He wrote him a letter, intending on sending it exactly one year after Sam had left for Stanford. Phone calls were too awkward, nothing he could say able to travel the hundreds of miles that separated him from Sam. He never called. Neither did Sam. That’s how it had always been between them. All or nothing. But he wrote Sam a letter, the night of his first solo hunt. How are you? There was nothing intimate in the words. That letter, Dean could have send it to anyone. He could have send it to a stranger, and god it hurt to hear that word when he was thinking about Sam.
Where are you right now? I look at the moon and the stars we used to gazed at together and I wonder if you’re looking too. Is the city dark enough at night to let the stars show ? Where do you sleep? What’s the color of your toothbrush? How many times did you cut your hair this year? Did you do do it on your own? Has anyone else done it? Did you meet anyone else? Have you found good friends? A girl? Is there a girl? Have you got a car? Does it surprise you when you open its door and it doesn’t make a sound? I drove for sixteen hours straight yesterday.
That’s not what he wrote. Dean’s heart is taped with glimpses of memories he and Sam share. His heart keeps beating because he hopes Sam looks at him and thinks “we”, “us”.
I used to look at you like you were crazy when you talked about how we didn’t have a home. I thought you were an ungrateful little brat. It never made sense to me because when we were in the car, you in the backseat, dad driving, it didn’t matter where we were going, or how many miles we were driving, I was always home. Right where I wanted to be. Now I get it. There’s no one to dig bony knees in my back when I’m siting in the car. I get it Sam.
Instead Dean’s letter was full of how are yous, and how are your classes, and where do you live, and perhaps I’ll drop by for Christmas.
I miss you. I miss you so much I feel like I’m dying. You used to ask me all the time when we were kids if we were gonna live forever because of that damn commercial you saw once. I used to say yes, if only so you’d shut up. I don’t know if it’s true. Maybe there’s a spell, maybe there’s a ritual. We’ve seen enough shit like that to consider the possibility (if it really is true, I need to find Robert Plant). Forever scares me shitless Sam, if you’re not there to make it less than an instant.
Today Dean holds the folded letter between his fingers. He never sent it. Blamed it on the job leaving him tired on good days and bloody and hurt on bad ones. It’s what he chooses to believe, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Sam never got to read it, and perhaps it’s for the best. Dean reads everything he didn’t write, sees behind the clumsy phrasing his whole heart on a plate. He wonders if Sam would have seen it too.
Sitting in the grass, he holds the page in his trembling hands and clears his throat. The place is quiet, the field full of flowers Sam would know the name of. The last remains of the fire are dying, the ashes going away with each breeze. A hunter’s funeral. Dean drops the letter and watches as the last embers of the fire progressively make his words turn to ashes too. What’s the zip code for Heaven anyway? Doesn’t matter, Dean knows the letter by heart. He waited long enough to be late, so he figures now’s as good a time as any.
Come back. Please, come back.
”How are you?”
Please come back.
"I drove past Palo Alto two weeks ago, thought about dropping by, but you were probably busy."
I need you.
"Maybe I’ll come by for Christmas, see if you’re still a jerk."
The first tears fall.