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spn_summergen2017-08-25 09:30 am
summergen_mod) wrote in spn_summergen2017-08-25 09:30 am
Entry tags:
Unsigned for troll_la_la, part one
Title: Unsigned
Recipient:troll_la_la
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10,400
Warnings: Very vague spoilers for 12x23.
Author's Notes: The prompt I used was “Any season, pre-series or post-canon. Sam has a secret hobby he does *not* want Dean to know about.” All the thanks to my wonderful beta for the help! ♥
Summary: Writing letters to nobody and hiding them in library books is a strange hobby, for sure, but sometimes Sam finds that it helps. Sometimes, when he’s very lucky, it helps somebody else, too.
i.
It had been a slow afternoon. No surprise, really: it was a hot, sleepy summer day, and even the kids riding their bikes up and down the high street had gotten tired and disappeared into the shade. Nobody wanted to hang out in a library on a day like this.
Alice didn’t mind the quiet. She hummed to herself as she stacked the returned books onto a trolley and made her way around the shelves, slotting them back into their right places one by one. She always saved the children’s books for last: she’d loved coming in here as a little girl, getting to choose a single book with brightly-colored illustrations every week, and even now she liked to take a moment to look at them. Jeannie was occupied in the office right now, so Alice might even get a chance to sit down on an oversized cushion in the reading corner and glance through one of her favorites. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, maybe, or one of those new, beautifully-illustrated editions of the Greek myths (the really nasty parts edited out for kids, of course).
There was one of those on her trolley now. A young boy had come in to thumb through them every day over the past couple weeks—but even he wasn’t here today. Maybe he’d left it there yesterday, before he went home.
As she slid it off the trolley to flick through it, though, something slipped out from between the pages and landed gently on the floor at her feet.
A slip of paper, torn out of the back of a notebook and folded twice. Alice stooped to pick it up, ready to toss it into the trash—but the writing on the inner fold caught her eye. She straightened up and unfolded it.
The handwriting was a child’s—neat and looping, like its owner had just learned cursive, and was being extra careful to get every letter right. Gently, Alice unfolded it and sat down to read.
My name is Sam Winchester. The period at the end of the sentence had been drawn in decisively, pressed so hard the pencil left an indent in the paper.
Tomorrow I’ll be leaving town and starting a new school AGAIN. The AGAIN had been underlined—three times, for emphasis. I know why we can’t stay in the same place for long. Dean explained it all to me. And I can’t make real friends anyway. I can’t tell them why we’re really here. So I guess it doesn’t matter that I can’t stay.
That’s why I’m writing this. I don’t have a diary. Dean would just read it and then laugh at me anyway, if I did. And I don’t have anybody to write letters to. I guess I’ll throw this in the garbage when I’m done with it, but at least I can pretend I’m writing to somebody.
Here goes, I guess.
My name is Sam Winchester, and my family hunts monsters.
This is how it works. Dad looks in the newspapers until he reads about somebody who died in a weird way. Then he goes to find out how it happened, and if a monster did it, he kills the monster. Sometimes he leaves Dean and me with Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim. (Dean is my brother. He’s four years older than me and he thinks he’s super grown up.) But sometimes Dad takes us with him.
This time the monster Dad had to kill was a nymph. It was called an e-p-i-m-e-l-i-a-d and it lived in an apple tree. He says they have to kill somebody every 25 years and bury the body under their tree or their forest, or they’ll go to sleep and won’t wake up. Dad found a leaf on the floor where the man got killed. Then he called Uncle Bobby, and they argued on the phone about what kind of tree it was for ages. I knew it was an apple tree because of the school project I did last year, but Dad wouldn’t listen to me. He never does.
Dad and Dean went out last night to find the tree and burn it down. They let me go with them, but I had to stay in the car. I couldn’t see much, just shadows, like a puppet show. It looked like a woman with branches for arms. When they got back in the car, Dean and Dad smelled of smoke so bad it made me cough.
Smoke smells like fall. I’m glad it’s still summer. Dad gets real quiet in the fall, and he drinks more whiskey at night and then he snores so loud I can’t sleep. Sometimes Dean gets real quiet too, like he’s afraid.
The car just stopped outside. Dad’s home. We’re going to leave soon. I guess I should
The letter cut off abruptly there, and Alice half-smiled to herself. The kid’s imagination was impressive, even if it was pretty morbid; he’d definitely put those mythology books to good use.
On the other hand, it was kind of sad. Moving from place to place all the time? Such an unsettled childhood that he’d made up some story about his dad being a monster-hunting hero to escape from it? Alice wondered, briefly, if she ought to call somebody.
But the boy hadn’t come in today—and, come to think of it, he’d been carrying a heavy school rucksack yesterday, stuffed full to bursting. The family had probably left by now, and Alice had no idea where they were going.
For a moment, she frowned over the little note. Then she folded it back into four, and slipped it into her purse.
ii.
I guess this is kind of an exorcism.
Huh. All that time trying to get away from Dad’s way of doing things, and here I am. But I have to write this down. I need to get it out of my head so I can stop thinking about it. Finally, finally, I’m out of that life. I’ve got friends and school and a place of my own, and Jess, and I want to be able to just… live it. Not be afraid that I’m going to let slip what I’ve really seen and make everybody think I’m crazy. The way Jess looks at me sometimes, I’m sure she’s going to start asking questions. It’s like she knows when I’m thinking about—about stuff from before.
So, here goes. My name is—well, actually, my name isn’t important. What’s important is, my family hunts monsters.
Yeah, literally. You don’t have to believe me, whoever you are. I mean, it’s probably better if you don’t, if you tell yourself it’s some kind of a metaphor or just the product of a deranged imagination. So do that, if it helps.
It started when I was a baby. I don’t really remember any of it. Just that, as long as I’ve known anything, we’ve always been moving. Me and my brother, and sometimes our Dad, though he was as likely to dump us somewhere and take off for a few weeks as he was to take us with him. We never stayed in one place more than a couple months at a time, and I guess I got used to the idea that you don’t put down roots. You don’t get used to places, or make friends, or start letting yourself find comfort in the fact that the buildings are solid and the streets always lead to the same places and the tree on the corner keeps the same crooked shape.
