as small as a world, as large as alone [spn/hp][one-shot]
Title: As Small as a World, as Large as Alone
Fandom: Supernatural/Harry Potter
Characters: Dean, Sam, John [Pre-Series]
Word Count: 4304
Rating: G
Summary: It arrives on the day of his eleventh birthday and for a long moment, Dean thinks it’s a practical joke; one of the guys at school, messing around with him. Hoho, let’s send that Winchester kid a letter with something nasty in it.
Note: Why did Dean get his letter on his birthday, which falls in January? Because I'm an idiot who didn't realize her mistake until she finished writing. Live with it. Title from a poem by E.E. Cummings. Can easily be read by non-HP fans as well. This is more about Dean and his choices than about the Harry Potter universe.
It arrives on the day of his eleventh birthday and for a long moment, Dean thinks it’s a practical joke; one of the guys at school, messing around with him. Hoho, let’s send that Winchester kid a letter with something nasty in it.
It’s sitting on the carpet in front of the door; someone’s pushed it through the mail slot. Dean’s just finished his homework and he’s heading down the stairs on his way to the kitchen for a snack when he spots it. He shuffles over to the door with a sigh (will he ever be able to get a snack without being interrupted?), his socks mouse-silent on the carpet and picks it up. On the back, there’s a purple wax seal, holding the flap down - the front has an address written on it in acid-green ink. The script is old-fashioned and flowing and it takes Dean a moment to figure out exactly what it says:
Mr. D. Winchester
First Bedroom at the Top of the Stairs
23 Peach Street
Salem, Oregon
Dean fingers the thick paper, turns it over and over in his hands. Who addresses a letter like that? Better question, who would be writing to Dean? Dean’s never gotten a letter in his life - hell, even Dad doesn’t get letters addressed to him that often; they all come with names like Andrew Garcia or Mitchell Devon or Alex Thompson on them.
It has to be a trick. He doesn’t want to open it; who knows what could pop out.
He walks over to the windows that border the front door, peers through them. He half expects to find Conrad Barns, the school bully, staring back at him, just waiting for him to do something embarrassing.
But the yard and street beyond are empty. The only movement comes from the leaves, shivering in the late afternoon breeze. Dean lets the curtains fall back again and steps away from the windows.
He heads to the kitchen, letter in hand. Sets it down on their round dining table, and pulls the fridge open. It’s almost empty. Dean keeps forgetting to tell Dad that they need to go grocery shopping. He pulls out the almost-empty orange juice carton, pencils in OJ on the shopping list stuck to the freezer door, and pulls out a plastic cup from the cabinet above the sink. Pours himself some juice while he stares at the letter, wondering, wondering.
How do they know which bedroom he has? Dean rarely, if ever, opens his curtains, so even if Conrad Barns waited around behind the house, he wouldn’t know which bedroom belonged to Dean. And he’d never been to the house. And Dean would be a little shocked if Conrad had asked Dad and Dad had actually told the kid.
It can’t be from Conrad. Or from school. They wouldn’t bother adding his bedroom to the address. Dean frowns at the letter. Now that he thinks about it, whoever delivered the letter made a mistake. They should have sent it straight to his bedroom - that’s what it says on the envelo-
Dean closes his eyes. What is he thinking? Like the postman’s going to shimmy up the drainpipe to stick a letter into his window - a window which is never open. Anyway, the postman doesn’t know where Dean’s room is either. In fact, the postman probably doesn’t even know Dean’s name.
So, if it isn’t from Conrad or from school, then it’s safe to open it, right?
Dean tussles with this idea for a moment. Open, or not? Open, or not?
He really, really wants to open it.
No one has sent him a letter before.
He sets down his cup with a firm thunk and pulls the yellowish envelope toward him. The seal is strange, like a - a… coat of arms. That was it. A coat of arms from some medieval castle, or something. Dean squints at it and thinks he can make out a badger, an eagle, a lion and a snake all surrounding the letter ‘H’. Jeez, someone really needs to get a reality check, Dean thinks as he tears the envelope open, pulls out thick sheets of paper.
He unfolds the first and reads:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme MugWump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Winchester,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1st September. We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
“What the hell?” says Dean, going over the letter once more. He has the strongest urge to laugh. Someone is seriously off their nut. He unfolds the second sheet of paper too - this one has a list of supplies and books. It is the craziest list Dean has ever seen - whatever happened to erasers and sharpeners? This lists the need for black robes, a pointed hat, a wand, of all things, and books with titles like, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. And what the hell kind of name is Newt Scamander?
“Students may also bring an owl or a cat or a toad,” Dean reads aloud. He snorts loudly. Sure. He’ll just grab his owl, the poor thing will be glad it isn’t being left behind-
There’s a loud tap on the kitchen window and Dean almost falls out of his chair. He turns around. There, on the window ledge, just outside, sits a large, brown owl. It’s staring directly at him.
“What kind of dumb joke is this?” asks Dean.
The owl taps again, and Dean jumps off the chair and wrenches the cutlery drawer open, pulling out a gun.
“Get away, you freaking rabid owl, before I shoot you!” says Dean, clambering onto a shelf and aiming his gun at the bird.
The owl simply gives him a long look.
