Sam opened the letter. It was like unwrapping a gift. There was an intimacy created by the handwritten word on a shared sheet of paper. Sam relished this relationship; he looked forward to this latest peek into his father's thoughts.
"Dear Son,
Hope all is well with you. As you read this letter, our lives will be changing forever. Tonight is a momentous occasion; I will become a Man of Letters. I can not express to you how proud I am of us both.
You will soon be graduating and although I would have expected no less, you have had a stellar career at Stanford. My only regret is that your mother is no longer with us to share in these events. When you return, it will be as a 'legacy' . Your time here and all the work you have done, have not gone unnoticed.
Sam, I must close now to prepare for this evening. Remember how much I love you and next we meet, it will be in a 'brave new world'.
Love,
Dad"
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Sam re-read the letter. It was the last one he ever received from his father. It took months but, he felt that he had finally pieced together what had happened, to all of them. His time working there had shown him amazing things. He learned about evil and how to destroy it. He met interesting people, brilliant, clever people with only first names.
He never interacted with any of the 'hunters'; that was beyond his reach. However, he did the research. He found the spells, the rituals and helped keep the history. Now, he did everything.
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Dean didn't get mail, not on paper at least. He lived in a mobile home. Was it possible to deliver a letter to a 1967 Impala?
He wasn't a loner but, he was alone and lonely. When it became unbearable, he found company, very temporary company. But, he had business associates. They traded intel, tips, stories and, occasionally, drinks. All this was the extent of his social life and he claimed, it was enough because he had important work to do.
He had inherited the car from his father, who was in the same line of work. Dean's parents were killed by one of the things he now hunted.
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Sam was fascinated by the 'hunters', the adventure, the excitement. He enjoyed the research, finding the answer, solving the mystery. He knew it was necessary and useful. But, to be out there, in the world, really helping people and destroying the evil he only knew in theory, that was his dream.
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Dean needed help. He had never seen this before. He could guess at what to do; he had already asked around and gotten some pretty good ideas, but, he wasn't comfortable. He didn't like feeling unprepared. He wasn't fond of research but, it had become a job requirement. His usual circle had been unable to answer all of his questions. He would need to dig deeper.
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Sam had reconfigured the electronic equipment and was now able to monitor, without detection, many of the hunters' communications. He found that there was something out there creating quite a buzz. Several of the hunters were communicating with one guy, Dean Campbell. He was looking for information. Sam had plenty of information. He took some notes and started his research.
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Dean heard the signal indicating that a new message had come in. He saw that the sender was unknown to him, in fact, it was anonymous. He read the text. This wasn't from a hunter, he thought, it's too technical and, he hated to say, too intellectual.
It was just what he needed, though. Dean was grateful but also cautious. In his experience, he found, that 'anonymous' wasn't always a friend. As good as the intel appeared to be, Dean felt it warranted some verification. Or, maybe he was thinking of the sender.
Dean sent a text to his usual contacts, asking if anyone could corroborate.
Almost immediately, he received a response. It was from 'anonymous' ; it was a phone number. Dean dug through the glove box until he found the throw away phone he kept there. He returned the call.
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Sam couldn't believe his eyes when he read Dean's message. A hunter was questioning his research? At first, he was offended. "Ungrateful jerk", he said to himself. After a minute, he laughed and revised his thoughts. Wouldn't he double check someone else's work? This was life and death, after all. Sam decided this might be the opportunity he was waiting for. He sent another message. Dean would have to call him.
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The phone rang three times. Dean was already feeling as if he had been played, when he heard the tentative hello.
"Who is this?" Dean demanded. When there was no immediate response, he continued. "How do you know this stuff? Do I know you? Dammit, what the hell is this?" He paused. He heard an apologetic voice on the other end and he asked, more calmly, "Who are you and how do you know this stuff?"
He heard an almost unbelievable story. It was only almost unbelievable because he had heard it before, when he was a boy.
It was a story of studious and ambitious men. Men who valued knowledge and kept secrets safe. Men, whose work, had documented all that Dean and others like him had accomplished.