It’s still hard sometimes. I’m not good at being still or doing nothing: I get fidgety, start pacing, or I have to read something to distract myself. Jess teases me about it sometimes. Other times she looks kind of worried.
I don’t want to worry her. We have a home now, even if it is a crappy little rented apartment. A place of our own that I know I’ll be coming back to, week after week. If I can just get this out of my head—well, maybe we have a shot at being normal.
“You ready to go?” Jess’s voice made Sam start, and he slid the sheet of paper into the book on top of the stack he’d built up while he worked.
“Uh, sure.” He gave her a smile. “Just give me a minute, I need to put these back.” He waved at the pile of books.
Jess nodded. “I’m gonna head over to the coffee shop. I told Brady we’d meet him there.” She frowned a little, then. “He isn’t looking so good. You think maybe you could talk to him? I know you guys are close, and…” She trailed off, giving a one-shouldered shrug.
It always amazed him that she could care about people so honestly, not hiding it under the gruff words and dumb jokes Sam had gotten used to, between Dad and Dean.
He couldn’t be honest with her in return; and that was something he was never gonna be okay with. But, at the very least, he wasn’t gonna give her anything extra to worry about.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised, gathering the pile of books into his arms. “Be right over.”
Jess regained her smile, leaning down to kiss his cheek before she headed for the door. Sam got to his feet—then frowned down at the books he was holding, realizing he couldn’t remember which one he’d slipped the letter into.
He puzzled over it for a moment.
But then, it was no big deal, really. The note didn’t have his name on it. Anyone who found it would probably think it was some crazy prank, or a creative writing project somebody had gotten way too enthusiastic about.
Besides, actually writing that stuff down had kind of helped. It wasn’t buzzing around inside of his head anymore, keeping him from focusing on the here and now. Maybe getting rid of the note was the final piece of the puzzle. The last word in the exorcism, or something.
Outside, the bright California sun beckoned. Sam smiled, shoved his books back onto the shelf, and headed for the door.
----
Jenny trailed along the shelves, squinting at the call numbers in the dim light. She wasn’t feeling much in the way of motivation today. Sirens had woken her up in the early hours last night, and the commotion outside had eventually dragged her out of bed to find out what was going on.
Honestly, she kind of wished she hadn’t looked. She’d heard this morning what it was all about: some poor kid had died after the kitchen in her apartment caught fire. Not that Jenny had known her, but the scene had been pretty horrific: firefighters milling around outside and some distraught-looking guy—the boyfriend, she guessed—weeping on the sidewalk, his buddy holding him back from rushing into the building. Jenny could still smell the smoke now.
One thing was for sure: she wasn’t going to be trying any more late-night cooking experiments. Or letting her roommates anywhere near the kitchen after a night out.
She sighed, reached up on her toes to grab the book she’d been looking for, and pulled it down from the shelf. As she did so, something slipped out from just inside the front cover.
Jenny caught it as it fluttered down. It was a sheet of writing paper, folded neatly in two, both sides covered in sharp, blocky handwriting. She opened it up, frowning down at the page. Her eyes landed on a paragraph somewhere in the middle, picking out the words, My family hunts monsters.
She rolled her eyes and screwed up the sheet of paper. Honestly, Jenny was all for people following their dreams, writing whatever trashy paranormal stuff made them happy, but that didn’t mean she had to read it. And right now, the real world was crappy enough. She didn’t need the imaginary stories of somebody who’d watched too much Buffy to remind her of that.
Jenny tossed the screwed-up paper into the trash, and left with her book.
iii.
Sam hadn’t written anything since Jess died.
Since before that, really. Honestly, he hadn’t felt the need in a long while. Once he’d gotten settled into his routine—school, a normal apartment, a normal relationship—venting his frustrations on paper hadn’t seemed so important anymore. After all, since he’d gotten away from Dad and hunting, he’d had normal frustrations. Midterms. Flaky professors. Trying to keep up his running in the California heat. Nothing he couldn’t vent about to Jess, or to one of his friends.
And now all of that was gone. Up in smoke, like the normal world had only ever been a pretty dream, and now Sam was back in reality again.
Dean had been hovering around him like he was an invalid, alternating between excruciating silences and the kind of forced cheerfulness Dean always used like a shield when things were going to crap. Sam had kind of forgotten how much it got to him.
He could kind of understand it, when it was family stuff. When Dad had taken off and not told them how long he was gonna be away; or when he and Dad had gotten into one of those fights where neither of them could seem to leave it alone, and Dean stood in the middle trying to act like everything was fine. But this—Jess— This was Sam’s sorrow, and he just wanted to—
Well, he didn’t really know. Right now, he’d hidden himself away in the town library, because it was cool and quiet and nobody was going to expect him to talk about anything. He sat at one of the desks in back, with a pen and a sheet of paper he’d scrounged off of the librarian (too busy checking his emails at the front desk to care what he was doing). He’d thought that maybe he’d do what he used to, write it all down and leave it somewhere he’d never have to see it again, like a letter to an imaginary penpal—but now he didn’t even know where to start.
How could you put it into words? He couldn’t even say it out loud. It wasn’t like writing would be any more adequate.
Sam sighed and dropped the pen. It rolled across the desk and hit the floor with a thin sound.
----
Luis stuck his head around the back row of stacks, just to check there was nobody left there before he closed up. Not that there was likely to be: the only person he’d seen head back there this afternoon was the cute guy who’d asked him for some paper, and said cute guy had left half an hour ago, barely acknowledging Luis’s presence as he headed out.
He’d looked a little glazed, gaze fixed on the middle distance, dark shadows under his eyes. Luis guessed that whatever he’d been looking for in here, he hadn’t found it.
Obviously not, Luis realized, as he took in the mess on the desk. The paper he’d given the guy had been shredded, the pieces left sprinkled over the table like so much confetti. The pen was on the floor.
Luis sighed and scooped the mess into his hands. Some people.
iv.
Dean wasn’t coming back.
The hangover made Sam’s head pound, and honestly, he still felt like he was half-asleep—or maybe just stuck in a nightmare—but he forced the words through his brain. Sometime the previous night, between Ruby showing up and puking his guts out in the motel bathroom, it had finally lodged itself inside his skull, and now it felt true.