**
It doesn’t go away. It just stays there, outside the house, perching on trees and following Dean. If he looks outside the living room window, there it is. If he pulls back the curtains of Sam’s bedroom, there it is. In fact, even when Sam finally spotted it and yanked his window open to check it out, the bird just sat there. Sam could have reached out to pet it, and he probably would have if Dean hadn’t grabbed his shirt and pulled him away from the window. They were on the second story, for God’s sake.
Dean has no idea what to do. The stupid owl seems to think it belongs to Dean now.
That night, after dinner, Dean locks himself in his bedroom and opens his window.
“What do you want?” he hisses at the bird. “My dad’ll be home soon and he’ll shoot your ass to hell! You got a death wish, or something?”
The owl spots the open window and before Dean can do anything, it’s flown into the room and perched on Dean’s headboard.
Dean stares at it, nonplussed, and then recalls something from the letter:
We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
“You’re the postman?” says Dean incredulously, putting two and two together. “What, carrier pigeons not good enough?”
Okay, a reply. Nutcases wanted a reply, Dean would give them one. He ripped a sheet of paper out of his notebook and wrote down, Ghosts, monsters, demons - they’re real. Magic isn’t real. Not the pointy hat kind, anyway.
He folds the page four times and the holds it out warily at the bird.
“Here, take it, you rabid owl,” mutters Dean, wondering why he’s encouraging this insanity. It probably won’t even work.
But it does. The owl hops off the headboard and snatches the letter away from Dean, before leaping out of the open window.
Dean walks over and watches it flap away, into the moon.
Good freaking riddance.
He shuts the window with a snap.
**
The next morning, Sam is being a pain in the ass.
“What’s three times three?” he asks, bouncing up and down on his chair as Dean pours milk over his cereal.
“Nine,” replies Dean. “Now shut up and eat your cereal.”
Sam pencils the answer in and then asks, “What’s three times five?”
“Fifteen,” sighs Dean. He watches Sam fill this into his worksheet too before asking, “You know that’s cheating, right?”
“Are you in second grade?” asks Sam, looking up, still bobbing. Dean knows that if he looks under the table, he’ll find Sam’s legs swinging.
“No,” says Dean.
“Did Mrs. Marlette give you this worksheet?” asks Sam.
“Uh - no?”
“So why is it cheating?”
Dean stares at Sam for a long time. “Because you’re not writing the answers yourself?” he says, and wishes he could take it back and make it sound like a statement instead of a question.
“Yes, I am!” says Sam. “See?” He points out where he’s written ‘9’ and ‘15’. “That’s my writing.”
“But I told you the answers. What if the teacher asks you what three times three is? You won’t know, because you didn’t do it yourself.”
“I’ll know,” says Sam, looking at Dean like he was stupid. “You just told me - it’s nine.”
The sound of the mail flap swinging saves Dean from having to reply. He hands Sam a spoon and says, “Eat.”
Sam takes the spoon and replies, “That can’t be the mail. It doesn’t come ‘till the afternoon.”
“Well, maybe it’s early today, you ever think about that?” Dean walks out of the kitchen.
And there, on the carpet, in front of the door, sits a yellowish envelope. Dean can see the emerald-green ink on the top this time. It’s worse than déjà vu, thinks Dean.
“Sam?” he calls from the foyer. “What day is it?”
Sam doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, he sounds irritated. “Thursday, okay? I know its Thursday, Dean, you don’t have to tell me again and again. I didn’t forget your birthday, did I? I just left your present in my desk yesterday - I’ll get it today, I said so already! Why do you keep-”
Dean stops listening about then. He grabs the letter, runs up the stairs and slams the door of his room shut. He stands with his back against it, and rips the letter open. What kind of psychos is he dealing with? He wishes Dad had come home the previous night - what if this is some supernatural… serial killer or something?
There’s only one page in the envelope this time:
Dear Mr. Winchester,
I assure you, this is not a joke.
Please, look outside your window.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster
Dean automatically looks out the window. Mrs. Next-Door is waving at him from the window adjacent to his. She has a long stick in her hand, which she is flicking, in the direction of Dean’s window. A light erupts from her wand and flies at Dean’s window - it passes right through the glass and Dean immediately ducks. The light engulfs a chair and turns it bright, blinding pink.
Dean’s jaw falls open. He looks at the window again. Mrs. Next-Door gives him another smile and a wave before ducking back into her own house.
Dean gapes at the pink chair.
There’s a knock on his door. Dean almost jumps out of his skin, lets out a yelp and moves away from the door like it’s about to explode.
“Dean?” comes Sam’s voice, slightly muffled. “Don’t be mad… I’m sorry I forgot the present, really. I’m gonna get it for you.”
Dean lets out a shaky little laugh that seems to be verging on hysterical squeak.
Birthday presents are the least of his worries right now.
**
All through school, the letter weighs heavily on his mind. He can’t concentrate on Math or English or History or anything. His teacher calls on him three times, but Dean has no clue what the question is. During recess, the ball they’re using to play four-square smacks him in the face. After school, he almost forgets to pick Sam up from the other side of school, almost starts walking home by himself.
Hogwarts. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
How is it possible? Dean’s heard about witches - they’re evil, not good. People don’t learn how to become them. There’s no technique. They don’t use wands. For God’s sake, they kill little animals that never hurt anybody and use their bones and herbs and other psycho stuff to make hex bags and kill people.
“Dean! Dean? Hello, will you listen to me? I thought you weren’t mad.”
Sam’s voice pushes its way into his thoughts, and Dean looks down at his brother.