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Sam was rattled. If this was Dean, on the phone, then maybe it was true. Hunters were neanderthals. He tried to understand that maybe Dean was just spooked. He had received an anonymous message containing very valuable information. Perhaps, this was a normal response for a hunter. Sam composed himself and spoke up.
"My name is Sam Winchester. I found what you needed and I shared it. It's all true, what I wrote and it will work."
Sam went on to explain about the library and the records. He felt comfortable talking to Dean, even if he was unsure at first. He felt he could trust him. There was something in the way he spoke about the work. He was protective; he was passionate.
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Dean's breathing calmed as he continued to listen. He had never believed these stories. He had always thought of them as fairy tales. Something to encourage you into the life when you grew up. As all the Campbells had done. He had heard of this place. A secret location where the knowledge was kept and it appeared, that this guy, Sam, was the keeper.
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When the call ended, Sam was conflicted. He felt guilty for having been so free with Men of Letters secrets but it also felt good to share it. He hoped that Dean believed him and used the information. If it worked, and Sam had no doubts, perhaps Dean would ask for his help again. Perhaps, he would even invite him to hunt.
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Dean was amazed. What Sam told him worked beautifully. He wanted to tell somebody; that's how excited he was and that wasn't usually his style. This job didn't make him happy, it just helped pass the time. Dean got drunk and thought about how much easier it would be if he had someone to share the load.
Dean had been on his own for over a year. He returned from a supply run, one afternoon, and found his home destroyed and his family dead. He tried to work with other hunters. He sought out his father's friends but, he couldn't take orders, he couldn't cooperate. He was too angry. His need for vengeance controlled him. Even now, if he teamed up for any job. when it was done, each went his own way.
Dean staggered to his car, phone in hand. He fell into the back seat, where he spent the night.
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Sam heard the chatter. Dean had been successful. He was exhilarated and proud of himself. Men of Letters didn't hunt, so they said. But, Sam Winchester did, almost.
He heard his phone then looked at the clock. Who would be calling, this late at night? It was Dean and he sounded bad. No, he sounded drunk. At least the call was short. "Sammy, we did it" was all he said. Sammy?
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Dean couldn't decide. Was the heat causing the headache or was the headache making him sweat? He opened his eyes; he now knew why it was wrong to leave your dog in the car.
To his surprise, he found a bottle of water wedged under the front seat. He drank it. The result was that he gained the ability to sit up. He wiped his face with the t-shirt that had served as his pillow. Now, he needed coffee, desperately. He needed something to get rid of the buzzing in his head.
But, it wasn't in his head; it was his phone. Thank God, it was a text. He didn't think he could hold a conversation. "You okay?" It was from Sam. Why would he ask a question like that?
Dean put the phone in his pocket then hauled himself over the front seat and behind the wheel. Coffee. Black. Now.
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It had been hours. Sam didn't know why it bothered him so much but, he hadn't heard from Dean. Dean hadn't contacted anyone and he was such a mess last night.
"He can take care of himself. Come on, Sam." , he said out loud. "What do you care? You don't even know the guy." Sam went on with his work. An hour later, he let his mind wander. He remembered how great it felt to be involved in the hunt.
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Dean was inhaling his second cup of coffee along with the bacon, eggs and the rest of his breakfast, when he heard his phone. "Who the hell?" Dean said as he read the display screen. "Sam, you are lucky I've eaten."
He answered the phone and Sam asked him again how he was feeling. Dean believed this was just small talk but, it did feel good to think somebody cared. Because of his silence, Sam kept talking. That is when Dean found out about his late night phone call.
Dean was not an apologetic or remorseful guy. He did what he did and dealt with it. He told Sam it was just a drunken 'thanks for your help'. He couldn't explain to Sam or himself why he had done that.
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Sam was happy when he realized that Dean did appreciate his help. He would keep his ears open and continue to do what he could. Men of Letters had always been observers, not any more.
He began to look into the records, in particular, all he could find on the history of the Campbells. What he found out about Dean's family disturbed him. He could sense how alone Dean was. Sam had no family either, just his work.
Sam had learned all he could about the loss of his own family. Dean had never. This would be how he could help.
