I Wish I Was Your Brother

A/N: The first chapter in this series, "Love Letter" was originally supposed to be a one shot. But then came the follow up "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" and the whole issue of the correspondence between Sam and Dean took on a life of its own. So for everyone who requested it, here's part three in the story arc. I hope you enjoy it.

A/N: If you haven't already done so, I would definitely recommend reading the first two stories before this one.

A/N: Once again, thanks to my trusty beta Ericka Jane.


-EIGHT-

R.S.V.P

RSVP - an initialism derived from the French phrase répondez s'il vous plaît, which means "Please respond".

There was no surer way to guarantee a broken heart than to fall for Dean Winchester, and against my better judgement, I did just that.

I have no one but myself to blame for what happened. The fact is, when you introduce yourself to a man by beating him at pool, matching him shot for shot at the bar and then going back to his motel room for the grand finale, you can't really complain if he doesn't think you're wife material.

My mother had long since warned me about my approach to the opposite sex. I think I was about eighteen when she looked at me and said: "Sharlie-May Saunders, the way you throw it around no good man will want you, and all the bad ones have had you already."

She was hardly an example, either. She had saved everything for marriage, presenting herself to my father pure as the driven snow on their wedding night. Even with all that he'd run off and left her soon after I was born. So before I even got the concept of the birds and bees I understood that men were leavers. As a result, I always figured it was in my best interest to leave a man before he left me.

With this guiding philosophy men ended up being more like a sport than anything else. I liked the challenge of the chase; the thrill of the conquest and the confusion and bafflement on their faces when I dumped them. The players and the hot boys were my personal favourites followed by the wise guys who thought they were way ahead of the game.

Dean Winchester was all three rolled up in an exceptionally gorgeous package.

From our first encounter I sensed he'd be the ultimate challenge, and I looked forward to the satisfaction of this particular conquest. I made it a point to leave his motel room in the early hours of morning while he was sleeping off our drinking binge. Although part of me had wanted to linger, rest, and get up when he did, I was honour-bound to be the first to leave.

But the endless thrills of the previous night left me reluctant to sever ties so quickly. So before I went, I left my number on his nightstand. "It was definitely a night to remember,"I scribbled beneath the digits, "RSVP if you'd like to do it again".

Just over a week later he called. He said he was passing through town and he wouldn't mind some company. Again, we had an amazing time together; dinner, drinks, and lots of laughter. This time he stayed with me at my apartment leaving me no choice but to wake up beside him.

Over the next few months we slipped into a thoroughly enjoyable routine. I programmed my cell phone to play "RSVP" by Heart whenever he called and I can't deny that my pulse would race, just a little, when I heard the ringtone blaring from my handset. The sound of that song meant I'd get to see Dean soon and every time we set a date, I'd feel as buzzed as if I'd thrown back a dozen shots of Tequila.

Whenever Dean blew into town we would drink hard, party hard, and laugh constantly until he blew back out. Every goodbye was light and casual with an unspoken pact that even if we never saw each other again, it had been one hell of a joyride.

But how long can you be around someone whose presence makes your head feel light and whose touch leaves you dizzy, and keep resisting every form of attachment? For Dean the answer seemed to be indefinitely, for me it wasn't as simple.

I fought hard against my desire to have a deeper connection with him. It didn't make sense to even try when everything about this man seemed expressly designed to resist all forms of romantic commitment. When I tried, in various indirect ways, to reach out to him, he never reached back. Whenever I attempted to get past the "good time guy" facade I ran into an impenetrable brick wall. And any time I approached him on an emotional level he was unresponsive.

I realised I was falling for Dean when I started to feel a quiet inner desperation. That's when I started calling him instead of waiting for him to call me. That's when I started wondering where he was when he wasn't with me, and why so much time had to pass between his visits. That's when I stopped believing the stories about his job keeping him on the road and making his schedule so unpredictable. I became convinced there were other women out there who shared the same casual intimacy with him that I did.