“What?”
Sam is holding out a box wrapped in brown paper, a concerned look on his face. “Here. Your present.”
“Oh.” Dean takes the box, looks at it for a minute. He’s not sure what to do with it, at the moment.
“Are you okay, Dean?”
“What? Yeah, sure,” replies Dean, fingering the paper that wraps the box. There are faint lines on the paper, and Dean traces them with his fingers.
Sam looks from the box to Dean’s face. “Dad will be back soon. His jobs never last long. Don’t worry.”
Dean nods and doesn’t say anything.
At home, he sits at his desk and opens the box Sam gave him. Inside is a life-like model of a car, one that Dean had admired in a store a few weeks back. Dean wonders how Sam got the money for it. They never have money for anything.
He sets the model on his bedside table, and falls asleep looking at it, thoughts of witches and schools running around in his mind.
**
The elementary school lets off early on Fridays. After school, Dean slips a dollar into Sam’s hand and pushes him towards the ice cream truck that’s rumbling down the street. He tells him to go home afterwards, says that he needs to do something.
“What something?” Sam asks immediately.
“Just something,” says Dean, and gives Sam a little shove. “Go already.”
Sam nods, and looks worried for about a minute. After that, the ice cream truck’s music pulls him away. Dean watches him walk down the sidewalk before turning around and hurrying up the neighbors’ front walk.
It only takes one knock to bring someone hurrying to the door. Mrs. Next-Door peers through the lace curtains. Dean watches recognition dawn on her face, before she pulls open the door.
“Dean Winchester, right?” she says, with a nice smile. “Hi.”
Dean is suddenly flustered. “Hi,” he replies slowly. He wonders if he should be worried about strangers. Then he realizes this woman is a witch, and feels like slapping himself. He should have brought a gun.
“Do you want to come in?” she asks, kindly. She has a British accent, Dean notices.
“No!” Dean says, but it comes out more forcefully than he intended. “I mean - uh - no, thank you. I just… I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Okay,” replies Mrs. Next-Door amicably. She leans against the doorframe. “Shoot.”
“Um-” Dean looks to his left. Sam’s waving goodbye to the ice cream man. Dean steps further into the shadows of the porch, and watches as Sam heads indoors, before turning back to the woman. “Witches-”
“Are real,” says Mrs. Next-Door, smilingly. “I know it’s a little hard to take in.”
“No - I mean, I know they’re real. I just thought they were all evil.”
“Well,” says the woman, tapping her chin. “Some are. But mostly, they aren’t. And neither are wizards. We’re like, normal people with special powers. Just like there are bad Muggles and good Muggles, there are bad witches and wizards and good ones.”
“Muggles?”
“Non-magic people,” says the woman.
“Oh. Is my dad a Muggle?”
The woman shrugs. “I wouldn’t know, honey. But if you don’t know about magic, then mostly probably, yes.”
Dean mulls over this for a moment. He knows about magic, just not the wand-waving kind this lady does. “Where’s Hogwarts?” he asks.
“Well, no one quite knows. But I think it must be somewhere in Scotland. You’ll go to London and a train will take you on from there. It’s a very nice school.”
“I’ll have to go to England? Or Scotland? To live?”
“Yes. It’s a boarding school. You’ll stay for seven years, until your education is finished,” answers the woman.
“Oh,” says Dean. He puts his hands into his pockets. Looks over at his house. Then asks, “What if I don’t want to go?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to go?” Mrs. Next-Door seems to find this astonishing.
Dean just shrugs, and after a moment Mrs. Next-Door says, “I suppose you just write them and tell them you don’t want to. They can’t force you.”
Dean nods, says thank you, and then goes home, where he finds that Sam has saved half of his ice cream for Dean.
**
The next day, like magic (probably is magic, Dean thinks) the owl is back.
Dean hands it a rolled up piece of paper, on which he has written, carefully:
Dear Mr. Dumbledore,
I bet your school is really great and everything, but I can’t come. It isn’t that I don’t want to. Maybe I do. But I have to stay here. If I leave there won’t be anyone to take care of my brother when my dad is away. Thank you for asking me.
Sincerely,
Dean Winchester
After the owl leaves, Dean takes the two Hogwarts letters he’s received from his desk drawer. He pokes his head into Sam’s room and tells him that he’s going out to the bridge for a minute and that he’s not supposed to leave the house. Sam nods absently, nose in a book.
Dean pulls his jacket off the rack near the door. It’s freezing outside, and by the time he gets to the bridge, ten minutes away, his hands are like ice. He stands on the sturdy wooden bridge and tears the letters and envelopes into little pieces, before tossing them into the river. He watches the scraps rush away with the icy water, stands there long after they’re gone, just thinking.
At home, he sits at his desk, stares at the model car Sam gave him. He should be doing homework, but he just can’t concentrate.
There’s a knock on his door. Dean looks up just as Dad pokes his head in.
“Hey, Dean,” he says.
“Dad,” says Dean, standing up.
“Everything alright here?” asks Dad, with a little smile. He looks tired, and he hasn’t shaven in days. His leather jacket is streaked with dirt.
Dean nods. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good.” He lowers his voice slightly. “Hunts over. I don’t think there’s anything more around here, so we’re moving tomorrow. You up for it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad nods his approval, and is turning to leave when he spots the still-pink chair near the window.
