#(.letters)

livie,

first of all, that magnet was ugly.

i’m saying this because i know you’re gonna find this tucked behind it and immediately act offended, even though you knew it was ugly when you bought it. don’t start. you stood in that roadside gift shop with your long brown hair all messy from the open car window, holding up a butter-yellow cow magnet with sunglasses on, and you looked me dead in the eye like it was a serious cultural artifact.

“we need it,” you said.

“we absolutely do not.”

“dean, look at her.”

“i’m looking. that’s the problem.”

then you bought it anyway, because apparently you had a personal mission that summer to fill my life with things i complained about and secretly kept. worked, by the way. congratulations. the cow is still on the fridge. smug little bastard.

i don’t know when the summer started feeling less like a job and more like something i’d end up writing about like a sap, but i know it wasn’t peaceful at first. you were too pretty for my sanity and too bossy with the road map, which is a dangerous combination. you climbed into the impala with iced coffee in one hand, your phone in the other, already telling me which route was “actually better” because you’d checked traffic, weather, road closures, and probably the moon phase. meanwhile, i had a perfectly good plan, which was drive.

you hated that.

i liked that you hated that.

not in a weird way. okay, maybe a little in a weird way. you’d sit there in the passenger seat, curvy and cute and pretending not to know exactly how distracting you were, tapping the screen with this little serious crease between your eyebrows. brown eyes focused. mouth running. playlist queued. and god forbid i try to touch the radio, because your playlist was sacred sounds.

“liv, this is my car.”

“and yet somehow she sounds better when i’m in charge.”

sam laughed from the backseat. traitor.

you were openly flirty in a way that made me want to drive straight into a ditch. the worst part was that half the time you didn’t even seem to realize you were doing it. you’d call me charming with this bright little grin, then immediately argue with me about sunscreen or directions or why i was “walking like that.”

“like what?”

“bowlegged.”

“that’s called swagger.”

“that’s called needing a chiropractor.”

and then you’d smile at me like i was the ridiculous one.

you were trouble. soft trouble, but trouble. the kind that laughs with her whole face. the kind that can’t swim but still wants to be in the water because self-preservation is optional when the night is warm. the kind that says she never burns and then, two hours later, has pink shoulders and a very quiet expression because consequences have arrived and they are not taking apologies.

i didn’t say i told you so. i want credit for that. i got the aloe from the nearest pharmacy and pretended it was no big deal, even though you looked at me differently when i handed it to you. and that got under my skin more than the flirting did somehow. flirting i could handle. flirting was easy. you’d tease me, i’d tease you harder, we’d both act like the air hadn’t gone weird between us. but when you looked at me like i’d done something sweet just because i remembered you were hurting, i didn’t know where to put myself.

so i made a joke.

obviously.

“next time, listen to the handsome professional.”

“the handsome professional who forgot sunscreen too?”

“different situation.”

“your nose is red.”

“my nose is heroic.”

you laughed so hard, and i remember thinking that was a sound i could get stupid about. really stupid. not hunter stupid. not curse-of-the-week stupid. worse. domestic stupid.

the cottage didn’t help.

whoever rented us that place clearly thought “countryside charm” meant low ceilings, old floorboards, and one bathroom door that only locked if you threatened it. but you loved it. you loved the overgrown garden and the little kitchen with the chipped mugs. you loved the porch at night when the air finally cooled down and the whole place stopped smelling like hot grass and started smelling like rain, even when it didn’t rain. your hair would go all wavy from the humidity, and you’d tuck your legs under you in the chair, talking about nothing and everything until sam would yawn his way inside and leave us alone.

subtle guy, my brother.

one night, after the car broke down about ten miles from the cottage, you sat in the shade on the side of the road while i tried to fix it and sam handed me tools with his long-suffering face. you weren’t useless about it, don’t get that look. you were emotional support. very dedicated. very annoying.

“you’re doing amazing,” you mocked.

“i’m covered in grease.”

“still amazing.”

“you don’t even know what i’m doing.”

“no, but you look confident, and that feels important.”

sam snorted. i told him to shut up.

you had this way of making disaster feel less ugly. not fixed, exactly. just lighter. you made me laugh when i was two seconds from throwing a wrench into a field. you made sam relax when he started doing that forehead thing. you made the whole stupid summer feel like maybe the world could break down and we’d still be okay for a while, as long as you were there in the shade, offering snacks and moral support like some dangerously cute roadside angel.

don’t get cocky. i said dangerously cute, not perfect.

you snored once. tiny snore. barely anything. still happened.

the fair was where i knew i was in deep. not that i admitted it. please. i’m not sam. i don’t sit around naming emotions. but there you were under all those little lights, wearing that polka dot yellow dress that made you look warm enough to ruin me, eating fried dough and pretending you weren’t trying to win me a stuffed duck.

you were terrible at the game. awful. beautifully, tragically awful.