He’d thought about calling Bobby, at one point. Heading to Sioux Falls and just showing up on the doorstep. He’d stopped himself before he actually picked up the phone, maybe because having the two of them in one place would just have made Dean’s absence more obvious. On his own, Sam could pretend to himself for a couple minutes that he’d just taken off by himself, needed a little space from how Dean still treated him like a dumb kid half the time. He could pretend that when he’d cleared his head, he’d hotwire a car and turn around and drive back to Bobby’s, and Dean would be waiting to chew him out and sulk for a couple hours and finally share a beer and make up.
A knock at the door startled Sam out of his reverie. He winced, but before he could ask who was there, it opened, admitting a line of bright sunlight that made him press the heels of his hands over his eyes, and Ruby.
She paused in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “You look like crap.”
He scowled up at her. “Shut the door.”
Ruby did as she was asked, but stayed standing. “So, are you gonna lie in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself, or…?”
Vaguely, fragments of last night filtered back to him. They’d talked about finding Lilith, taking her out. By the time he’d crawled into bed, it had seemed like a good idea.
Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “Just gimme a minute,” he said. “Throw me that duffel? No, on the chair. I need some Tylenol, or… something.”
All matter-of-fact, Ruby set the duffel back down on the chair and reached down to pull a knife out of her boot. Sam blinked, watching her as she held out her hand and drew the knife across her palm, not even blinking as blood beaded along the cut.
She sat on the mattress beside him, still all business. “Here,” she said, “or something,” and held out her hand.
----
Beth glanced around the library before she pulled the book off of the shelf. Whoever was in charge of buying the books must be pretty open-minded, she guessed, because there was a small shelf stuffed with New-Agey witchcraft stuff, tucked in after the pop psychology and before the ‘How to Write Your Essay’ guides for students. Still she didn’t want one of Mom’s friends spotting her and jumping to the conclusion that she was planning her very own remake of The Craft, or about to start wearing black lipstick and listening to My Chemical Romance. That was more hassle than she needed right now; keeping Jamie a secret from Mom and Dad was enough trouble as it was.
Carefully, she pulled out the book and took herself off to a quiet corner of the library, setting her bag on the desk in front of her so that nobody would see what she was reading.
Most of the books on the shelf had been pretty useless. Self-help type stuff, how to connect with your inner goddess or align your chakras or whatever. Her Google-fu had been about as helpful. But this—old and dusty, and bound in faded brown leather—yeah, this looked like it might have some real information in it. Might help her make sense of what she’d seen.
Last night hadn’t been supposed to end that way. Jamie had talked her into sneaking out, going with him to the old Taylor place that had been abandoned since she was a kid and that some people thought was haunted.
Beth knew why he’d invited her there. She wasn’t dumb. She’d at least half-convinced herself she was gonna do it, too. Mom had always said boys were only after one thing, and she didn’t think Jamie was like that, but that Mom-voice in the back of her head kept whispering. After all, it wasn’t like she had any experience in that area. Maybe she just didn’t know how to tell when a guy wanted it.
And if Jamie decided she wasn’t worth hanging around for, after she’d ditched all of her friends for him enough times they stopped calling her, and gotten into the habit of lying to Mom and Dad because she’d be grounded until the end of the world if they found out she was sneaking around with a college guy—
Well, then she wouldn’t have anybody.
She was getting off topic again. Trying to avoid thinking about what they’d seen last night, she guessed.
They’d snuck in through the back gate. Jamie had thought it was real funny to go quiet and stand in the shadows, then jump out and yell ‘Boo!’ Beth had yelled at him, but the relief had made her giddy, and she hadn’t been able to keep it up for long, laughing a little frantically as they made their way inside.
The back door had been hanging open, the boards that used to hold it shut discarded on the ground, and Beth had stopped and frowned at them. “Jamie?” she’d said. “You think somebody’s in here?”
He’d stopped, given the door a cursory once-over with the beam of his flashlight, and then shaken his head. “Nah. Probably just rotted off. This place is, like, really old.”
“Okay.” Beth had sounded uncertain even to her own ears, but Jamie was already inside the house, so she’d followed.
She’d gotten inside just in time to hear him scream.
And what was inside—huh. She swallowed down bile just remembering it, pressing her hand over her mouth. The chair in the middle of the floor, with ropes pooled around the bottom of it, like they’d been used to tie somebody there. The weird drawings on the floor, like something off of a goth kid’s hoodie. And all the blood. Beth wondered if it could all have come from one person.
She hadn’t thought to snap a picture on her phone. She wasn’t honestly sure what she’d do with it if she had.
Jamie had cut and run before Beth even had time to wrap her mind around the whole thing, barging past her on his way out so that she stumbled into the grimy wall and got dirt all down the sleeve of her shirt. Vaguely, it had crossed her mind that she was going to have a hard time explaining that to Mom.
Then her self-preservation instinct had kicked in, and she’d followed Jamie out the door. She’d been feeling too shaken to yell at him for leaving her behind, and she was still pretty freaked out now. Maybe the book would help. Maybe it would explain things, at least.
Beth let it fall open where it wanted—and blinked in surprise when she found a folded sheet of paper tucked between the pages. It was modern, not yellowed with age like the rest of the book, and somebody had written on it. Frowning, she unfolded it.
The first line had been scratched out. Beth squinted at it; it looked something like, Ruby says.
Underneath, the writing started up again.
We don’t know each other, and we probably never will. It’s probably better if you don’t read this, if you just toss it in the trash and never think about it again.
The phrasing was familiar. That was how Jamie talked to her, half the time. It’s probably better if you don’t talk to your sister about us. It’s probably better if we hang out just the two of us, instead of going to the movies with your friends. It’s probably better if you tell your mom you’re studying at Kyra’s, if we don’t change our Facebook statuses, if you call me late at night after everybody’s gone to bed. Beth had gotten so used to going along with it that she almost did what the writer had suggested, crumpling the paper up in her hand ready to toss it out.
Then she remembered last night. Jamie had dragged her out to—well, to a freaking murder house was what it looked like. What did he know about what was best?
Scowling, she laid the sheet of paper out on the desk, smoothing it down with her hands as best she could.