“You turning into a girl, Dean?” asks Dad, sounding gruffly amused.
“Uh - no - that was there from before,” mutters Dean, but Dad’s already gone. Dean hears him opening Sam’s door, down the hall.
Dean stares at the chair for a long time.
Dad has to call him twice for dinner before he even hears.
**
Later on, when life slows down a little, he thinks about things; about Hogwarts and witches and wizards and not going away. He thinks about seven years away from home and learning magic and wearing stupid robes and hats. He thinks about hunting and the witches Dad has killed, and hopes that none of them were actually good.
He thinks about everything, but he never questions his decision.
It’s just easier that way.
**
The night Sam turns eleven, Dean doesn’t get a wink of sleep. He lies in bed, waiting for his watch to read 3:20 am, the time Sam was born.
They’re in a shabby motel room in the middle of California, one of the worse ones where you wonder if anyone bothered cleaning at all between the time the last guests left and you arrived. They’ve been here for about a week, and both Sam and Dean are getting cabin fever. Dad’s hunting some kind of Hell spawn, and he’s been going out with some other hunter Dean’s never seen.
Dean’s watch gives a little beep. 3:20 am on the dot. He turns to look at the front door. Nothing happens. No hooting owls, no letters being shoved under doors.
Dean doesn’t know if he’s more relieved or disappointed.
**
Whichever it is, relief or disappointment, the emotion is short-lived. Two months later, when the hunting is slow and Dad decides to settle for a while again, Dean finds a letter.
It’s the same yellowish paper, the same acid-green ink, the same purple seal, but the address is different, this time:
Mr. S. Winchester
The Second Bedroom
1767 S. Vaughn Way
Apartment #12
Aurora, Colorado
Dean stands there, in the foyer, for a very long time, just staring at the envelope.
So.
So.
Sam’s magical too. A wizard. Like him.
Something warm explodes in Dean’s chest. The thought of being different, of being abnormal has been torturing him for years. The idea that he has something that his brother, his father, could never understand.
It pushes away the silly questions about blood and family and parentage that have been bothering him. Sam’s like him. It’s okay, then.
Dean walks into the kitchen with the letter, just like he did all those years ago. Pours himself some juice and sits down. He has to push away Sam’s school books and notebooks to make room. The kid studies way too much - he never had this much stuff in elementary school. But Sam loves school like Dean never did.
Dean thinks about that, flipping the Hogwarts letter over in his hand.
What will Sam do when he finds out about this?
Tell Dean to stop pulling his leg, probably. But once Dean actually manages to convince him that it’s real? Sam loves school - and this is a letter for a school. A place where he could go for seven years and learn and learn and learn. Seven long years.
Too long.
It’s then that Dean realizes he’s not going to show Sam the letter. Not now, not today.
He pulls one of Sam’s notebooks over to him and uncaps a ballpoint. Writes out a letter to the headmaster, again. Tells him, thank you, but no thank you.
We’re happy as we are.
He goes outside and sure enough, there’s an owl. It swoops down to him and takes the letter he’s holding out. Flies off into the rising sun.
When Sam comes down for breakfast, looking bright and cheery, Dean only feels a little guilty.
After all, all he did was save some time, right? Sam would have done the same thing. Schools are okay, but they don’t last. They don’t get you through life. They don’t protect you. This family is what matters, to both of them. Sure, Sam says he hates hunting, sometimes, but that’s just a phase. He’s supposed to hate everything around now.
Dean takes the letter and pushes it deep into his pocket. He’ll show it to Sam, someday. When the time is right.
**
One day, when Sam is eighteen and Dean is twenty-two, and Dean has almost forgotten about those letters from Hogwarts, Sam announces that he’s going away.
He tells Dean first, slides the acceptance letter from Stanford across the table.
Dean flinches like he’s been slapped.
“You want to go away?” he asks, and disbelief seeps into his voice.
I thought you’d want to stay, like me. I thought you’d have to stay.
“It’s just for college,” says Sam, as if it’s okay, as if he doesn’t get it.
Dean shakes his head and doesn’t say a word.
After everything, he’s losing Sam anyway.
**
He’s outside, when the fight finally erupts. They’re both shouting at the top of their lungs, and leaning against a lamppost outside, Dean can hear every word. They’re playing tug-of-war, he thinks. It makes his head hurt.
As he looks up at the moon, he spots a flutter of wings in a nearby tree. There, in the branches, sits a barn owl, gazing solemnly at him. For a moment, Dean wants to call out to it. But doing so would be allowing that part of his life in, and he decided a long time he wouldn’t do that. He can only be one person, he can only have one life.
Something crashes in the room and spooks the owl. It takes off into the moonlight, in a rush of feathers, a final remnant. Dean watches it until it’s a pinprick in the carved face of the moon.
He wonders if this is punishment. For hiding that letter from Sam, all those years ago. If this is someone’s idea of revenge. Or some way of restoring the natural order of things. Because he, Dean, got a choice, but Sam? Sam never did. He rakes a hand through his hair at the thought. He still doesn’t know why he did it. Why he has never told Sam, to this day, what they are. What they can be.
The night is quiet now. There’s no more shouting. Somehow, the silence seems louder, more threatening, than the screamed words. Dean doesn’t know what he will find when he walks into the room.
He doesn’t want to go in at all.
But that matters very little.
Wind rustles the leaves above his head.
Dean sighs, and takes one more glance at the moon, before stepping into the motel, out of the cold night.
