean. My mom got remarried a couple years back, and the guy has a girl who’s eleven. I just worry about her a lot. More than I ever did Zac.”
“Zac?” Dean figures he owes this guy a little two-sided conversation, to listen to him yammer on for a minute. A girl walks by behind Luke in a short denim skirt, her hips working in a tight figure eight, her long, fake eyelashes fluttering as she smirks at Dean. Dean just watches her, expressionless, and takes another healthy drink of his beer. Couldn’t get it up for her to ride tonight even if he wanted to.
“My kid brother. A few years younger than me.” Luke trails off after that, a frown overtaking his face. Dean waits him out, lost in thoughts of his own kid brother, of long hands and dimples and a mind that could span universes. “We were just never close, I guess. Never really had a lot in common, you know?”
No, Dean didn’t know. Couldn’t even fathom it. Is annoyed just thinking about somebody else feeling that way about their brother. He frowns down into the golden amber of his glass, words sloshing around in his beer-addled brain that won’t find their way out and he knows it.
“Doesn’t mean you two couldn’t be close.”
“Yeah, I guess, but.” Luke sighs, scratches a hand through his wild hair. Dean wants to pull on it hard, to grip the back of his head and just yank. “I mean, I was always into music, you know? Always in bands in middle school and high school. Traveled around Michigan, doing shows on the weekends. Zac just stayed in his room with his video games. All he ever wanted to talk about. Wanted me to play ‘em with him all the time, and it was just boring after awhile, you know?”
Dean tried to imagine, tried to make his brain work enough to do so. Tried to imagine geek-boy Sammy being a video game nerd, excited about new games coming out and leveling up or whatever. Wanting Dean to play with him, hours next to each other on Sam’s bed, shoulders pressed up tight while they conquered pixelated worlds together. And it sounds amazing. Better than fixing cars, than hunts, than being deep inside of some chick.
He finds himself shaking his head, giving a surprised little laugh before he empties some more beer into his throat. “Man, he wanted to spend time with you. I mean. That’s amazin’, y’know? Most lil’ brothers just. I mean, I got this kid brother, too. Four years younger’n me, y’ know? Practically raised him, took care of his smart ass, all that. We couldn’t be more different, but we weren’t even really. Not really. S’like. S’like we had rooms in the same house, just the walls were painted diff’rent colors. Decorated different. Same house though, man. Same fucking house.”
Luke snorts, a bit incredulous and probably not actually understanding a single fucking thing Dean is trying to say, but he doesn’t laugh at him.
“You two still close?”
Dean goes quiet at that, dead quiet. Deader than a dead little girl quiet. He finishes his beer and waves the bartender over, asking for his tab this time instead of a beer.
“Sammy’s in school now. Got himself into Stanford.”
Luke pays for his beers at the same time and he hurries to gulp down the one he’s working on but Dean doesn’t care. Doesn’t notice.
“That’s good, right? I mean, you can still talk to him.”
Dean smirks this time, looks over to lock eyes with Luke, an eyebrow raised.
“You don’t know my family. Listen.” He puts his stolen card back into his wallet and stands up, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “Gonna go pour myself to bed. Call your fuckin’ brother, man. Let him talk about video games or weird furry porn or how he makes his own recycled candles, it don’t fuckin’ matter. Just let him talk and be grateful he has anythin’ to say to you at all.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t look over to see the surprise on Luke’s Abercrombie model face. He just walks back through the bar with as much dignity and aim as he can, staggering only a little because he’s had some practice with this. Comes with the genes, practically, right along with his cocksure smile and the strut of his hips and his perfect aim.
He’s in the parking lot, fingering his keys for the one to the car when he feels a hand on his shoulder, feels it grip and spin him around and he just goes with it, helpless and way too plastered to do anything else. He’s slammed back against the Impala and finds himself face-to-face with Luke for all of five seconds before Luke is smashing his mouth to Dean’s, licking his way in to taste Dean’s sour tongue.
Dean just stays there, letting this guy kiss him, realizing that it’s his first kiss with a dude and he can’t even feel his own mouth to kiss back. Luke finally gets his fill and pulls back, breathless and fat-mouthed and staring hard at Dean.
“Let me suck your dick.”
Dean snorts and slumps back against the car, scrubbing his hands over his face, numb fingers against a numb mouth.
“It’ll only break your heart, man. I ain’t gettin’ it up for nobody tonight.”
