Disclaimer: Ha! I won't say anything... what're you gonna do now huh?

A/N: Alright people... deep breaths... it's time again. A death fic is here. It's the last one that I have, so you have the knowledge of knowing that there will be no more. I realized something as I was getting ready to post this... this one shot might give something away about me... but we'll see if anyone notices.
Ok, so a huge thanks to Dawn N for all of the one shot ideas! I've copied them all down and am so excited to start working on them! Anyone else who has ideas; feel free! Well... read on--

Title: The Letter
Genre: Angst... lots of angst...
Summary: At the hotel one evening Dean writes a letter to Sam while the brothers try and relax after a hard hunt...

The Letter

Dear Sam,

Dear is such a fricken annoying thing to write at the beginning of a letter, and yet I'm using it anyways. I mean, it's not like someone starts talking to a person by saying 'Dear whoever, how was your day…', they'd get punched. At least I'd cream them-- keep that in mind little brother. I do have a point to this letter though-- I need to tell you something.

"Dean!" Sam's voice caused Dean to jump and he inconspicuously hid the paper he'd been writing on.

"Yeah?" Dean cleared his throat, and pretended he was looking at the paper that was laid out on the bed in front of him.

Sam eyed his brother suspiciously, "Is there something wrong?"

"No," Dean shook his head, "I was just looking for any gigs around here. What did you want?"

"Umm," Sam smiled, knowing his brother was a horrible liar, "I was just wondering if you had to go to the bathroom? I was going to jump into the shower."

"No, I'm good. Go wash up princess," Dean smirked.

Sam mumbled some inaudible cuss words at Dean as he grabbed a small bag and headed into the bathroom. The hotel room they were staying in was smaller than usual, and Dean could easily hear as his brother started up the shower.

'He deserves a nice relaxing shower,' Dean thought, 'After what happened in Middleton.'

The battle was tough. The Winchester brothers went in with no clue what would happen, and left with even less of a clue of what did happen. Dean was the first to get knocked out by the demon that was attacking children in an orphanage, and by the time he regained consciousness it was just in time to see his little brother be flung across the room, and the torturous thing to disappear into nothing. It was at that instant that Dean knew that there was something terribly wrong.

The constant sound of the shower going let Dean know that it was safe to write again.

Do you remember when you were about six and asked what happened to Mom? God, I do-- you came home from school that day in tears because some kid was making fun of you for not having a Mom. I beat the crap out of him the next day. Damn… you were so upset about the things he said Sam. You didn't understand-- Dad hadn't had the 'talk' with you yet.

I had always wondered if it was better before or after you found out about all the crap in the world. That day showed me that knowledge was better than ignorance as Dad told you some BS story about Mom having died in a fire. You cried for a week Kid. I tried to help, but I was only ten and had just found out about the things that go bump in the night. But do you remember what really did help? --

"Ok, I swear to God I am going to get fricken bells for you," Dean shot out as Sam suddenly seemed to appear in front of Dean, "I thought you were having a shower."

"I did," Sam casually said sitting on the end of the bed, "You've been writing the whole time. What is that-- a love letter?"

"No Sammy, it's a letter to Santa Claus," Dean smirked, "I've killed a lot of things, but I'm still a good kid, I promise, and I have to tell him that."

Sam laughed, "You're ridiculous."

"And hungry," Dean put in, "Go grab something to eat. There's a place just on the corner."

Sam slipped on his jacket gracefully, "I need some money."

"By my jacket," Dean called out, looking deeply into the paper he was using as a feeble alibi.

Sam picked up Dean's wallet and, giving one last look at Dean, headed out the front door. Dean felt momentarily guilty about not offering to get the food, or at least giving Sam the keys to the car, but then realized how much Sam loved walking. Besides which, it would give him more time to write.

I told you that Mom went to Heaven. Dad hated that theory-- he forever wanted to believe that maybe she was a spirit here on Earth, ready to help us and protect us. I promised him that I'd tell you the 'truth' when you got older, but the Mom in Heaven theory stopped your tears. It was great-- your ignorance on death. But it worked. I kept the pain from you if for even another couple of years.

Years is good. But sometimes all a person needs is a couple of hours. Remember Bubbles? You begged Dad for a fish forever. For Christmas one year I got you it, and though Dad was pissed, not even he could deny how happy that damn thing made you. You fed him everyday, and paid me a nickel when you went to Jackie's house to read it a story before bed. Sorry Sam, I never did do that; thanks for the nickel though. But then one day that damn thing died. I found it in the morning floating somewhere between the rubber duck you dropped in the tank for 'company', and the extra food you gave Bubbles because 'it was winter, and they need more food'. So I took you down to the basement without letting you see the fish, and we talked about the stupid fish like it was your best friend. You got to say goodbye to it, even though I'm pretty sure you knew it was dead. You always were smart that way (the fact that we could hear Dad chucking out the fish upstairs didn't help).

A couple of hours of ignorance. A split moment that you can pretend that the world is great and normal. That Bubbles really didn't die from a giant plastic duck. That Mom didn't die from a demon when you were six months old. That--

Dean looked up with a small, sad smile on his lips, and glanced around the room. The hotel room they were staying in was smaller than usual, and Dean could easily hear as his brother started up the shower. Or could he?

Sam's jacket lay bloodstained on the table.

Dean's wallet was untouched by his own jacket; fifteen dollars and thirty-two cents sitting in it.

--That sometimes a person has to leave the blissful ignorance and say it.

Good bye Sammy.

Love Dean.

The End