Anyway, the writer went on. It all started after my brother died. Our parents are dead, and we’ve spent almost our whole lives together, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do without him. I just… drifted for a while, I guess. I lost touch with my friends, started drinking. When you put it like that, I guess it’s a pretty standard sob story.
This one friend—or something like that, anyway—came and found me. I’m glad she did. I mean, I’m grateful. I was in a hole, and she pulled me out of it. Gave me something to focus on. I can’t get my brother back, but I can avenge him. She says she’s going to help me do it.
Most of the time, it feels good. Knowing that I’m doing something. Sometimes I think, if my brother could see me now, he’d freak—but I guess that’s pretty stupid. He can’t see me. He’s gone. So it’s probably best if I don’t think about it.
Last night, I thought about calling— The name had been scratched out, and Beth squinted at the page. Billy, maybe? –an old friend. I don’t know why. Maybe I was hoping he’d understand, tell me I’m doing the right thing, but I kind of doubt it. I’d been drinking, though, and I almost did it anyway.
She got here in time to stop me. When she asked me what the hell I was thinking, I didn’t really have an answer. I guess it’s for the best that she stopped me.
I still wish I could talk to somebody, though. Somebody who gets that I have doubts. They’re hard to admit to, when your whole life is people who seem so certain about everything. That’s probably why I’m writing this.
So, whoever you are, if you didn’t take my advice and toss this out—sorry, I guess. Hope you’re having a better time than me.
Beth folded the letter and slipped it into her purse, the book she’d come here for forgotten. Did it really matter if whatever psycho had been up at the Taylor place thought they were doing witchcraft or summoning Satan? It wasn’t Beth’s job to figure that out anyway.
She realized she’d come to a decision.
She had to call the police; let them know what she’d seen up there. Even if it did mean Mom and Dad finding out about Jamie.
Speaking of… she was going to call him first. Tell him that she was done with all the sneaking around, with feeling like they were trapped in a cell together while the rest of the world got on with its life outside. Either they stopped the secrecy, or they were through.
Which probably meant they were through. Strangely, Beth didn’t feel as disappointed as she’d expected.
v.
Sam stared at the blank page, and the blank page stared back at him.
It had been a long time. A long time. Without his soul—well, he still didn’t remember a whole lot of it, and he was trying not to. Dean had said it could screw up his head so badly he’d lose it, and honestly, looking back felt a little like poking at a wound before it had properly healed. Sam was trying to stay in the here and now.
Only it all kept swirling around inside of his head. What he’d done in Bristol had been awful, but Sam was afraid that maybe it hadn’t been out of the ordinary. Not for—him.
So maybe he needed to write it down. Get it out of his system, so he could stop picking the scab.
I’ve done some things, he wrote. I don’t remember them all—or even most of them—but I do know they were pretty bad.
----
Sometimes I tell myself I wouldn’t have done them if I’d been myself. If I’d had all my faculties. I guess you could call it that. Sometimes, though, it scares me that I could have done that stuff at all. What is the real me, anyway? If taking away one part was enough to make me into… him—well, how real is the rest of me?
There’s this tiny little voice in the back of my brain that won’t stop saying that. It sounds a little like…
There was a blank space there, not even a name written down and crossed out again. The writer had picked up again on the next line.
It reminds me of somebody I don’t want to be reminded of. Somebody who tried convincing me I was just like him, once.
Well, Joe had been there. Fake friends who thought you were the man, at least as long as you were getting wasted alongside them, but couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses long enough to say ‘hi’ once you’d given up getting wasted.
He’d relied on them—and look where he’d ended up. No money, no girlfriend, no family—just a weekly NA meeting, a one-room apartment with a leaky faucet, and a part-time job in a secondhand bookstore.
The bookstore was the one good part of the whole situation. Checking out the books, thinking about who’d read them before, and how they’d go on to make somebody else happy—that was pretty awesome. Plus, getting first pick of the new stock was a perk.
Joe read a lot, these days. Somebody had once told him a good book was like a friend—and he didn’t exactly have any of those these days. He’d burned a whole lot of bridges, and even the idea of getting in touch with Lara elicited a nervous, nauseous twinge in his stomach. She’d tried to help him at first, like any sister would have, but eventually she’d seemed to realize he was a hopeless case. They hadn’t spoken in two years; he couldn’t even begin to guess what she’d say if he got in touch now.
I’m trying not to listen to that voice, the letter went on. It’s better when my brother’s around. He’s acting like he just got me back, like he’s happy to see me, even though sometimes when he thinks I’m not looking he lets the act drop and then he just seems worried as hell. He touches his neck sometimes, and he looks at his fingers when he pulls them away like he’s expecting blood.
I think it might be because of something I did to him. I don’t really want to ask, not that he’d tell me if I did. He was still waiting for me, even after whatever he did. That counts for something.
I know what my brother would say, if I brought it up—after “Shut the hell up and drink your beer,” that is. “We’re family.” And then he’d shrug and look at me like nothing else needed to be said.
It sounded so wonderfully simple, put like that. Joe snorted. This guy was either woefully naïve, or his brother was way too forgiving.
If they were even real, that was. It read more like a fragment of a novel, way too dramatic for real life.
Joe folded up the letter and slid it back into the book. Whoever bought it would at least get an interesting bonus read.
The idea stuck with him, though. A couple times, he found himself with his fingers hovering over Lara’s number on his phone, rehearsing what he’d say if she actually picked up.
Joe still couldn’t pluck up the courage to actually call her. He thought about it a lot, though.
----
A couple weeks later, he was working the counter at the bookstore, and a customer dumped a book on the counter in front of him. It was some moth-eaten book of Norse legends, nothing Joe knew anything about, but it was… familiar.
For a moment he couldn’t figure out why. Then it came back to him. It was the book with the note inside it. Discreetly, he checked that it was still tucked within the pages; wondered if the goth chick buying the book would throw it out, or pause her reading to sit down and absorb the anonymous writer’s story.
Huh.
Reading was different than talking on the phone. Less immediate. It gave you time to digest things, calm down when they got to you. Take your time deciding how you were gonna reply.
When it was time to go for his break, Joe grabbed a spare notebook from the cupboard out back. He poured his coffee, got comfortable at the table in the break room, and steeled himself.
