Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and am making no money from writing this story.
Author's Note: I have not forgotten about Six Months to Go. My husband started working in an inner-city school in March, and has been super-busy, so we haven't been able to work on it together in a while. Soon. It's coming soon. Meanwhile, this is an all-me story. First attempt at Wee/TeenChesters.
Return to Sender
Fourteen-year-old Dean Winchester slammed his math book down on the kitchen table and turned up his walkman to play Metallica's One even louder. Ten-year-old Sam came in the front door, holding a stack of mail.
"Dean, you're gonna go deaf," Sam said.
"Long as I go Def Leopard," Dean answered, "I don't care." He pulled off his headphones. "Why do you always go get the mail, Sammy? We never get anything but bills and ads for stuff we can't afford."
"Sometimes we get something." Sam leafed through the stack, frowning in concentration. He held up a business size envelope. "See, look, you got a letter!"
Dean took it from Sam, examining the envelope.
Mr. Dean Winchester
1057 Lark Street
Saginaw, MI 48601
Sam read over his shoulder. "It looks like it was typed on a real typewriter. Man, who even has those?"
Dean shoved him away.
"My letter, dude. Back off."
Sam shrugged, and went over to their living room couch to sit in front of his science homework. Dean started to open the envelope. The house the Winchesters were renting used to belong to an old lady who'd died a year ago. The family didn't want to live in the house themselves, but didn't want to sell it yet either. The furniture was worn but well taken care of, and other than a few stains on the carpet and walls, it was one of the nicer places the Winchesters had stayed in. The boys had to share a room, as usual, which Dean pretended to hate, but really didn't mind—much. Dean unfolded the crisp white paper and read:
Dear Chosen:
You are one of only a few to receive this letter, chaining friends from across the world together. You must sign your name under the others, and send the letter on to seven of your friends. If you ignore it, you will lose what you love the most.
A.R.
About twenty names were signed underneath the initials. "Bullshit," Dean muttered, and put the letter aside. The letters and numbers in his math book gave him a headache just by looking at them. He closed the cover of the math book firmly and checked his watch. He smiled, stood, and opened the refrigerator door. Taking one of his father's beers, he called, "Want one, Sammy?"
Sam's eyes lit up from across the room. "Yeah, definitely!" He held up his hand. Dean moved to throw him a can, and then put it on the counter. "I forgot—you're too young." He popped the tab and began to chug, ignoring the protests of his brother.
"I'm too young? Last time I checked, you weren't twenty-one, Dean!" Sam put his science book down, crossed the room, and tried to push past his brother to the refrigerator door handle.
Dean smacked at his hand, and set down the half-empty can. "Uh uh, little bro. No Miller Time for you."
Sam glared at him. "If you can drink, so can I!" He tried pushing past Dean again. Faster than a dog after a tennis ball, Dean had Sam in a headlock.
"Lemme go!" Sam growled, kicking at the back of Dean's legs and stepping on his feet. Dean held Sam tighter and laughed.
John Winchester chose that day, that moment, to get back early from work. He was making money under the table at Mike's Mechanics Shop, trying to put some cash away before he and the boys had to take off again. He stopped cold in the doorway. The boys' fighting was nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, John encouraged it, as long as it was fun-fighting. It made good practice. But the beer on the counter was a big surprise. Dean let go of Sam, eyes widening at the sight of his father. Sam, oblivious, punched him in the ribs. Dean barely moved.
"That's enough, Sam." John closed the door with a bang, the brass knocker bumping against the wood a couple times. Sam turned and unconsciously stepped behind his brother.
"Dad, hey, we were just doing our homework." Dean slid a box of macaroni and cheese in front of the beer can. "Want dinner?"
"Dean, go to your room. Sam, come chat with me." John flopped down on the couch, feigning relaxation. A moment later, he pulled a pen from under his thigh, and tossed it onto Sam's school book.
Sam clutched at his brother's arm as Dean started to walk away. "You cover me, Sammy," Dean warned. "Be cool." He walked down the hall. Sam looked at the back of John's head and walked toward him.