**
End
Fandom: Supernatural/Harry Potter
Characters: Dean, Sam, John [Pre-Series]
Word Count: 4304
Rating: G
Summary: It arrives on the day of his eleventh birthday and for a long moment, Dean thinks it’s a practical joke; one of the guys at school, messing around with him. Hoho, let’s send that Winchester kid a letter with something nasty in it.
Note: Why did Dean get his letter on his birthday, which falls in January? Because I'm an idiot who didn't realize her mistake until she finished writing. Live with it. Title from a poem by E.E. Cummings. Can easily be read by non-HP fans as well. This is more about Dean and his choices than about the Harry Potter universe.
It arrives on the day of his eleventh birthday and for a long moment, Dean thinks it’s a practical joke; one of the guys at school, messing around with him. Hoho, let’s send that Winchester kid a letter with something nasty in it.
It’s sitting on the carpet in front of the door; someone’s pushed it through the mail slot. Dean’s just finished his homework and he’s heading down the stairs on his way to the kitchen for a snack when he spots it. He shuffles over to the door with a sigh (will he ever be able to get a snack without being interrupted?), his socks mouse-silent on the carpet and picks it up. On the back, there’s a purple wax seal, holding the flap down - the front has an address written on it in acid-green ink. The script is old-fashioned and flowing and it takes Dean a moment to figure out exactly what it says:
Mr. D. Winchester
First Bedroom at the Top of the Stairs
23 Peach Street
Salem, Oregon
Dean fingers the thick paper, turns it over and over in his hands. Who addresses a letter like that? Better question, who would be writing to Dean? Dean’s never gotten a letter in his life - hell, even Dad doesn’t get letters addressed to him that often; they all come with names like Andrew Garcia or Mitchell Devon or Alex Thompson on them.
It has to be a trick. He doesn’t want to open it; who knows what could pop out.
He walks over to the windows that border the front door, peers through them. He half expects to find Conrad Barns, the school bully, staring back at him, just waiting for him to do something embarrassing.
But the yard and street beyond are empty. The only movement comes from the leaves, shivering in the late afternoon breeze. Dean lets the curtains fall back again and steps away from the windows.
He heads to the kitchen, letter in hand. Sets it down on their round dining table, and pulls the fridge open. It’s almost empty. Dean keeps forgetting to tell Dad that they need to go grocery shopping. He pulls out the almost-empty orange juice carton, pencils in OJ on the shopping list stuck to the freezer door, and pulls out a plastic cup from the cabinet above the sink. Pours himself some juice while he stares at the letter, wondering, wondering.
How do they know which bedroom he has? Dean rarely, if ever, opens his curtains, so even if Conrad Barns waited around behind the house, he wouldn’t know which bedroom belonged to Dean. And he’d never been to the house. And Dean would be a little shocked if Conrad had asked Dad and Dad had actually told the kid.
It can’t be from Conrad. Or from school. They wouldn’t bother adding his bedroom to the address. Dean frowns at the letter. Now that he thinks about it, whoever delivered the letter made a mistake. They should have sent it straight to his bedroom - that’s what it says on the envelo-
Dean closes his eyes. What is he thinking? Like the postman’s going to shimmy up the drainpipe to stick a letter into his window - a window which is never open. Anyway, the postman doesn’t know where Dean’s room is either. In fact, the postman probably doesn’t even know Dean’s name.
So, if it isn’t from Conrad or from school, then it’s safe to open it, right?
Dean tussles with this idea for a moment. Open, or not? Open, or not?
He really, really wants to open it.
No one has sent him a letter before.
He sets down his cup with a firm thunk and pulls the yellowish envelope toward him. The seal is strange, like a - a… coat of arms. That was it. A coat of arms from some medieval castle, or something. Dean squints at it and thinks he can make out a badger, an eagle, a lion and a snake all surrounding the letter ‘H’. Jeez, someone really needs to get a reality check, Dean thinks as he tears the envelope open, pulls out thick sheets of paper.
He unfolds the first and reads:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme MugWump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Winchester,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1st September. We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
“What the hell?” says Dean, going over the letter once more. He has the strongest urge to laugh. Someone is seriously off their nut. He unfolds the second sheet of paper too - this one has a list of supplies and books. It is the craziest list Dean has ever seen - whatever happened to erasers and sharpeners? This lists the need for black robes, a pointed hat, a wand, of all things, and books with titles like, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. And what the hell kind of name is Newt Scamander?
“Students may also bring an owl or a cat or a toad,” Dean reads aloud. He snorts loudly. Sure. He’ll just grab his owl, the poor thing will be glad it isn’t being left behind-
There’s a loud tap on the kitchen window and Dean almost falls out of his chair. He turns around. There, on the window ledge, just outside, sits a large, brown owl. It’s staring directly at him.
“What kind of dumb joke is this?” asks Dean.
The owl taps again, and Dean jumps off the chair and wrenches the cutlery drawer open, pulling out a gun.
“Get away, you freaking rabid owl, before I shoot you!” says Dean, clambering onto a shelf and aiming his gun at the bird.
The owl simply gives him a long look.
**
It doesn’t go away. It just stays there, outside the house, perching on trees and following Dean. If he looks outside the living room window, there it is. If he pulls back the curtains of Sam’s bedroom, there it is. In fact, even when Sam finally spotted it and yanked his window open to check it out, the bird just sat there. Sam could have reached out to pet it, and he probably would have if Dean hadn’t grabbed his shirt and pulled him away from the window. They were on the second story, for God’s sake.