“the bottles are rigged,” you said.

“sure they are, sweetheart.”

“don’t sweetheart me. win me the duck.”

so i did, because i’m a hero, and because you looked too pleased when i handed it over. you hugged that cheap stuffed duck to your chest like i’d given you diamonds, and then you kissed its stupid little head just to mess with me.

“jealous?” you asked.

“of a duck? no.”

“you paused.”

“i was thinking.”

“about being jealous of a duck?”

i should’ve kissed you then. probably. but i was standing there with powdered sugar on my shirt, realizing the girl i’ve been bickering with all summer has somehow become the person i look for first in every room. so instead of doing anything mature, i stole a piece of your fried dough and let you yell at me.

romance.

real classy stuff.

the first kiss happened later, in the pool behind the cottage, after everybody else had gone inside. technically, we weren’t supposed to be in there after dark. technically, you can’t swim. technically, you were clinging to the shallow-end wall and acting incredibly brave for someone whose feet were very much touching the bottom.

“i’m in the water,” you said.

“you’re standing.”

“in the water.”

“proud of you, michael phelps.”

you splashed me. terrible mistake. i splashed you back, and you shrieked so loud i’m surprised sam didn’t come out with a gun. then you tried to escape, slipped a little, and grabbed my shoulders with both hands. that shut both of us up pretty fast.

you were close. wet hair sticking to your cheek, lashes dark, mouth open because you were still half-laughing. my hands went to your waist before i could talk myself out of it, and you didn’t move away. you just looked at me, all flushed and smug and nervous, like you’d finally realized what game we’d been playing and decided you wanted to win.

“dean,” you said.

i remember that. not what i said back, because i’m pretty sure it was nothing smart. maybe “yeah.” maybe your name. maybe some useless sound from a man whose brain had packed a bag and left.

then you kissed me. or i kissed you. honestly, i’m still willing to argue about this. you leaned in first. i did the work. dream team.

it was ridiculous. sweet, and wet, and messy because you started giggling halfway through, which made me laugh too, which made it almost impossible to kiss you properly. almost. you had your arms around my neck and my hands at your waist, keeping you steady in the water, and every time you tried to pull back, you didn’t get very far.

“you’re smiling,” i said against your mouth.

“so are you.”

“no, i’m not.”

“liar.”

yeah. maybe.

after that, leaving got complicated. not physically. bags are bags. roads are roads. i’ve left places my whole life. i know how to do it. i know how to toss things in the trunk and pretend my chest isn’t doing something weird. but that last morning, you stood in the cottage kitchen in one of those soft little tops, holding the ugly cow magnet in your hand, and you looked too quiet.

i hated that.

you stuck it on the fridge and said, “for whoever comes next.”

i said, “absolutely not.”

you blinked at me. “what?”

“we’re not donating art to strangers.”

“you called it ugly.”

“it’s our ugly.”

there. that was the part where i should’ve played it cool, but apparently i had reached my yearly limit. your face changed, and i swear, livie, i almost died right there between the fridge and the sink. you looked hopeful in a way that made me want to be better. or at least honest. honest-ish.

“so what?” you asked, all careful. “you’re stealing the magnet?”

“yeah,” i said. “and you.”

you laughed, because you thought i was joking.

i wasn’t.

i tried to leave that day. really gave it my best shot. got in the car, started the engine, watched you on the porch with your hair moving in the breeze and that duck under your arm because you are impossible. made it about twenty feet down the road before i stopped.

sam didn’t even look up from his book. just said, “finally.”

i’m not saying you were right about us. i’m not saying the playlist was objectively good. i’m not saying the cow magnet has grown on me.

but i’m saying it’s still on my fridge.

and every time i see that ugly little thing, i think about late-night air, your iced coffee, your laugh in the pool, and the summer i tried to drive away from you and couldn’t even make it past the parking lot.

My dearest [Name],

If you’ve found this letter I’m most likely dead because of my endeavours.

Nonetheless in this box there are about a years worth of letters, one per day. I wrote these hoping you’ll never forget about me, or the memories we made together.

In my will I’m sure you know that you’ll get everything, and will become the head of the Ragnvindr clan. And I’m truly sorry for putting such heavy burdens on you, but your the person I trust most, I’m the one who gave that ring right? I’m sorry if the pages suffer some water damage, writing these makes me hope that you will never have to read these letters. But you can only delay the inevitable for so long.