"Get me a beer, son," John said. Sam opened the fridge. "No, no, the one on the counter is fine."
Sam paused, then closed the door. "It's from last night, Dad, remember? It's all warm and stuff."
"It'll be fine. Bring it over."
Sam did as he was told, nervously sitting beside his father. John took the can from him. He turned it in his fingers, before setting it on the coffee table.
"Funny, it's still cold, but it's half-empty. Can you think of why that would be?" John waited.
His son squirmed on the couch. "We had a ghost about half an hour ago, that old lady who used to live here. She was mad we were in her house. She made it real cold, like Antarctica. Dean killed her, but it's still freezing in here, and—"
John slammed his open palm down on the coffee table, jolting the can and Sam's book. "The truth."
Sam hated yelling. It always made him cry like a girl. He whispered, "That is the truth."
John stood up and towered over his youngest boy. "Samuel Winchester, you know better than this. I'm going to say it one more time. Tell me the truth."
Still just mad enough at Dean for not sharing, Sam replied, "It's Dean's." He lowered his head.
"Go to your room. Send Dean out here." John was eerily calm.
Picking up his book and backpack, Sam went down the hall to the boys' shared room. Dean lay on the top bunk bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Dad wants you," Sam mumbled. He set his things down on the old desk in the room. He kept his back turned. Dean sat up and jumped down from the top bed. He came toward his brother.
"Did you rat me out, Sammy? Did you?" He spun Sam around by the shoulder and saw his red eyes and wet cheeks. "Damn it, you did!" He punched Sam in the shoulder, hard. Sam fell back against the desk. "I cover you all the time, man, and you can't cover me once? One freakin' time?" Dean shoved a finger into Sam's chest. "You're a pain in the ass, Sammy! You're always in my way, and I always have to take care of you. I hate you!" Dean could hardly breathe, he was so mad.
John appeared in the doorway. "Out here now, Dean." Dean stomped by him, and John appraised Sam. "You okay?"
Once his son nodded, John followed Dean. Sam went to crawl under the covers of the lower bunk.
Dean sat at the kitchen table, flipping through his math book. John came into the room and stood behind him.
"What the hell were you doing, Dean? Drinking?" John paused. "Talking to your brother like that? Hitting him? We're gonna have a long talk. A long, loud talk."
Dean muttered, "Yes, sir." He glanced at the stupid chain letter beside his book, and tore in half.
"What was that?" John demanded. He clamped a hand on his son's shoulder. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Dean ripped the letter in half again and threw the pieces on the floor. He felt dizzy, then his vision went black for a moment.
"Oh, honey, are you okay?" A woman's voice asked. Dean's vision cleared and he was sitting at someone else's kitchen table. A kitchen table in a huge, nice house. He jumped up.
"Whoa, where am I?" He asked. He had never seen this woman before. She was petite with short blond hair, and dark eyes. She stared at him, wrinkles creasing her forehead.
"You're home, Dean."
He stared at this woman for a moment and shook his head. "Must not have eaten much today to be drunk off half a can of beer," he muttered.
She put her hands on her hips. "Beer? What beer?"
Dean stood up. "Where's my dad? Where's my brother? Who are you?" He stepped closer to her.
The angry expression on her face changed to sad and pitying. "Oh, Dean. You're not drunk—you're having a relapse of post-traumatic stress syndrome." She sat down, a hand on his arm to encourage him to sit down, too.
He didn't budge. "What are you talking about? One minute I'm in my house; the next I'm here." He watched her face intently.
"Dean, don't you remember what happened?"
He shook his head. "Tell me. Tell me everything." He sat down across from her. She frowned and tilted her head, wondering where to begin.
"You've been here for five months. I'm Georgia Donaldson, your foster mom. Your foster dad is Charlie, and a foster sister named Ashley."
"Why am I here?" Dean pressed. "Where's my family?"
Georgia sighed. "Your brother was killed five months ago in a house fire, and your father is in prison for his murder."
Dean didn't hear anything else before his head hit the wooden tabletop.