Dean has no idea what to do. The stupid owl seems to think it belongs to Dean now.
That night, after dinner, Dean locks himself in his bedroom and opens his window.
“What do you want?” he hisses at the bird. “My dad’ll be home soon and he’ll shoot your ass to hell! You got a death wish, or something?”
The owl spots the open window and before Dean can do anything, it’s flown into the room and perched on Dean’s headboard.
Dean stares at it, nonplussed, and then recalls something from the letter:
We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
“You’re the postman?” says Dean incredulously, putting two and two together. “What, carrier pigeons not good enough?”
Okay, a reply. Nutcases wanted a reply, Dean would give them one. He ripped a sheet of paper out of his notebook and wrote down, Ghosts, monsters, demons - they’re real. Magic isn’t real. Not the pointy hat kind, anyway.
He folds the page four times and the holds it out warily at the bird.
“Here, take it, you rabid owl,” mutters Dean, wondering why he’s encouraging this insanity. It probably won’t even work.
But it does. The owl hops off the headboard and snatches the letter away from Dean, before leaping out of the open window.
Dean walks over and watches it flap away, into the moon.
Good freaking riddance.
He shuts the window with a snap.
**
The next morning, Sam is being a pain in the ass.
“What’s three times three?” he asks, bouncing up and down on his chair as Dean pours milk over his cereal.
“Nine,” replies Dean. “Now shut up and eat your cereal.”
Sam pencils the answer in and then asks, “What’s three times five?”
“Fifteen,” sighs Dean. He watches Sam fill this into his worksheet too before asking, “You know that’s cheating, right?”
“Are you in second grade?” asks Sam, looking up, still bobbing. Dean knows that if he looks under the table, he’ll find Sam’s legs swinging.
“No,” says Dean.
“Did Mrs. Marlette give you this worksheet?” asks Sam.
“Uh - no?”
“So why is it cheating?”
Dean stares at Sam for a long time. “Because you’re not writing the answers yourself?” he says, and wishes he could take it back and make it sound like a statement instead of a question.
“Yes, I am!” says Sam. “See?” He points out where he’s written ‘9’ and ‘15’. “That’s my writing.”
“But I told you the answers. What if the teacher asks you what three times three is? You won’t know, because you didn’t do it yourself.”
“I’ll know,” says Sam, looking at Dean like he was stupid. “You just told me - it’s nine.”
The sound of the mail flap swinging saves Dean from having to reply. He hands Sam a spoon and says, “Eat.”
Sam takes the spoon and replies, “That can’t be the mail. It doesn’t come ‘till the afternoon.”
“Well, maybe it’s early today, you ever think about that?” Dean walks out of the kitchen.
And there, on the carpet, in front of the door, sits a yellowish envelope. Dean can see the emerald-green ink on the top this time. It’s worse than déjà vu, thinks Dean.
“Sam?” he calls from the foyer. “What day is it?”
Sam doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, he sounds irritated. “Thursday, okay? I know its Thursday, Dean, you don’t have to tell me again and again. I didn’t forget your birthday, did I? I just left your present in my desk yesterday - I’ll get it today, I said so already! Why do you keep-”
Dean stops listening about then. He grabs the letter, runs up the stairs and slams the door of his room shut. He stands with his back against it, and rips the letter open. What kind of psychos is he dealing with? He wishes Dad had come home the previous night - what if this is some supernatural… serial killer or something?
There’s only one page in the envelope this time:
Dear Mr. Winchester,
I assure you, this is not a joke.
Please, look outside your window.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster
Dean automatically looks out the window. Mrs. Next-Door is waving at him from the window adjacent to his. She has a long stick in her hand, which she is flicking, in the direction of Dean’s window. A light erupts from her wand and flies at Dean’s window - it passes right through the glass and Dean immediately ducks. The light engulfs a chair and turns it bright, blinding pink.
Dean’s jaw falls open. He looks at the window again. Mrs. Next-Door gives him another smile and a wave before ducking back into her own house.
Dean gapes at the pink chair.
There’s a knock on his door. Dean almost jumps out of his skin, lets out a yelp and moves away from the door like it’s about to explode.
“Dean?” comes Sam’s voice, slightly muffled. “Don’t be mad… I’m sorry I forgot the present, really. I’m gonna get it for you.”
Dean lets out a shaky little laugh that seems to be verging on hysterical squeak.
Birthday presents are the least of his worries right now.
**
All through school, the letter weighs heavily on his mind. He can’t concentrate on Math or English or History or anything. His teacher calls on him three times, but Dean has no clue what the question is. During recess, the ball they’re using to play four-square smacks him in the face. After school, he almost forgets to pick Sam up from the other side of school, almost starts walking home by himself.
Hogwarts. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
How is it possible? Dean’s heard about witches - they’re evil, not good. People don’t learn how to become them. There’s no technique. They don’t use wands. For God’s sake, they kill little animals that never hurt anybody and use their bones and herbs and other psycho stuff to make hex bags and kill people.
“Dean! Dean? Hello, will you listen to me? I thought you weren’t mad.”
Sam’s voice pushes its way into his thoughts, and Dean looks down at his brother.
“What?”