“Just let me taste it, then.” It’s a trembling whisper against Dean’s mouth and then Luke is gone, on his knees in the damp, practically empty lot. Dean just sighs and closes his eyes, body swaying as his pants are undone and jerked down just enough to pop his dick free.
He feels how soft it is in Luke’s palm but the sensation is nice, almost comforting. He feels Luke suck it up into his mouth, not even caring how limp he is. Luke moans and holds onto Dean’s hips and sucks on his drunk-soft dick like it’s a tit, like it’s something good and nourishing and just what he’s been craving.
Dean lets him do his thing for a minute, his own eyes closed and Sam’s right behind his eyelids, looking pretty and submissive like he did sometimes, in the most random, alarming moments. Like he’d bare his neck for Dean, roll over and show his belly and let Dean in, claws and all, to do whatever he wanted. Like he’d live on his knees for Dean, if that’s what Dean wanted. Like he’d do what Luke’s doing right now, just be a cockwarmer for him, just make him feel as good as he can when he’s drunk enough to pass out.
He wouldn’t be this drunk if Sam was here and he knows it.
He’s petting Luke’s hair, playing pretend as he strokes those thick curls back, hips working out of instinct but not really getting much done, like a neutered dog humping. He finally pulls back and his dick slips free from Luke’s mouth, dripping with spit and sucked red but still limp, drooping down against his balls. Luke kisses all over those, too, tonguing them and sucking them into his mouth one at a time.
Dean grunts, shifts, a little over-sensitized, too much when he knows he’s not even gonna come and he’s about five minutes from passing out. He manages to nudge Luke away and Luke stands up again, his mouth shiny and suck-pink with spit. Dean shoves his dick back in his pants and gets the zipper done up but not the button, fumbling once again with his keys.
“Call your brother.” He turns his back to Luke and it’s the last thing spoken between them. He finally gets the car unlocked and sinks down into the cradle of the vinyl seat, letting his car take away all the strangeness of the night. He manages to hit the lock on the door before he passes out, sprawled out on the long of the bench seat just as the rain picks up again outside and his dreams are crowded with Sam’s warm, patient mouth nursing from his dick, sucking come out of him without Dean even needing to orgasm.
May 2003
It’s a year before Sam has any communication with Dean again. He’s started a notebook full of letters he’s written to Dean but hasn’t sent, can’t send, will never, ever send. Sentimental letters, angry ones, heartbroken ones, raunchy ones, sappy ones. He never throws them away. He just turns to the next page and scratches out a new one.
It’s something a psych major friend had suggested. Writing letters to the people that he has issues with. Even if he never sends them.
There are fifty-six letters to Dean. He hasn’t even entertained the idea of writing one to Dad yet.
Two days after his twentieth birthday, he’s shuffling down the hall to his dorm room. It’s after midnight and he can barely keep his eyes open. He unlocks the door, pausing mid-twist of the key to yawn, his nose scrunching up, eyes watering. He takes a step forward and trips over something on the ground just in front of the door that he’d been too stupid to see before.
It’s a padded manila envelope, fat with something soft inside. Sam stares down at it like it’s going to explode. He looks into the room, sees Andrew’s naked back where he’s asleep in his bed. There’s light coming from outside the window, rain falling in quiet patters on the glass. Looks back down.
There’s no writing on it, no address, no stamps. It could just as easily be Andrew’s, but he knows it’s not.
He knows it’s for him.
He snatches it up and hurries into the room, making sure to pull the door closed behind him.
“Andrew.” His voice is shaky, unsure. He leans over and shakes Andrew’s body, hand sprawled out big on his back. Andrew startles awake, but Sam’s too frantic to care.
“What? Dude, what.” Andrew stops, rubs his face. He blinks blurry eyes around the tiny room, a little blind without the glasses folded up on the nightstand. “What’re you doin’?”
Sam thrusts the package in front of him, close enough so that Andrew can definitely see it, glasses or not. His jaw is tense and his eyes are narrowed almost accusingly, but mostly he’s just scared.
“Where did this come from?”
Andrew blinks at Sam, blinks down at the yellow package. Raises his eyebrows.
“Um,” he offers, frowning when he meets Sam’s eyes again. “I don’t fucking know? How’s that?”
“It was outside. It was outside the door when I got here just now.”
“Okay.” Andrew is annoyed now, and awake. He sits up in bed, his blanket falling down around his lap. Sam stands up straight. “And you’re waking me up why?”
“When did you get here?” Sam is gripping the package hard now, very near to just ripping it open, but he’s afraid to. Doesn’t want to see what’s in it, doesn’t want it to maybe not be for him. Not be from Dean. Doesn’t want to share a second of its contents with a stranger. With Andrew.