With love, Diluc.

— <3 —

Dearest [Name],

Happy birthday. I hope Adelinde and Elzer have been patient with you since my departure. I’m impressed you have been reading through these letters. You’re doing great my love, I wish you all the luck and happiness in this world. What have you been up to lately? Maybe you’ve taken up a hobby? Maybe you’ve been drowning yourself in work? If so please take break, for yourself. I do not hope to see you in the afterlife so soon.

Happy birthday again, I love you to Celestia and back

Love, Diluc.

— <3 —

EDIT - Rewritten a lil bit.

you bought it because it was ridiculous.

you said ridiculous things deserved homes too, then looked at me like you had accidentally said something too sincere and immediately covered it by asking if i planned to stare at it all day or pay the woman at the counter.

that was you all over that summer. soft thing first, joke second. truth slipped out, then hid behind a laugh.

i think i wanted to learn you from the beginning.

you came into that sleepy seaside town like you were trying not to take up too much room, which was funny, because everything about you made people look twice. your locs, your piercings, the tattoos that showed when your oversized band shirts shifted in the heat, your long nails tapping against your phone while you checked the route like the entire trip would collapse without you. you dressed for comfort most days, baggy jeans and loose comic book tees, sneakers kicked off in the motel room, but sometimes you’d decide to be fancy, and the lashes came out, and the curls, and dean would pretend not to notice how fast i forgot what i was saying.

he noticed. he made it everyone’s problem.

the case was supposed to be quick. a few drownings blamed on tides, whispers about something moving near the old motel pool after midnight, the usual local “don’t go there after dark” story that always means we absolutely have to go there after dark. you were supposed to help with research for one afternoon. instead, you ended up staying the whole week because the town library had terrible records, the motel had cheap weekly rates, and you kept finding connections nobody else caught.

you said you were “just good at puzzles.” you were. not only the kind spread across tables, either, though i remember you sitting cross-legged on the motel carpet with little cardboard pieces scattered around your knees, trying to finish some ocean scene while dean kept stealing edge pieces because he has the maturity of a haunted raccoon. you were good at people too. patterns. moods. the exact second a room shifted. you acted reserved at first, careful with your face, careful with your voice, as if your real personality was something people had to earn.

then you got comfortable.

and god, tee, you were funny. loud in the best way. silly. quick. always laughing once you trusted us enough to let the sound out. you had this way of flirting without realizing you were doing it, leaning over my shoulder to read my notes, stealing my pen, calling me “book boy” like it was an insult even though you smiled every time. then i’d look at you too long, and you’d suddenly get very interested in your water bottle.

you were responsible about water, by the way. aggressively responsible.

every morning before the heat got ugly, you lined bottles on the motel dresser like supplies for a field mission. sunscreen, water, notes, snacks. in that order. you reminded everyone to reapply, and i learned pretty quickly that this wasn’t optional. you were careful with yourself in a way that looked practical but felt intimate when you turned that care on someone else. no rushing. no forgetting. no “you’ll be fine.”

i liked that about you.

i liked watching your long nails click against the sunscreen cap. i liked the little frown you got when you were making sure you hadn’t missed a spot. liked that you would bully me into eating something when i got buried in research, then act as if you weren’t doing anything sweet.

“sam,” you said once, setting a sandwich on top of my notes.

“i’m working.”

“you’re squinting at paper.”

“i’ll eat in a minute.”

“you’ll eat now, tall man, or i’m telling dean you skipped lunch.”

i ate. obviously.

the road trip didn’t help. you planned the route carefully, had every stop marked, every gas station checked, every backup option ready. then you acted easygoing about music while silently judging every single song dean picked. you didn’t have to say anything. your face said plenty. once, when dean put on something loud and smug at seven in the morning, your eyes flicked to the radio, then to me, and i almost choked on my coffee.

“what?” dean asked.

you smiled sweetly. “nothing.”

that smile was dangerous.

when the car broke down outside a bait shop with a sun-bleached shark painted on the wall, you were the first one out after dean. phone already in your hand, locs pulled back, sunlight catching on your piercings while you searched for solutions and read instructions aloud in the calmest voice i had ever heard from someone who kept saying, “i don’t know what any of this means, but it sounds important.”

dean hated that you were useful. i loved it.

you stood beside me while we worked, handing me tools, checking steps, occasionally touching my shoulder to get my attention. every time you did, my whole brain took a second to restart. embarrassing, but true. you were supposed to be a summer thing. a sweet distraction. a little flirtation in a town we were going to leave anyway.

then you made me want to stay for breakfast. then for another morning. then for another night.

the pool was your idea. after everybody else had gone inside, after dean had declared the suspicious-looking pool “mostly not our problem until tomorrow,” after the motel lights started buzzing and the air finally cooled enough to breathe, you came out with a towel over your shoulder.