Finally when he stayed away for three entire weeks claiming he had been working, and then he spent some time with an "old family friend", my temper got the better of me. He breezed in the way he usually did, dropped his bag on my living room floor, dropped a careless kiss on my lips, asked where we going tonight and I seethed.

"Where've you been?" I demanded, hands on my hips and fire in my eyes.

"I told you, I was visiting an old friend."

"And you couldn't call."

"I did."

"You called once to say you were going to see 'a friend' and you didn't know when you'd be back. You never said who or where."

"Do I usually?"

"No but I thought ..."

"You thought what? "

"Nothing."

"Hey," he said taking me by my shoulders so he could look straight at me. "This has never been an issue before."

Even without him saying it, I could hear the end of that sentence. Don't make it an issue now.

Stepping out of his grasp, I turned away to ensure there wasn't a trace of disappointment on my face. But I couldn't quite manage to quell the resentment.

"So how was your old friend?" I asked facing him and flashing a bitter fake smile. "Was shehappy to see you?"

"Very happy," Dean said pointedly. "Middle-aged, surrogate uncles are usually ecstatic when you drop by."

"And I look like I was born yesterday, right?"

"Don't give me grief, ok? I've been on the road for hours and I'm exhausted, so if all you wanna do is argue I can just get back in the car, and keep driving."

"Sure," I said even as my stomach lurched at the realisation that it would take nothing for him to walk out. "Straight on to the next town, the next girl, and the next bed, right?"

"Is thatwhat this is about?" Dean sneered dismissively. "Sharlie, you need to reign in your over-active imagination."

"Don't treat me like I'm some hysterical schoolgirl, Dean. I haven't seen you for three whole weeks and then you just show up here with no explanation."

"When the hell did I need to start explaining anything to you, Sharlie?" he shouted making the room reverberate with his anger. "When did you start making demands?"

"This isn't a flop house!" I matched him with both volume and fury. "And you can take your temper and your bad attitude to whichever other woman you have who you can hole-up with on the road."

Rage burned in his eyes so much so that I thought it would blaze up and scorch me. He stormed out of my apartment slamming the door so hard it seemed the entire building shook to its foundation. Blind with anger I reached for nearest glass object and flung it against the wall. Then I saw Dean's bag and attacked it, kicking the worn duffle several times before I ripped it opened and started dumping the contents on the floor.

Enraged and embittered I dug through his things determined to find evidence that there was another woman, if not several. I figured I was hot on the trail when I discovered a battered leather binder but when I opened it I saw strange scribbling and drawings that I couldn't understand. Confused, I flipped through the pages then I found a crisp white envelope thick with paper, but not sealed. I pulled out the sheets and saw it was a handwritten letter and since it was in plain English, I began to read.

Dear Sammy,

I swear the only person on the planet who can get me to do something this lame is you.

Yes, little brother, I got your letter. And as loathed as I am to admit it, when I read it, I knew I'd have to reply.

You probably won't remember, but the year I turned fourteen - when we spent most of the summer at Bobby's - my summer fling, Cindy Newton, accused me of breaking her heart when we had to hit the road again. I thought she was kinda silly to have put herself in a position where I could have done that in the first place and so deep down, I wasn't particularly sympathetic.

Well, the day you left for Stanford without saying goodbye, I think Cindy Newton was somewhere saying "vengeance is mine." And me, I was left with the realisation that a broken heart doesn't necessarily have to do with anything romantic. It's when someone you figure you can't live without essentially says they can do just fine without you.

I thought that was what you were saying when you went away. And you know me, I can deal with practically anything, but I found I just couldn't handle that.

When I accepted that you were really gone, I knew I was gonna miss you like hell. But nothing prepared me for how empty I felt being without my annoying, pain in the butt, geek brother.