“Like two hours ago? Me and Brittany went to see a movie and--”
Sam grips the envelope in a tight fist and practically runs from the room.
He makes it back down to the lobby and outside, only pausing when he’s in the parking lot. The rain is picking up now, falling warm and sweet all over him, ever-growing hair sticking to his forehead, water clinging to his eyelashes. Soaking his shirt.
He doesn’t notice. He studies the parking lot with a hunter’s eye, searches for tiny movements in the dark, for anything out of place from his photographic memory. Nothing. Nothing different. Nothing weird.
He looks down at the sidewalk, searching for footprints, for any hint of Dean. He has no idea what, really. His chest is heaving now, a quick, shuddering movement as he accepts that he’s alone. That Dean’s not here. That even if he had been, he’s not now.
Sam looks down at the package in his hand. It’s a tawny brown now, soaked with rain.
Disappointment washes over him so fast and so strong that he nearly collapses with it.
He stays where he is for so long that the rain slows down, tapering off into a lazy, tender drizzle. He’s drenched from head to toe, and his mind is trying to reason through this, to find a way to hang onto this feeling. This fleeting, addictive thought of maybe Dean is here.
He makes his way back inside, standing in the lobby, dripping all over the maroon industrial carpet. He walks over to the couch beneath the bulletin board and sinks down on it. He cradles the envelope in his hands, in his lap. Spreads his hands over it and tries to absorb Dean through the soggy paper.
He digs his fingers in and rips the package open from the middle.
It’s a t-shirt.
He unfolds it and finds a book wrapped up in it. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. There’s a piece of paper sticking out a few pages from the front. He snags it, stares at it, opens it up.
S-
I know this is late. I’m sorry. I got caught up and couldn’t get away fast enough. Figured driving it up would be quicker than mailing it. Some smart looking chick at the bookstore told me to get this book for you. She said it’s her favorite. I told her about how smart you were and where you were going to school and she asked for your phone number. I said no. Sorry. I know I’m an asshole. But I hope you like it. I was going to read it myself but I never got the chance.
Shirt’s yours. You left it in the bathroom back in Denver a year and a half ago so I kind of kept it. It doesn’t smell like you anymore though.
Send it back when it does.
Hope it was a good one,
D
Sam reads the note four times and tucks it back into the book before setting it aside. He’ll start it tonight.
The shirt is butter soft in his hands and spotted with time-worn holes. It’s just a black shirt, nothing special, the tag in it so faded that Sam can’t even tell what brand it is. He wouldn’t even have known it was his shirt if Dean hadn’t told him. But Dean had known it was his, had kept it. He brings it up to his nose, eyes falling closed. The lobby is so silent it thrums. He inhales.
Dean.
He’s flooded with the immediate, undeniable fact of Dean. It’s not a particular smell, nothing he could pen down in a shitty, lovesick poem about leather and whiskey and sunshine. Nothing so exact. It’s just Dean, just the smell Sam has known his entire life as home, as constance and comfort and sanctuary and strength. It’s still warm, like Dean had pulled it off in the car and wrapped it around the book while it still rained outside. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying, doesn’t have the presence of mind to be aware of anything outside of black dyed cotton, soft from generic detergent and years on his body, on Dean’s body.
It’s a smell that Sam had known but not been able to evoke, not in all these months. But it’s all back now, all of those emotions that he normally keeps just beneath his bones, running low under his blood now bursting up out of him in bright, muffled sobs. He aches like he’s ancient, he folds in on himself like he can’t stand the weight of being upright anymore. He curls on the couch, on his side, the book shoved into the cushions beside his feet.
He’s smothering himself in the shirt, the thought of breathing anything else impossible.
In a book, in a music video, maybe, Dean would appear right now. He’d step into the lobby from out of the rain, his cheeks flushed with running, with a love that he just can’t ignore anymore. He’d look around and his eyes would find Sam and see how much Sam needs him, how much Sam loves him loves him loves him. The music would swell and flutter and Dean would come to him, touch him with warm fingers and they would crash together, melt and sigh and clutch and it would be perfect, so perfect. It would be everything Sam has suffered for over the past nine years. It would make all of it, every second, worth it.
The front door stays closed, and the rain stops. Sam falls asleep right there, curled up as small as he can be anymore, lulled to sleep by the smell of the shirt in his hands and the rhythm of his own gasping breaths.
next.