Sam traced his fingers along the creased edges of the yellowed manila envelope. The corners were dog-eared and torn to such an extent that it exposed the previously obscured pallid paper residing within. He ran his thumb along the border of the envelope, as he willed his ratcheting pulse to settle. The envelope may have been constructed from paper, but there was emotion stitched into ever time-worn, severe crease. He could feel it. There was pungent sorrow threaded into the flap; crinkled, and unyielding underneath the pads of his fingers, where it had once been doused in liquid of some sort. He could sense annoyance in the haphazard placement of the fraying stamp. The corners of his mouth tipped up imperceptibly, not in amusement, but amusement's brother, for the stamp-though a simple, colorless thing-displayed the image of a naked ass. He traced his gaze over the rest of the envelope, before his irises fixated on the rushed imprint of his name.
Sam
As he ran a finger over his brother's untidy scrawl, he recognized that it was neither sorrow, nor annoyance that served as an incurable core to the envelope's contents. It was wrath, wrath commandeered them all. His name had been inscribed with such force, that he could feel little bumps, and dips cradling the outline of the letters. And suddenly, he was terribly afraid. His heart strained once in his chest, before leaping up to wreck havoc in the base of his throat. He had no reason to be the least bit anxious, or fearful, after all this letter was a memento of the past. Yet as his gaze strayed to the bed dominating the area on the other side of the room, and he quietly analyzed the sprawled, sleeping form of his brother, he couldn't help but relive the horrors they had endured after he'd left Stanford.
How many times had he let Dean down?
How many times had Dean cleansed the world of evil, and anguish, while Sam had been tucked away in his dorm room poring over law textbooks?
He couldn't afford to let him down again, not after-
Huffing in annoyance, Sam tucked his fingers underneath the crimped flap, and tore it open with a hasty, deft maneuver of his fingers. The contents of the envelope wouldn't destroy him, but a cripple never walked the same.
So he pressed misery into his skull, and he read.
If you would just pick up the goddamn phone, I wouldn't have to write this damn thing.
Stamps, Sam! I had to buy stamps. The chick behind the counter thought I was a war veteran.
Do you think she'd be interested in a pity fuck if I told her I cracked my hip?
Look, Dad's not
He didn't mean
I wish we
Hunting's not the
Bobby says hi, but also that
Why'd you have to
Hunting's not the
Come back and we can
i know you think that we're pissed at you
I just wanted to tell you that
I'm
Sorry, for the house call, Sammy
But without our trusty, geek boy here to do the research, it's been a raging pain in the ass.
Dad found a case, so we're in Nevada hunting a Rugaru. Son of a bitch's been dropping bodies
all over town.
Meet any chicks yet? God knows, your gigantor ass is probably being offered pity fucks left
and right.
Hunting's not the same without you.
Bitch
Sam carefully folded the letter, and tucked it back into the distorted, mangled wreck of an
envelope.
"Jerk," he whispered into the distilled atmosphere.
And all he could do was breathe.