You've always bugged the hell out of me but it's just been so hard not having you around. I keep expecting you to come through the door and start talking to me about some useless historical information you've discovered, or some boring book you're reading. I keep expecting to get one of your silly 'just because' text messages. The kind that always made me roll my eyes but to be honest, kinda made me happy, too.The kind that say nothing but say everything.

As pathetic as it sounds, it's those girlie, nerdy things you used to do that always reminded me that I wasn't alone in this messed up world. Without saying a word you constantly found a way to tell me that no matter how bad things got, I'd always have my little brother and somehow Sam, you were always enough.

You were enough to get me through the times when I missed Mom or when I was worried about Dad. Or when Dad was mad at me, or worse, disappointed with something I did or didn't do.

When you were little you'd crawl into my lap, reach for my hand, or lift your arms for me to pick you up and no matter what was happening, I'd instantly feel better. Then when you got older you'd always want to talk and you'd need me to listen, and being there for you reminded me why I was here in the first place. And sometimes, it was when you didn't say a thing. You'd just sit beside me or ride shotgun with me and you'd seem happy to just be there, and that always made me feel special.

And trust me as soon as I got over being mad as hell with you for leaving, I really planned to be proud of you for having the courage to strike out on your own. I'm sorry that I never got a chance to congratulate you for being brilliant enough to get the taxpayers to foot the bill for your high priced college education. And the next time I see you, I have to buy you a drink, but that's after I kick your butt for being pigheaded, stubborn, and infuriating enough to actually get up and go.

I'm also gonna kick your butt for making me cry when I read your letter. And I'll kick it again if you ever repeat that to anyone living or dead.

On top of that, I'm gonna beat the crap out of you because everything you wrote made me feel like a damn hypocrite. Sure I raised you to be independent but that really didn't mean that you were actually supposed to be able to live without your big brother. I'm happy that you think I helped you to find the courage to go after what you want, but it killed me to have to let you go. And of course, like the awesome big brother I am, I taught you how to be a man, but I wasn't prepared for you to grow up so fast.

The thing is, everything about the way you left for Stanford just said you didn't need me anymore. It was easier to be mad as hell at you for that rather than admit that it hurt me so much, I wanted to cry like a kid who had been by-passed by Santa on Christmas Day.

And call me selfish but your letter, which essentially said in so many ways you're still a freaking baby, was kinda heart-warming to read. I guess it's good to know I'm not the only one suffering from this stupid separation anxiety.

I'm really grateful for all you said in your letter but don't think that because I'm the big brother, I haven't learned a few things from you too.

Sam, because of you I know that it's possible to love someone more than your own life, and when it's reciprocal it's something that can get you through the worse times.

You taught me that hugs aren't bad, in fact, when you get over feeling awkward for acting like a ten year old girl, they're OK. Talking is OK too. But what's really special is realising that there's someone who will listen no matter where the hell you are, or what time of day it is when the words decide to come pouring out in spite of all you've done to hold them back. You're that someone for me.

You've also helped me to see that trust is rare and priceless and so are the people who earn it. And when you find someone you trust with your life, you don't think twice about doing anything for them. And on that note, in case you didn't know, let me tell you that there really isn't anything that I wouldn't do for you, Sammy.

And one last thing – because this really is going on too long – most kids that go off to college know they always have a home to go back to. Don't feel for one minute that you're any different. I'll always be here for you, so if you ever feel 'homesick' just pick up the phone and give me a call. And if you need something, and I mean anything, don't even think twice about asking.

I know you don't have a picket fence or even a fixed address but you do have a big brother who loves you more than anything, and that's something you can always go back to any time you like. So call me whenever you wanna come home.

Love,

Dean.

As I had read each word the anger that had boiled my blood dissipated leaving me feeling empty and exhausted. Who the hell was the man who had written this and why was it that he never showed himself to me? I would have been ecstatic if Dean had even sent me a text message expressing even a fraction of this kind of love and devotion.