Dear Lara, he wrote.
Part Two
Recipient:
troll_la_laRating: PG-13
Word Count: 10,400
Warnings: Very vague spoilers for 12x23.
Author's Notes: The prompt I used was “Any season, pre-series or post-canon. Sam has a secret hobby he does *not* want Dean to know about.” All the thanks to my wonderful beta for the help! ♥
Summary: Writing letters to nobody and hiding them in library books is a strange hobby, for sure, but sometimes Sam finds that it helps. Sometimes, when he’s very lucky, it helps somebody else, too.
i.
It had been a slow afternoon. No surprise, really: it was a hot, sleepy summer day, and even the kids riding their bikes up and down the high street had gotten tired and disappeared into the shade. Nobody wanted to hang out in a library on a day like this.
Alice didn’t mind the quiet. She hummed to herself as she stacked the returned books onto a trolley and made her way around the shelves, slotting them back into their right places one by one. She always saved the children’s books for last: she’d loved coming in here as a little girl, getting to choose a single book with brightly-colored illustrations every week, and even now she liked to take a moment to look at them. Jeannie was occupied in the office right now, so Alice might even get a chance to sit down on an oversized cushion in the reading corner and glance through one of her favorites. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, maybe, or one of those new, beautifully-illustrated editions of the Greek myths (the really nasty parts edited out for kids, of course).
There was one of those on her trolley now. A young boy had come in to thumb through them every day over the past couple weeks—but even he wasn’t here today. Maybe he’d left it there yesterday, before he went home.
As she slid it off the trolley to flick through it, though, something slipped out from between the pages and landed gently on the floor at her feet.
A slip of paper, torn out of the back of a notebook and folded twice. Alice stooped to pick it up, ready to toss it into the trash—but the writing on the inner fold caught her eye. She straightened up and unfolded it.
The handwriting was a child’s—neat and looping, like its owner had just learned cursive, and was being extra careful to get every letter right. Gently, Alice unfolded it and sat down to read.
My name is Sam Winchester. The period at the end of the sentence had been drawn in decisively, pressed so hard the pencil left an indent in the paper.
Tomorrow I’ll be leaving town and starting a new school AGAIN. The AGAIN had been underlined—three times, for emphasis. I know why we can’t stay in the same place for long. Dean explained it all to me. And I can’t make real friends anyway. I can’t tell them why we’re really here. So I guess it doesn’t matter that I can’t stay.
That’s why I’m writing this. I don’t have a diary. Dean would just read it and then laugh at me anyway, if I did. And I don’t have anybody to write letters to. I guess I’ll throw this in the garbage when I’m done with it, but at least I can pretend I’m writing to somebody.
Here goes, I guess.
My name is Sam Winchester, and my family hunts monsters.
This is how it works. Dad looks in the newspapers until he reads about somebody who died in a weird way. Then he goes to find out how it happened, and if a monster did it, he kills the monster. Sometimes he leaves Dean and me with Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim. (Dean is my brother. He’s four years older than me and he thinks he’s super grown up.) But sometimes Dad takes us with him.
This time the monster Dad had to kill was a nymph. It was called an e-p-i-m-e-l-i-a-d and it lived in an apple tree. He says they have to kill somebody every 25 years and bury the body under their tree or their forest, or they’ll go to sleep and won’t wake up. Dad found a leaf on the floor where the man got killed. Then he called Uncle Bobby, and they argued on the phone about what kind of tree it was for ages. I knew it was an apple tree because of the school project I did last year, but Dad wouldn’t listen to me. He never does.
Dad and Dean went out last night to find the tree and burn it down. They let me go with them, but I had to stay in the car. I couldn’t see much, just shadows, like a puppet show. It looked like a woman with branches for arms. When they got back in the car, Dean and Dad smelled of smoke so bad it made me cough.
Smoke smells like fall. I’m glad it’s still summer. Dad gets real quiet in the fall, and he drinks more whiskey at night and then he snores so loud I can’t sleep. Sometimes Dean gets real quiet too, like he’s afraid.
The car just stopped outside. Dad’s home. We’re going to leave soon. I guess I should
The letter cut off abruptly there, and Alice half-smiled to herself. The kid’s imagination was impressive, even if it was pretty morbid; he’d definitely put those mythology books to good use.
On the other hand, it was kind of sad. Moving from place to place all the time? Such an unsettled childhood that he’d made up some story about his dad being a monster-hunting hero to escape from it? Alice wondered, briefly, if she ought to call somebody.
But the boy hadn’t come in today—and, come to think of it, he’d been carrying a heavy school rucksack yesterday, stuffed full to bursting. The family had probably left by now, and Alice had no idea where they were going.
For a moment, she frowned over the little note. Then she folded it back into four, and slipped it into her purse.
ii.
I guess this is kind of an exorcism.
Huh. All that time trying to get away from Dad’s way of doing things, and here I am. But I have to write this down. I need to get it out of my head so I can stop thinking about it. Finally, finally, I’m out of that life. I’ve got friends and school and a place of my own, and Jess, and I want to be able to just… live it. Not be afraid that I’m going to let slip what I’ve really seen and make everybody think I’m crazy. The way Jess looks at me sometimes, I’m sure she’s going to start asking questions. It’s like she knows when I’m thinking about—about stuff from before.
So, here goes. My name is—well, actually, my name isn’t important. What’s important is, my family hunts monsters.
Yeah, literally. You don’t have to believe me, whoever you are. I mean, it’s probably better if you don’t, if you tell yourself it’s some kind of a metaphor or just the product of a deranged imagination. So do that, if it helps.
It started when I was a baby. I don’t really remember any of it. Just that, as long as I’ve known anything, we’ve always been moving. Me and my brother, and sometimes our Dad, though he was as likely to dump us somewhere and take off for a few weeks as he was to take us with him. We never stayed in one place more than a couple months at a time, and I guess I got used to the idea that you don’t put down roots. You don’t get used to places, or make friends, or start letting yourself find comfort in the fact that the buildings are solid and the streets always lead to the same places and the tree on the corner keeps the same crooked shape.