Sam is holding out a box wrapped in brown paper, a concerned look on his face. “Here. Your present.”
“Oh.” Dean takes the box, looks at it for a minute. He’s not sure what to do with it, at the moment.
“Are you okay, Dean?”
“What? Yeah, sure,” replies Dean, fingering the paper that wraps the box. There are faint lines on the paper, and Dean traces them with his fingers.
Sam looks from the box to Dean’s face. “Dad will be back soon. His jobs never last long. Don’t worry.”
Dean nods and doesn’t say anything.
At home, he sits at his desk and opens the box Sam gave him. Inside is a life-like model of a car, one that Dean had admired in a store a few weeks back. Dean wonders how Sam got the money for it. They never have money for anything.
He sets the model on his bedside table, and falls asleep looking at it, thoughts of witches and schools running around in his mind.
**
The elementary school lets off early on Fridays. After school, Dean slips a dollar into Sam’s hand and pushes him towards the ice cream truck that’s rumbling down the street. He tells him to go home afterwards, says that he needs to do something.
“What something?” Sam asks immediately.
“Just something,” says Dean, and gives Sam a little shove. “Go already.”
Sam nods, and looks worried for about a minute. After that, the ice cream truck’s music pulls him away. Dean watches him walk down the sidewalk before turning around and hurrying up the neighbors’ front walk.
It only takes one knock to bring someone hurrying to the door. Mrs. Next-Door peers through the lace curtains. Dean watches recognition dawn on her face, before she pulls open the door.
“Dean Winchester, right?” she says, with a nice smile. “Hi.”
Dean is suddenly flustered. “Hi,” he replies slowly. He wonders if he should be worried about strangers. Then he realizes this woman is a witch, and feels like slapping himself. He should have brought a gun.
“Do you want to come in?” she asks, kindly. She has a British accent, Dean notices.
“No!” Dean says, but it comes out more forcefully than he intended. “I mean - uh - no, thank you. I just… I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Okay,” replies Mrs. Next-Door amicably. She leans against the doorframe. “Shoot.”
“Um-” Dean looks to his left. Sam’s waving goodbye to the ice cream man. Dean steps further into the shadows of the porch, and watches as Sam heads indoors, before turning back to the woman. “Witches-”
“Are real,” says Mrs. Next-Door, smilingly. “I know it’s a little hard to take in.”
“No - I mean, I know they’re real. I just thought they were all evil.”
“Well,” says the woman, tapping her chin. “Some are. But mostly, they aren’t. And neither are wizards. We’re like, normal people with special powers. Just like there are bad Muggles and good Muggles, there are bad witches and wizards and good ones.”
“Muggles?”
“Non-magic people,” says the woman.
“Oh. Is my dad a Muggle?”
The woman shrugs. “I wouldn’t know, honey. But if you don’t know about magic, then mostly probably, yes.”
Dean mulls over this for a moment. He knows about magic, just not the wand-waving kind this lady does. “Where’s Hogwarts?” he asks.
“Well, no one quite knows. But I think it must be somewhere in Scotland. You’ll go to London and a train will take you on from there. It’s a very nice school.”
“I’ll have to go to England? Or Scotland? To live?”
“Yes. It’s a boarding school. You’ll stay for seven years, until your education is finished,” answers the woman.
“Oh,” says Dean. He puts his hands into his pockets. Looks over at his house. Then asks, “What if I don’t want to go?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to go?” Mrs. Next-Door seems to find this astonishing.
Dean just shrugs, and after a moment Mrs. Next-Door says, “I suppose you just write them and tell them you don’t want to. They can’t force you.”
Dean nods, says thank you, and then goes home, where he finds that Sam has saved half of his ice cream for Dean.
**
The next day, like magic (probably is magic, Dean thinks) the owl is back.
Dean hands it a rolled up piece of paper, on which he has written, carefully:
Dear Mr. Dumbledore,
I bet your school is really great and everything, but I can’t come. It isn’t that I don’t want to. Maybe I do. But I have to stay here. If I leave there won’t be anyone to take care of my brother when my dad is away. Thank you for asking me.
Sincerely,
Dean Winchester
After the owl leaves, Dean takes the two Hogwarts letters he’s received from his desk drawer. He pokes his head into Sam’s room and tells him that he’s going out to the bridge for a minute and that he’s not supposed to leave the house. Sam nods absently, nose in a book.
Dean pulls his jacket off the rack near the door. It’s freezing outside, and by the time he gets to the bridge, ten minutes away, his hands are like ice. He stands on the sturdy wooden bridge and tears the letters and envelopes into little pieces, before tossing them into the river. He watches the scraps rush away with the icy water, stands there long after they’re gone, just thinking.
At home, he sits at his desk, stares at the model car Sam gave him. He should be doing homework, but he just can’t concentrate.
There’s a knock on his door. Dean looks up just as Dad pokes his head in.
“Hey, Dean,” he says.
“Dad,” says Dean, standing up.
“Everything alright here?” asks Dad, with a little smile. He looks tired, and he hasn’t shaven in days. His leather jacket is streaked with dirt.
Dean nods. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good.” He lowers his voice slightly. “Hunts over. I don’t think there’s anything more around here, so we’re moving tomorrow. You up for it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad nods his approval, and is turning to leave when he spots the still-pink chair near the window.
“You turning into a girl, Dean?” asks Dad, sounding gruffly amused.