Tears welled up in my eyes but I blinked hard to keep them back. I'd been intimate with Dean for months and I'd never seen this side of him. Of course I'd figured out that the whole "to hell with it all" attitude was one big front; but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the depth of sensitivity and emotion that it was covering up.

"What the hell are you doing?"

My heart stopped when I heard Dean's furious voice behind me. I swallowed hard as my breath caught in my throat. My head felt so light I figured it had disconnected from my body and floated upwards like a helium balloon. Shaking, I rose to my feet to face his fury.

Long after I'm dead and buried, I think I'll still feel the abject shame I felt standing there with that letter in my hand while Dean stared at me, enraged to the point of murder.

It didn't make sense to lie or even try to save face now.

"I was looking for evidence," I admitted.

"Of what? " Dean demanded, obviously restraining himself from giving full vent to his anger and killing me.

"Of the fact that you're seeing someone else."

"And if you'd found it?" He was keeping his rage on a leash, but I wasn't sure how much longer he could restrain it.

"Then it would have been better," I said softly, suddenly feeling very small and inferior.

"Excuse me?"

"It would have been better to believe that the impression you try so hard to give me is true, Dean. It would have been easier for me if I had found proof that you're a heartless flirt incapable of any real commitment or any deep emotion. But instead, I have confirmation."

"Confirmation of what?"

"That it's not that you can't feel deeply, it's that you won't let yourself. And whatever I am to you, it's not enough to change your mind on that."

"Sharlie," he was backing down from his anger and backing away from my quiet confrontation. "Is this about to get complicated?"

"No," I said trying hard to mask the hurt that he didn't even think what we had was worth arguing over. "It's just that..."

"What?"

"How comes I never get this from you?" I asked shaking the letter at him.

He snatched the papers out of my hand.

"Get what?"

"Tenderness," I said, hating myself for being weak enough to admit I needed it. "Nurturing, protectiveness..." but I stopped just before I said "love".

"He's my little brother," he said as if that explained everything. "It's completely different."

"No it isn't," I insisted. I knew I should just shut my damn mouth and not give myself away, but still I pressed the issue. "We've been together for a while now and I had no idea you were even capable of caring this deeply about anyone."

"You don't understand. Since he was six months old he's been the most important person in my life."

"So you just shut everyone else out? Or is it just me?"

"Look it's a really long and complicated story."

"One you have no intention of sharing with me, right?"

"None of it matters now."

"No, Dean. From the tone of that letter I'd say your brother is all that does matter."

"Yeah, well he's my flesh and blood. It's not like he's some girl I..."

"You what Dean? You picked up in a bar? You pop in on every now and again when you're in the mood for a roll in the hay?"

"That's not what I'm saying, Sharlie. Don't make this into anything more than it is."

"Well, that's a loaded statement if ever there was one," I tried to sound dismissive, unaffected. "So it is me then."

"No, it's not. It's me. I don't do long term and I've always been up front about that."

"You mean you won'tdo long term. Why?"

"I'm just not in a position to make that kind of commitment."

"Well not to a girl like me anyway."

"Not to anyone."

"Except your brother."

"He's different. He's family."

"It's not just about family. You obviously can't help yourself when it comes to him. Is it because he's been around so long he managed to get close before all those walls came up?"

The bright red flush belied anything he could say in denial.

"Sharlie, don't."

"Or is that he's the only one you'll ever let in?"

Even without him uttering a single word the violent clench of his jaw spoke volumes.

I was intruding not just in his life but on his heart. This was a place in his emotions and affection that clearly I had no business venturing into. I was trespassing into sacred territory where I was neither needed nor wanted.

"He's my brother. I've taken care of him all his life. I can't explain it, Sharlie, but he's the only person I can honestly say I'll love for the rest of my life."

I blew out hard. It wasn't just the words it was the way he said them and the look on his face that confirmed that this was a love that would probably last longer than his life. And in the face of that love I felt small, insignificant, undeserving. Who was I to ever think that some nights of fun and excitement would ever put me in that category?