It’s still hard sometimes. I’m not good at being still or doing nothing: I get fidgety, start pacing, or I have to read something to distract myself. Jess teases me about it sometimes. Other times she looks kind of worried.
I don’t want to worry her. We have a home now, even if it is a crappy little rented apartment. A place of our own that I know I’ll be coming back to, week after week. If I can just get this out of my head—well, maybe we have a shot at being normal.
“You ready to go?” Jess’s voice made Sam start, and he slid the sheet of paper into the book on top of the stack he’d built up while he worked.
“Uh, sure.” He gave her a smile. “Just give me a minute, I need to put these back.” He waved at the pile of books.
Jess nodded. “I’m gonna head over to the coffee shop. I told Brady we’d meet him there.” She frowned a little, then. “He isn’t looking so good. You think maybe you could talk to him? I know you guys are close, and…” She trailed off, giving a one-shouldered shrug.
It always amazed him that she could care about people so honestly, not hiding it under the gruff words and dumb jokes Sam had gotten used to, between Dad and Dean.
He couldn’t be honest with her in return; and that was something he was never gonna be okay with. But, at the very least, he wasn’t gonna give her anything extra to worry about.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised, gathering the pile of books into his arms. “Be right over.”
Jess regained her smile, leaning down to kiss his cheek before she headed for the door. Sam got to his feet—then frowned down at the books he was holding, realizing he couldn’t remember which one he’d slipped the letter into.
He puzzled over it for a moment.
But then, it was no big deal, really. The note didn’t have his name on it. Anyone who found it would probably think it was some crazy prank, or a creative writing project somebody had gotten way too enthusiastic about.
Besides, actually writing that stuff down had kind of helped. It wasn’t buzzing around inside of his head anymore, keeping him from focusing on the here and now. Maybe getting rid of the note was the final piece of the puzzle. The last word in the exorcism, or something.
Outside, the bright California sun beckoned. Sam smiled, shoved his books back onto the shelf, and headed for the door.
Jenny trailed along the shelves, squinting at the call numbers in the dim light. She wasn’t feeling much in the way of motivation today. Sirens had woken her up in the early hours last night, and the commotion outside had eventually dragged her out of bed to find out what was going on.
Honestly, she kind of wished she hadn’t looked. She’d heard this morning what it was all about: some poor kid had died after the kitchen in her apartment caught fire. Not that Jenny had known her, but the scene had been pretty horrific: firefighters milling around outside and some distraught-looking guy—the boyfriend, she guessed—weeping on the sidewalk, his buddy holding him back from rushing into the building. Jenny could still smell the smoke now.
One thing was for sure: she wasn’t going to be trying any more late-night cooking experiments. Or letting her roommates anywhere near the kitchen after a night out.
She sighed, reached up on her toes to grab the book she’d been looking for, and pulled it down from the shelf. As she did so, something slipped out from just inside the front cover.
Jenny caught it as it fluttered down. It was a sheet of writing paper, folded neatly in two, both sides covered in sharp, blocky handwriting. She opened it up, frowning down at the page. Her eyes landed on a paragraph somewhere in the middle, picking out the words, My family hunts monsters.
She rolled her eyes and screwed up the sheet of paper. Honestly, Jenny was all for people following their dreams, writing whatever trashy paranormal stuff made them happy, but that didn’t mean she had to read it. And right now, the real world was crappy enough. She didn’t need the imaginary stories of somebody who’d watched too much Buffy to remind her of that.
Jenny tossed the screwed-up paper into the trash, and left with her book.
iii.
Sam hadn’t written anything since Jess died.
Since before that, really. Honestly, he hadn’t felt the need in a long while. Once he’d gotten settled into his routine—school, a normal apartment, a normal relationship—venting his frustrations on paper hadn’t seemed so important anymore. After all, since he’d gotten away from Dad and hunting, he’d had normal frustrations. Midterms. Flaky professors. Trying to keep up his running in the California heat. Nothing he couldn’t vent about to Jess, or to one of his friends.
And now all of that was gone. Up in smoke, like the normal world had only ever been a pretty dream, and now Sam was back in reality again.
Dean had been hovering around him like he was an invalid, alternating between excruciating silences and the kind of forced cheerfulness Dean always used like a shield when things were going to crap. Sam had kind of forgotten how much it got to him.
He could kind of understand it, when it was family stuff. When Dad had taken off and not told them how long he was gonna be away; or when he and Dad had gotten into one of those fights where neither of them could seem to leave it alone, and Dean stood in the middle trying to act like everything was fine. But this—Jess— This was Sam’s sorrow, and he just wanted to—
Well, he didn’t really know. Right now, he’d hidden himself away in the town library, because it was cool and quiet and nobody was going to expect him to talk about anything. He sat at one of the desks in back, with a pen and a sheet of paper he’d scrounged off of the librarian (too busy checking his emails at the front desk to care what he was doing). He’d thought that maybe he’d do what he used to, write it all down and leave it somewhere he’d never have to see it again, like a letter to an imaginary penpal—but now he didn’t even know where to start.
How could you put it into words? He couldn’t even say it out loud. It wasn’t like writing would be any more adequate.
Sam sighed and dropped the pen. It rolled across the desk and hit the floor with a thin sound.
Luis stuck his head around the back row of stacks, just to check there was nobody left there before he closed up. Not that there was likely to be: the only person he’d seen head back there this afternoon was the cute guy who’d asked him for some paper, and said cute guy had left half an hour ago, barely acknowledging Luis’s presence as he headed out.
He’d looked a little glazed, gaze fixed on the middle distance, dark shadows under his eyes. Luis guessed that whatever he’d been looking for in here, he hadn’t found it.
Obviously not, Luis realized, as he took in the mess on the desk. The paper he’d given the guy had been shredded, the pieces left sprinkled over the table like so much confetti. The pen was on the floor.
Luis sighed and scooped the mess into his hands. Some people.
iv.
Dean wasn’t coming back.
The hangover made Sam’s head pound, and honestly, he still felt like he was half-asleep—or maybe just stuck in a nightmare—but he forced the words through his brain. Sometime the previous night, between Ruby showing up and puking his guts out in the motel bathroom, it had finally lodged itself inside his skull, and now it felt true.