“swimming after dark?” you asked.

i replied, “that’s how people get murdered in every movie.”

you looked at me over your shoulder. “good thing you’re tall and heroic.”

i followed you because i’m not stupid. or maybe because i am.

the water was warmer than i expected. quiet too, except for the filter humming and your laugh when i splashed you back. you moved easily in the water, comfortable in your body in a way that made me forget to be careful about looking. the pool, the night, your shoulders above the water, your locs pinned up, the ink on your skin dark where it disappeared beneath the surface. you caught me staring and went shy for half a second, which made it worse.

“you’re doing the face again,” you said.

“what face?”

“the serious-sam face.”

“maybe i’m serious.”

“about swimming?”

“about you.”

you drifted closer, slowly, like you were giving me every chance to make it a joke. i didn’t. my back touched the pool wall, and then you were there, water moving between us, your hand resting on my shoulder. i remember the exact pressure of your nails against my skin.

your mouth was cool from the water when we kissed. soft at first, almost careful, and then not careful at all. my hands found your waist under the water, and you made this quiet little sound against my mouth that i still think about at the worst possible times. you were warm and slippery and close, your knee brushing mine, your fingers sliding up into my hair like you’d been waiting all week to do it.

i kissed you harder.

you smiled into it, and i felt absolutely done for.

when we pulled apart, you were still holding onto me. your forehead rested near my chin, and i could hear you trying not to laugh.

“what?” i asked.

“nothing.”

“tee-”

“i’m just thinking,” you said, breathless, “if what happens in summer stays in summer, we might be in trouble.”

we were. so much trouble.

after that night, everything got worse in the best way. you sat closer at breakfast. i kept finding reasons to touch you in public where nobody could make a thing of it. hand at your back, fingers around your wrist, knee against yours under diner tables. you pretended to be casual, and i pretended not to know you were pretending. sometimes you’d fall asleep in the passenger seat after planning the route, and i’d look back from the front, watching morning light slide over your face, the curve of your nails against your water bottle, the tattoos i’d started recognizing by memory.

you made quality time feel like a language. sewing something small at the motel table while i researched. crocheting with a case file open beside you. sending me photos of your black cat because you missed her and then denying that you were emotional about it. making me sit through a puzzle because “your giant brain needs a hobby that isn’t doom.”

sharing space with you was easy in a way that scared me. because winchesters leave. that’s what we do.

the last morning, i tried. i packed before sunrise. quietly. stupidly. dean was asleep. the town was still gray-blue and half-empty. i told myself it was kinder to go before you woke up, before the heat, before breakfast, before you could look at me and make staying feel possible.

i made it to the parking lot.

you were already there, sitting on the hood of the impala with two bottles of water beside you and that novelty mug in your hands.

“wow,” you said. “leaving without hydrating? reckless.”

i stopped so fast my bag hit my leg.

you looked tired, and hurt, and still beautiful enough to ruin my life. oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, lashes from the night before a little smudged, locs loose now, long nails wrapped around the mug. you were trying to be funny because if you weren’t, you would’ve cried. i knew the order by then.

“tee...” i said.

“you were going to leave.”

i didn’t have a good answer.

you looked down at the mug. “i thought this was supposed to be a fling.”

“so did i.”

“we’re bad at flings.”

“apparently.”

you laughed once, sharp and watery, and that was it. i set my bag down. crossed the lot. stood in front of you while the sun started climbing behind the motel sign.

i told you i couldn’t leave because you’d turned into part of the morning. part of the route. part of every stupid song i judged now because i knew you were judging it too. i told you i noticed you, all of you. the careful parts, the silly parts, the body art and the big shirts and the way you loved things with your whole chest once you felt safe enough. i told you i didn’t want summer to keep you.

you stared at me for a long second.

then you said, “eat something.”

i blinked. “what?”

“you confess love on an empty stomach, you’ll pass out. come on.”

so i stayed.

i failed miserably at leaving, actually.

and maybe that’s why i’m writing this now, with your mug on the table. because the summer didn’t stay in that town. it followed us. in sunscreen on my bag, in water bottles in the backseat, in the way i still look for sage green towels at every motel, in the way i keep remembering you in that pool, smiling against my mouth like you already knew i was gone for you.

i tried to leave once, tee. i’m still so glad you were there to catch me.