A Letter from Home

Disclaimer: Neither Dean nor Supernatural are in anyway mine (unfortunately) – see E. Kripke for ownership details.

Summary: Dean writes a letter to Sam, after he receives the last letter from Sam and after he has realised John has gone missing.

Rating: some mild cursing

Author's Note: Advance apologies continue. Dean in small pieces now, well and truly broken – repair kit on the way in next chapter. Will you stick with me a little longer? Please review and let me know!

Sam,

I get it. You and Dad are alike in more ways than either of you imagine. What am I to either of you? I get that now too. Once I've outlived my usefulness to both of you, you move on and leave me behind.

I thought it was different. I thought we were brothers. I thought it meant something. But hey, what do you know I was wrong. So I just need to 'get my act together' is that right? What exactly is going to happen then, Sam? What kind of job is going to fall into my lap? Who would want to employ someone like me, someone with no job skills, no people skills and no home? You can't even tell your friends about me because I'm an embarrassment so what makes you think someone is going to give me a job and that I'll become socially acceptable all of a sudden. I wouldn't even know where to start – this is my life Sam. You want me to throw it all away. I actually do some good here you know. I protect people; I get rid of the evil things that people don't even know about. I stop people getting hurt and killed – there is a value in that even if you can't see it anymore and even if it doesn't fit in with your view of the world – you can't deny it exists because you have seen it, hell, you might not like to admit it but you've lived it.

You know what, I thought my life sucked when you left. I was lost without you here to look after. It took me ages to adjust to us not being 'Sam and Dean' anymore and it just being me, 'just Dean'. That's what Dad would say to people when they asked if he was bringing 'his boys' with him, he'd answer, 'No, just Dean.' I was only important when it was 'Sam and Dean' when I was part of something that mattered.

Dad started sending me on jobs on my own and I found it hard. I've found it hard ever since. I lost faith. I knew it was the right job, I just didn't think I was the right person for it anymore. I looked for other jobs then, but what can I do? I'm not like you Sammy, I'm not clever, I'm not easy to get along with, I'm not even a good person. You despise me, you've never actually come out and said it but I heard it for ages before you left – all the credit card scams, the hustling, the living in motels – I don't blame you for wanting to get away from it all. I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to me when I used to phone, for never wanting to come back but just put yourself into my shoes, imagine how I feel. I'm trapped Sammy and I don't know how to get out. I don't know how to 'get my act together'.

Things have got worse over the last couple of years between Dad and me too. I never realised how much I relied on you for companionship, friendship, someone to pass the time of day with. Unlike you, I stopped making friends at school because I never had the time to spend with them and it didn't seem worth it when we were going to move on again so soon. You never stopped did you? You were always optimistic that 'this time' would be different; we would stay long enough to make it worth the effort. I always admired that about you. If I'd have had friends, it would have been harder to do the things you wanted to do, harder to take you to the places you wanted to go. I liked it, making you happy when you were small. It was the small things that did it, not the big ones; the trips to the park, the ball games, the sneaking you to see your friends. I couldn't have done that for you, if I'd hung out with people my age. It was worth it though, it was something I could do for you, something 'normal', something to help you fit in so you didn't have to be just like Dad and me. I never realised it was what would tear us apart in the end.

Never one for much conversation was he? I remember a time when Mom was still alive and he had time to talk, time to spend with me, with you, with Mom, time when we used to have fun together, all of us. I look at him now and don't see that man there anymore. He and I sit at tables in diners and eat in silence. The only time we talk about anything now is when I tell him how the last job I did went or he tells me what I did wrong, how I should have dealt with it. The only other conversations we have are about where I need to go next. He doesn't tell me about his jobs much, snippets every now and again. The only time he gets 'talkative' is a brief period when he's on his way to getting drunk, just before he shuts down completely. Then he talks about you and about Mom and about how things were before and about how you've done well for yourself getting into Stanford, studying, how even though we moved so often you did so well in school. Not me, never mentions anything I did well. Never says I did well helping you, looking after you when he was away, never says I do well on the jobs I do for him.

Well, now he's gone, he's left me, like you left me, like Mom left us. Only Mom didn't have a choice or not the same sort of choice. I can understand it now, how she chose to save her family by letting the demon take her. I don't understand you and Dad though, why you both had to leave me behind so completely. Tell me, what is it that I need to do for you to put it right? Where should I have chosen differently? What should I do now?

Dad's been missing at least two weeks. I don't know for sure. He sent me off on a job which took almost a fortnight, when I got back he'd gone, no message, nothing. I hadn't heard from him in all the time I was gone. I've spent all the time since I got back trying to work out where he might be. I phoned all the contacts I can think of, have been to all the places he mentioned when I last saw him. I've phoned hospitals and checked newspapers. I've even been to a couple of morgues when I saw things in the papers about unidentified dead bodies of the right sort of age. I can't explain to you the dread that runs through me in those places in case it really is Dad this time. More than three weeks and nothing, I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this looking for him.

If I don't find him by the end of the week, then I'm sorry Sammy, but I'm coming to find you. I need your help to find him. I can't keep going on my own. I'm sorry.

Dean