He’d thought about calling Bobby, at one point. Heading to Sioux Falls and just showing up on the doorstep. He’d stopped himself before he actually picked up the phone, maybe because having the two of them in one place would just have made Dean’s absence more obvious. On his own, Sam could pretend to himself for a couple minutes that he’d just taken off by himself, needed a little space from how Dean still treated him like a dumb kid half the time. He could pretend that when he’d cleared his head, he’d hotwire a car and turn around and drive back to Bobby’s, and Dean would be waiting to chew him out and sulk for a couple hours and finally share a beer and make up.
A knock at the door startled Sam out of his reverie. He winced, but before he could ask who was there, it opened, admitting a line of bright sunlight that made him press the heels of his hands over his eyes, and Ruby.
She paused in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “You look like crap.”
He scowled up at her. “Shut the door.”
Ruby did as she was asked, but stayed standing. “So, are you gonna lie in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself, or…?”
Vaguely, fragments of last night filtered back to him. They’d talked about finding Lilith, taking her out. By the time he’d crawled into bed, it had seemed like a good idea.
Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “Just gimme a minute,” he said. “Throw me that duffel? No, on the chair. I need some Tylenol, or… something.”
All matter-of-fact, Ruby set the duffel back down on the chair and reached down to pull a knife out of her boot. Sam blinked, watching her as she held out her hand and drew the knife across her palm, not even blinking as blood beaded along the cut.
She sat on the mattress beside him, still all business. “Here,” she said, “or something,” and held out her hand.
Beth glanced around the library before she pulled the book off of the shelf. Whoever was in charge of buying the books must be pretty open-minded, she guessed, because there was a small shelf stuffed with New-Agey witchcraft stuff, tucked in after the pop psychology and before the ‘How to Write Your Essay’ guides for students. Still she didn’t want one of Mom’s friends spotting her and jumping to the conclusion that she was planning her very own remake of The Craft, or about to start wearing black lipstick and listening to My Chemical Romance. That was more hassle than she needed right now; keeping Jamie a secret from Mom and Dad was enough trouble as it was.
Carefully, she pulled out the book and took herself off to a quiet corner of the library, setting her bag on the desk in front of her so that nobody would see what she was reading.
Most of the books on the shelf had been pretty useless. Self-help type stuff, how to connect with your inner goddess or align your chakras or whatever. Her Google-fu had been about as helpful. But this—old and dusty, and bound in faded brown leather—yeah, this looked like it might have some real information in it. Might help her make sense of what she’d seen.
Last night hadn’t been supposed to end that way. Jamie had talked her into sneaking out, going with him to the old Taylor place that had been abandoned since she was a kid and that some people thought was haunted.
Beth knew why he’d invited her there. She wasn’t dumb. She’d at least half-convinced herself she was gonna do it, too. Mom had always said boys were only after one thing, and she didn’t think Jamie was like that, but that Mom-voice in the back of her head kept whispering. After all, it wasn’t like she had any experience in that area. Maybe she just didn’t know how to tell when a guy wanted it.
And if Jamie decided she wasn’t worth hanging around for, after she’d ditched all of her friends for him enough times they stopped calling her, and gotten into the habit of lying to Mom and Dad because she’d be grounded until the end of the world if they found out she was sneaking around with a college guy—
Well, then she wouldn’t have anybody.
She was getting off topic again. Trying to avoid thinking about what they’d seen last night, she guessed.
They’d snuck in through the back gate. Jamie had thought it was real funny to go quiet and stand in the shadows, then jump out and yell ‘Boo!’ Beth had yelled at him, but the relief had made her giddy, and she hadn’t been able to keep it up for long, laughing a little frantically as they made their way inside.
The back door had been hanging open, the boards that used to hold it shut discarded on the ground, and Beth had stopped and frowned at them. “Jamie?” she’d said. “You think somebody’s in here?”
He’d stopped, given the door a cursory once-over with the beam of his flashlight, and then shaken his head. “Nah. Probably just rotted off. This place is, like, really old.”
“Okay.” Beth had sounded uncertain even to her own ears, but Jamie was already inside the house, so she’d followed.
She’d gotten inside just in time to hear him scream.
And what was inside—huh. She swallowed down bile just remembering it, pressing her hand over her mouth. The chair in the middle of the floor, with ropes pooled around the bottom of it, like they’d been used to tie somebody there. The weird drawings on the floor, like something off of a goth kid’s hoodie. And all the blood. Beth wondered if it could all have come from one person.
She hadn’t thought to snap a picture on her phone. She wasn’t honestly sure what she’d do with it if she had.
Jamie had cut and run before Beth even had time to wrap her mind around the whole thing, barging past her on his way out so that she stumbled into the grimy wall and got dirt all down the sleeve of her shirt. Vaguely, it had crossed her mind that she was going to have a hard time explaining that to Mom.
Then her self-preservation instinct had kicked in, and she’d followed Jamie out the door. She’d been feeling too shaken to yell at him for leaving her behind, and she was still pretty freaked out now. Maybe the book would help. Maybe it would explain things, at least.
Beth let it fall open where it wanted—and blinked in surprise when she found a folded sheet of paper tucked between the pages. It was modern, not yellowed with age like the rest of the book, and somebody had written on it. Frowning, she unfolded it.
The first line had been scratched out. Beth squinted at it; it looked something like, Ruby says.
Underneath, the writing started up again.
We don’t know each other, and we probably never will. It’s probably better if you don’t read this, if you just toss it in the trash and never think about it again.
The phrasing was familiar. That was how Jamie talked to her, half the time. It’s probably better if you don’t talk to your sister about us. It’s probably better if we hang out just the two of us, instead of going to the movies with your friends. It’s probably better if you tell your mom you’re studying at Kyra’s, if we don’t change our Facebook statuses, if you call me late at night after everybody’s gone to bed. Beth had gotten so used to going along with it that she almost did what the writer had suggested, crumpling the paper up in her hand ready to toss it out.
Then she remembered last night. Jamie had dragged her out to—well, to a freaking murder house was what it looked like. What did he know about what was best?
Scowling, she laid the sheet of paper out on the desk, smoothing it down with her hands as best she could.
