He bit his lip, deep in thought, tapping the Bic pen against his thigh as he sat cramped in the back of Greg's van. Never in his whole life did Sam think he would be in the back of some strange trucker's car, folded up, writing a letter on the back of a fast food wrapper in the flickering light of a flashlight with dying batteries. He looked around at the walls around him, as if he could find the right words on the wall spattered with mud and grime from countless trips around the country. He looked down at the waxy yellow paper, crinkled so much that it was hard to write on.

Dean,

Well, it was a start. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he neglected to tell his brother before he burst out that molding motel door, slamming it shut behind him. He hadn't meant to leave without saying good-bye. Hell, he hadn't meant to leave at all, but in the heat of the moment, his feet took on a life of their own. They were the reason he walked out that door, and John's words had been loud and clear: "You walk out that door, don't you ever come back." With the coldest of ice lacing each syllable, like he darkest of times had fallen upon him, and this was the final hour. Life or death, Sammy, you want to go, you have to leave for good.

And as much as Sam wanted to blame his feet— those damned feet that walked him out of his family's life— he couldn't. He would be lying if he didn't admit that he knew this was going to happen. He would be kidding himself and everyone else if he claimed that he thought he was always going to stick with his family. It all hit Sam the second he turned to his brother, thinking there was going to be another fight, thinking that Dean was going to ask him to stay. The boy had looked him right in the eyes, green eyes saying everything that his brother wasn't. It wasn't that Dean didn't want him around. It was that he knew that he wouldn't always be there.

He clicked the pen.

I'm cold. Really, seriously cold. I'm in the back of a van that if I hadn't have smelled a dead body so many times in my life I would've thought someone had kicked the bucket back here. And I'm with the driver who could possibly be kidnapping me and trying to make me into his love slave. I'm cramped, and I'm tired, and I don't think I've eaten an actual meal since I left you guys behind. Plus there have been six people who have tried to beat the crap out of me in the past two days. But, Dean, I'm not coming back. Not for a warm motel room. Not for a good meal or a comfortable bed. Not for an apology or a nice word. I'm not meant to be there, Dean, you know it as well as I do.

I wasn't cut out for living like that; I never fit in with you guys. That was probably the hardest of it all. Not only was I an outcast at whatever school Dad found for us, whatever town we lodged ourselves in, I couldn't even connect with my own family anymore. I tried. I really did, but it's over. Even if I wanted to come back, I couldn't. I'm pretty sure by now that Dad never wants to see my face again.

I took Dad's tee shirt— that one with the dog on it that he wore twice since he bought it. I don't know why I took it. I think it's because it's his only piece of clothing that has been washed so little that it still feels like him— stiff but comfortable once you grin and bear it for a while. Either that or I grabbed it on accident. I took your jacket too— that wasn't an accident. You know that blue one that you always complained was too big on you? You told me once that I could have it, and I figured you'd kill me if I took your leather one, so I have this one. I don't know why I took this one either. It still smells like you, though. Like that nasty cologne that you always wore to the bars to find new girls. And like oil, the underside of the Impala. Sorry if you wanted to keep it.

So now I'm rambling, but I can't erase it, and I can't write a new letter. I don't have anything else to write on, so I'm just going to tell you what I wanted to say this whole time: you're my brother, Dean, and I would stick by you if I could. I'm going to miss you, and I'm not going to lie, this is going to hurt like hell, but I have to do it. I have to give this new life a chance. It was time for me to go, Dean. I think you know that too.

So I think I've crammed all that I can onto this hamburger wrapper. I love you, Dean. You're always going to be my big brother. I wish it didn't have to end up like this.

Love, Sammy

He folded it in half, now aware for the first time that he had no envelope. Sam clicked the pen shut, setting it on the cold floor beside him. Then he waited. For what, he had no idea. For an idea, perhaps, that could tell him what to do from here. For a sign that let him know that what he was doing was the right thing. He figured it out, though, the second the van was stopped for gas: he was looking for a break, just some time to enjoy being free.

He paid Greg the Van Driver fifty dollars for driving him the whole hour and a half, hitched his backpack over his shoulder, dug his hands into the pockets of Dean's blue jacket, and started off down the side of the highway with no idea in mind where he was going or even where he was. He didn't care. He just knew that he would get wherever he needed to be in time. There was always enough time to reach what you had been dreaming about your whole life. It had been eighteen years. A few more days wouldn't hurt him.

It would have been an eerie night had Sam been some other person, raised some other way. As it was, he had grown up running around graveyards on dark nights like this where a moist cold wind whipped through the bare trees all night long, casting stretching, wiggling shadows across cracked, faltering paths. The moon was a bright orb hanging high in the air, filling the earth with a pale marble-white glow, spreading a white blanket over the dark, silhouetted trees that lined the abandoned highway. He walked for an hour, maybe two. Sam didn't know the time, and he didn't bother to check. He walked more, until his feet hurt him, and then even longer. He had gotten to a new gas station over time, rivaling the moon's glow with its powerful fluorescent lights spilling out even onto the highway some fifteen feet away from the stop.

Sam tossed his backpack off his shoulder and let it drop on the ground. The weight was taken off his shoulders, though not entirely. He stretched his aching shoulders and bent over, unzipping the back and searching around inside until his hand grasped what he needed. It was a red plastic lighter that he had bought before a salt-and-burn at a Quick Trip in Indiana. It would have cost him ninety-five cents plus tax had Dean not thrown a package of Twinkies on the table before Sam said no. It took them six hours to dig the grave that night through the frozen ground with their palms sporting massive, shining blisters. Dean complained bitterly the whole time about how hungry he was, and Sam remained silent, praying with all his might that the whole nightmare would be over soon.

A week later was when he took his leave from the motel, turning his back on his family with no intent whatsoever to come back home.

Sam dug the McDonald's wrapper out of his jean pocket, smoothing it out with a glassy look to his hazel eyes. He blinked away whatever emotion he could feel at the moment and held the paper far out in the wind. Lighter in the other hand, he reached out, flicked the flame up, and watched the corner of the paper light up within seconds. As soon as the flare consumed enough paper, he let go, letting the letter float high through the air, spinning, twisting, flipping, as it smoldered away and flying like a burning beacon through the dark night sky.

It was the first but not the last letter that Sam Winchester wrote that he knew no one would ever read.

author's note: this was moved from another account!