"You're right," I sighed. "He's not just some girl you picked up in a bar."

"Sharlie."

"I know what I am, Dean, and what's more; I know what I am to you."

"Don't sell yourself short." He came close and ran his fingers gently down my cheek.

I stepped back from the touch. I didn't know if it was pity or passion and I wanted neither. What I did want, I discovered much to my own distress, was love. The deep, boundless devotion that was so clearly expressed in that letter. The care and the compassion that he worked so hard to suppress but was obviously a big part of who he was.

But it was plain as day that none of that was forthcoming and I had already given too much of myself away.

He's just a man, I reminded myself as I stepped back, putting some very necessary space in between us. He's as infinitely replaceable as all the rest of them you've ever tossed aside.

I steeled myself and faced him knowing that I probably couldn't make it all the way back to casual and flirtatious, but I'd be damned if I let him know he'd hurt my heart, and I'd slit my wrists before I let him see me cry.

"Look," I said dismissively, "This is all getting too heavy and deep. Why don't I just fix you something to eat and you can get some sleep before you hit the road in the morning."

"You don't have to do that. I'll get a motel room and just grab something to eat on the road."

"Don't go, Dean. Just stay the night and then you can get an early start tomorrow."

"Sharlie, you don't have to do this."

But I did. Dean Winchester was the only man I'd ever come close to even thinking that I loved, and at some level I needed it to end on a dignified note. I didn't want my last memory to be of him leaving in the dead of night after the fight in which he essentially told me that none of what I felt for him was mutual.

"Come on, Dean," with much effort the casual, easy tone was seeping back into my voice. "This is the least I can do for a friend."

I headed to the kitchen and started reaching for pots and ingredients. I had to do something to prove that I was O.K.

"Thanks. I can just crash on the couch if you like."

"Dean," I cut him off with a dismissive wave of a wooden spoon. "We're adults. We can share a bed and sleep."

That's exactly what we did and he drifted off into a blissful slumber while I lay awake beside him for hours. When I did manage to doze off I awoke soon after and found myself clinging to a still sleeping Dean, who had turned his back to me.

In all the time we had been together, no matter how closely he held me when we fell asleep, I always woke up to find that at some point in the night he'd turned away, but I'd kept holding on.

Tonight, I decided to let go.

I pulled away from him, turned in the opposite direction and moments later I was asleep again.

In the morning, I offered to make Dean breakfast before he left, but he refused not wanting to drag out the farewell scene. Dinner had been the last supper and we both knew it.

I got up and made myself busy straightening things that weren't out of place so I didn't have to watch him pack his things for the last time. My stomach quivered with distress and my heart ached with regret, but I didn't cry.

When he zipped his duffle, shouldered it and headed for the door, my throat constricted, painfully and but, I didn't cry.

My eyes stung and I struggled to control my breathing as hurt overwhelmed me when he said goodbye, but still, I didn't cry.

I kissed him lightly on the cheek, told him to take care of himself, watched as he turned to walk away and then I stopped him.

"Wait," I said suddenly.

Dean stopped and looked back questioningly. I went quickly to my handbag and dug around in it. When I found what I was looking for I took it back to Dean.

"Here," I handed him a small packet wrapped in cellophane.

"What is it?" he asked, reaching out hesitantly.

"Stamps." I told him.

His eyes clouded momentarily but he kept his emotions in check. His determination to be reserved strengthened my own resolve not to give anything else away.

When he reached out to accept my offering his hand lingered on mine. "Thanks," he whispered.

I pulled my hand away and stepped backwards almost immediately.

I closed the door quickly, putting a physical barrier between us to cement the emotional one.

I walked over to the couch and lay down.

I pulled my knees protectively to my chest and held on tight.

And then, I cried.

THE END

Thanks for reading. There's more where this came from. Keep watching this space.