“Uh - no - that was there from before,” mutters Dean, but Dad’s already gone. Dean hears him opening Sam’s door, down the hall.
Dean stares at the chair for a long time.
Dad has to call him twice for dinner before he even hears.
**
Later on, when life slows down a little, he thinks about things; about Hogwarts and witches and wizards and not going away. He thinks about seven years away from home and learning magic and wearing stupid robes and hats. He thinks about hunting and the witches Dad has killed, and hopes that none of them were actually good.
He thinks about everything, but he never questions his decision.
It’s just easier that way.
**
The night Sam turns eleven, Dean doesn’t get a wink of sleep. He lies in bed, waiting for his watch to read 3:20 am, the time Sam was born.
They’re in a shabby motel room in the middle of California, one of the worse ones where you wonder if anyone bothered cleaning at all between the time the last guests left and you arrived. They’ve been here for about a week, and both Sam and Dean are getting cabin fever. Dad’s hunting some kind of Hell spawn, and he’s been going out with some other hunter Dean’s never seen.
Dean’s watch gives a little beep. 3:20 am on the dot. He turns to look at the front door. Nothing happens. No hooting owls, no letters being shoved under doors.
Dean doesn’t know if he’s more relieved or disappointed.
**
Whichever it is, relief or disappointment, the emotion is short-lived. Two months later, when the hunting is slow and Dad decides to settle for a while again, Dean finds a letter.
It’s the same yellowish paper, the same acid-green ink, the same purple seal, but the address is different, this time:
Mr. S. Winchester
The Second Bedroom
1767 S. Vaughn Way
Apartment #12
Aurora, Colorado
Dean stands there, in the foyer, for a very long time, just staring at the envelope.
So.
So.
Sam’s magical too. A wizard. Like him.
Something warm explodes in Dean’s chest. The thought of being different, of being abnormal has been torturing him for years. The idea that he has something that his brother, his father, could never understand.
It pushes away the silly questions about blood and family and parentage that have been bothering him. Sam’s like him. It’s okay, then.
Dean walks into the kitchen with the letter, just like he did all those years ago. Pours himself some juice and sits down. He has to push away Sam’s school books and notebooks to make room. The kid studies way too much - he never had this much stuff in elementary school. But Sam loves school like Dean never did.
Dean thinks about that, flipping the Hogwarts letter over in his hand.
What will Sam do when he finds out about this?
Tell Dean to stop pulling his leg, probably. But once Dean actually manages to convince him that it’s real? Sam loves school - and this is a letter for a school. A place where he could go for seven years and learn and learn and learn. Seven long years.
Too long.
It’s then that Dean realizes he’s not going to show Sam the letter. Not now, not today.
He pulls one of Sam’s notebooks over to him and uncaps a ballpoint. Writes out a letter to the headmaster, again. Tells him, thank you, but no thank you.
We’re happy as we are.
He goes outside and sure enough, there’s an owl. It swoops down to him and takes the letter he’s holding out. Flies off into the rising sun.
When Sam comes down for breakfast, looking bright and cheery, Dean only feels a little guilty.
After all, all he did was save some time, right? Sam would have done the same thing. Schools are okay, but they don’t last. They don’t get you through life. They don’t protect you. This family is what matters, to both of them. Sure, Sam says he hates hunting, sometimes, but that’s just a phase. He’s supposed to hate everything around now.
Dean takes the letter and pushes it deep into his pocket. He’ll show it to Sam, someday. When the time is right.
**
One day, when Sam is eighteen and Dean is twenty-two, and Dean has almost forgotten about those letters from Hogwarts, Sam announces that he’s going away.
He tells Dean first, slides the acceptance letter from Stanford across the table.
Dean flinches like he’s been slapped.
“You want to go away?” he asks, and disbelief seeps into his voice.
I thought you’d want to stay, like me. I thought you’d have to stay.
“It’s just for college,” says Sam, as if it’s okay, as if he doesn’t get it.
Dean shakes his head and doesn’t say a word.
After everything, he’s losing Sam anyway.
**
He’s outside, when the fight finally erupts. They’re both shouting at the top of their lungs, and leaning against a lamppost outside, Dean can hear every word. They’re playing tug-of-war, he thinks. It makes his head hurt.
As he looks up at the moon, he spots a flutter of wings in a nearby tree. There, in the branches, sits a barn owl, gazing solemnly at him. For a moment, Dean wants to call out to it. But doing so would be allowing that part of his life in, and he decided a long time he wouldn’t do that. He can only be one person, he can only have one life.
Something crashes in the room and spooks the owl. It takes off into the moonlight, in a rush of feathers, a final remnant. Dean watches it until it’s a pinprick in the carved face of the moon.
He wonders if this is punishment. For hiding that letter from Sam, all those years ago. If this is someone’s idea of revenge. Or some way of restoring the natural order of things. Because he, Dean, got a choice, but Sam? Sam never did. He rakes a hand through his hair at the thought. He still doesn’t know why he did it. Why he has never told Sam, to this day, what they are. What they can be.
The night is quiet now. There’s no more shouting. Somehow, the silence seems louder, more threatening, than the screamed words. Dean doesn’t know what he will find when he walks into the room.
He doesn’t want to go in at all.
But that matters very little.
Wind rustles the leaves above his head.
Dean sighs, and takes one more glance at the moon, before stepping into the motel, out of the cold night.
**
End