Anyway, the writer went on. It all started after my brother died. Our parents are dead, and we’ve spent almost our whole lives together, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do without him. I just… drifted for a while, I guess. I lost touch with my friends, started drinking. When you put it like that, I guess it’s a pretty standard sob story.
This one friend—or something like that, anyway—came and found me. I’m glad she did. I mean, I’m grateful. I was in a hole, and she pulled me out of it. Gave me something to focus on. I can’t get my brother back, but I can avenge him. She says she’s going to help me do it.
Most of the time, it feels good. Knowing that I’m doing something. Sometimes I think, if my brother could see me now, he’d freak—but I guess that’s pretty stupid. He can’t see me. He’s gone. So it’s probably best if I don’t think about it.
Last night, I thought about calling— The name had been scratched out, and Beth squinted at the page. Billy, maybe? –an old friend. I don’t know why. Maybe I was hoping he’d understand, tell me I’m doing the right thing, but I kind of doubt it. I’d been drinking, though, and I almost did it anyway.
She got here in time to stop me. When she asked me what the hell I was thinking, I didn’t really have an answer. I guess it’s for the best that she stopped me.
I still wish I could talk to somebody, though. Somebody who gets that I have doubts. They’re hard to admit to, when your whole life is people who seem so certain about everything. That’s probably why I’m writing this.
So, whoever you are, if you didn’t take my advice and toss this out—sorry, I guess. Hope you’re having a better time than me.
Beth folded the letter and slipped it into her purse, the book she’d come here for forgotten. Did it really matter if whatever psycho had been up at the Taylor place thought they were doing witchcraft or summoning Satan? It wasn’t Beth’s job to figure that out anyway.
She realized she’d come to a decision.
She had to call the police; let them know what she’d seen up there. Even if it did mean Mom and Dad finding out about Jamie.
Speaking of… she was going to call him first. Tell him that she was done with all the sneaking around, with feeling like they were trapped in a cell together while the rest of the world got on with its life outside. Either they stopped the secrecy, or they were through.
Which probably meant they were through. Strangely, Beth didn’t feel as disappointed as she’d expected.
v.
Sam stared at the blank page, and the blank page stared back at him.
It had been a long time. A long time. Without his soul—well, he still didn’t remember a whole lot of it, and he was trying not to. Dean had said it could screw up his head so badly he’d lose it, and honestly, looking back felt a little like poking at a wound before it had properly healed. Sam was trying to stay in the here and now.
Only it all kept swirling around inside of his head. What he’d done in Bristol had been awful, but Sam was afraid that maybe it hadn’t been out of the ordinary. Not for—him.
So maybe he needed to write it down. Get it out of his system, so he could stop picking the scab.
I’ve done some things, he wrote. I don’t remember them all—or even most of them—but I do know they were pretty bad.
Sometimes I tell myself I wouldn’t have done them if I’d been myself. If I’d had all my faculties. I guess you could call it that. Sometimes, though, it scares me that I could have done that stuff at all. What is the real me, anyway? If taking away one part was enough to make me into… him—well, how real is the rest of me?
There’s this tiny little voice in the back of my brain that won’t stop saying that. It sounds a little like…
There was a blank space there, not even a name written down and crossed out again. The writer had picked up again on the next line.
It reminds me of somebody I don’t want to be reminded of. Somebody who tried convincing me I was just like him, once.
Well, Joe had been there. Fake friends who thought you were the man, at least as long as you were getting wasted alongside them, but couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses long enough to say ‘hi’ once you’d given up getting wasted.
He’d relied on them—and look where he’d ended up. No money, no girlfriend, no family—just a weekly NA meeting, a one-room apartment with a leaky faucet, and a part-time job in a secondhand bookstore.
The bookstore was the one good part of the whole situation. Checking out the books, thinking about who’d read them before, and how they’d go on to make somebody else happy—that was pretty awesome. Plus, getting first pick of the new stock was a perk.
Joe read a lot, these days. Somebody had once told him a good book was like a friend—and he didn’t exactly have any of those these days. He’d burned a whole lot of bridges, and even the idea of getting in touch with Lara elicited a nervous, nauseous twinge in his stomach. She’d tried to help him at first, like any sister would have, but eventually she’d seemed to realize he was a hopeless case. They hadn’t spoken in two years; he couldn’t even begin to guess what she’d say if he got in touch now.
I’m trying not to listen to that voice, the letter went on. It’s better when my brother’s around. He’s acting like he just got me back, like he’s happy to see me, even though sometimes when he thinks I’m not looking he lets the act drop and then he just seems worried as hell. He touches his neck sometimes, and he looks at his fingers when he pulls them away like he’s expecting blood.
I think it might be because of something I did to him. I don’t really want to ask, not that he’d tell me if I did. He was still waiting for me, even after whatever he did. That counts for something.
I know what my brother would say, if I brought it up—after “Shut the hell up and drink your beer,” that is. “We’re family.” And then he’d shrug and look at me like nothing else needed to be said.
It sounded so wonderfully simple, put like that. Joe snorted. This guy was either woefully naïve, or his brother was way too forgiving.
If they were even real, that was. It read more like a fragment of a novel, way too dramatic for real life.
Joe folded up the letter and slid it back into the book. Whoever bought it would at least get an interesting bonus read.
The idea stuck with him, though. A couple times, he found himself with his fingers hovering over Lara’s number on his phone, rehearsing what he’d say if she actually picked up.
Joe still couldn’t pluck up the courage to actually call her. He thought about it a lot, though.
A couple weeks later, he was working the counter at the bookstore, and a customer dumped a book on the counter in front of him. It was some moth-eaten book of Norse legends, nothing Joe knew anything about, but it was… familiar.
For a moment he couldn’t figure out why. Then it came back to him. It was the book with the note inside it. Discreetly, he checked that it was still tucked within the pages; wondered if the goth chick buying the book would throw it out, or pause her reading to sit down and absorb the anonymous writer’s story.
Huh.
Reading was different than talking on the phone. Less immediate. It gave you time to digest things, calm down when they got to you. Take your time deciding how you were gonna reply.
When it was time to go for his break, Joe grabbed a spare notebook from the cupboard out back. He poured his coffee, got comfortable at the table in the break room, and steeled himself.
Dear Lara, he wrote.
Part Two