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Dean needed a bed and a shower. He had just left a job, helping an old friend of his father, and he was dirty and tired. In addition, the creature had been slimy and smelly. He was somewhere in Kansas and needed to find a real road.
He pulled his phone from his pocket to check his location when someone called. He didn't look, he just answered. It was Sam. He apologized for bothering him. Dean had a thought about breaking him of that habit and cut him off. As an aside, he asked Sam if he could get him to the interstate.
Sam said yes and gave him directions. He also told Dean that he had some information about what happened to his family.
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"Who the hell asked you?" Dean had snapped at him, at first. Sam said he was sorry, again. He just wanted to help. He knew how it felt and how much better it was when you had some answers, even if it didn't change anything.
Dean was quiet after that and, at one point, Sam feared he had hung up. But then, he heard him say, "Thanks….for the directions." Then he did hang up.
Dean was roughly an hour away. If he didn't show up by then, Sam decided he would just let it go and figured that Dean didn't want the answers.
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Dean followed Sam's directions to the highway, twelve miles to the exit then made a left onto a dirt road followed by a quick right onto, what appeared to be, private property. He took that road for the six point three miles, as instructed, until he reached the government official looking chain linked fence. He smiled, remembering that two miles to the right, the fence ended and from there on it was a straight ride to the Men of Letters building.
All during the drive, Dean had been thinking about what Sam had told him. He had information about what happened to Dean's family. He remembered that day.
He was being difficult, giving his old man a hard time about making a supply run. That errand had saved his life. When he returned, he saw the house was a fireball. There had been some kind of explosion and the street was already blocked. Even with the Impala, Dean couldn't muscle his way in. He stood at the corner, held back by two police officers as his home burned to the ground.
When the firefighters went through the house, they found the bodies. Dean didn't remember anything after that.
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Sam was sure Dean couldn't miss the building even though, he had neglected to tell him that it looked like the back end of a power plant. He went to the electrical panel to assure himself that he had turned on the outside lights. That was when he heard his phone.
Before he could say hello, Dean said, " I been kicking and banging; where's the freaking doorbell?"
"That's why I told you to call, Dean." Sam laughed on his way to open the door.
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After they shook hands and made their official introductions, they each had a sight to take in. Sam had never seen anyone who was so filthy and smelled so bad. And as tired as he was, Dean still managed awe and wonder at the inside of this building.
"So, this is the Men of Letters building. It's pretty awesome."
"Yea, they call it a bunker. I could give you the tour."
"How 'bout in the morning, I'm beat."
"And you could really use a shower, dude."
"Bitch." Sam's expression made Dean think that he didn't get the joke so, he softened it with a smile.
Sam smiled back. "Jerk", he said.
Sam walked down the hallway and Dean followed, taking in the sights. Sam opened the door to one of the bedrooms and motioned for Dean to enter. He looked around and saw that the bed was turned down; it looked soft and it was all he could do not to collapse onto it. He heard Sam say, "This is the only room with its own bath" and he pointed. They said their good nights and Sam left him.
Dean dropped his bag and kicked off his boots, all the while scanning the room. He had almost forgotten what a real bedroom looked like. He peeled off his clothes as he walked toward the shower. The water was hot and it melted the grime and the stress right off him.
When he was done, he jumped into that big soft bed and slept like a baby.
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The next day, Sam gave Dean the tour. It wasn't possible to see it all but, they did cover the main floor and spent most of their time in the library. Dean was surprised by how much was known about his family and impressed with Sam's research.
Sam left Dean alone with the Campbells and went back to his own work.
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Later that evening, they ate, they drank, they talked and they laughed like they had been friends forever.
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"Hey, Dean, you know what I think? We should hire ourselves out. I mean, we could find these things and help people."
Dean raised one eyebrow as he spoke, "Like the ghostfacers?"
"Hell no, we're better than that. We could call ourselves Winchester and Campbell. "
"Whoa, I think you meant to say Campbell and Winchester."
"Well, we can work on that. But, people are more comfortable with a family business."
"Fine. We'll be the Campbell Company."
"Dude, that sounds like we make soup."
"So, Sammy, what do you suggest we call ourselves? The Winchesters?"