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Sam looked at his watch. Ten minutes left. He plumped down on his bed, wondering how he could make time go faster. His fingers tapped relentlessly on his stomach. Mechanically, he rolled on his side and reached for his drawer in the dresser he shared with Brady. He was about to take his bedside book – a gathering of poems by Sylvia Plath that Dean had given to him as a joke for his last birthday to help him “go through that time of the month, Samantha” – when his fingers bumped into an electronic device. He pulled the drawer completely open to take the camcorder in his hands and stared at it. He had no idea why it was in his duffel when he had arrived at Stanford in the first place, so he had put it there, under his clothes, and hadn’t give much thought to it afterwards.
Eight minutes. He had nothing else to do. Without any expectation, he pressed the “on” button and waited for some time. That thing was ancient. He didn’t even remember when his Dad had bought it. He didn’t remember either when they had used it for the last time. Winchesters didn’t film each other or take pictures. It was just one of these things normal people did that they didn’t.
The screen finally lit up and the familiar, flashy, logo appeared. Sam let out a small nostalgic laugh. The 80’s were definitely a strange period. He navigated in the menu and his heart skipped a bit when he realized that there was a cassette tape inside. His fingers hovered above the “play” button.
Four minutes. He pressed play.
The first footage was a close-up of their Dad’s asleep face, features softer than the ones he remembered. He could hear his own four-year-old giggles, interrupted by the sound of a door closing and a stern whisper.
“Sammy, what are you doing? I told you not to wake up Dad!”
The image lost focus and deviated to the mess on the coffee table, but the voices kept going in the background.
“He’s still asleep, Dee. Didn’t wake him up.”
“You could have. C’mon, let Dad sleep, he’s tired and you know how he is when he’s grumpy.”
Sam smiled, bitterly. That he remembered.
“I’m bored. Where were you?” his young self asked in a high-pitched voice.
“To get that disgusting pumpkin spice you absolutely wanted, brat. And pumpkins. Come help me carve one.”
The angle shifted again and the image was now the ugly grey carpet of the motel room, moving rapidly as they were heading for the kitchen.
“But Dee, I’m not supposed to hold a knife ‘cause it’s dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand while you do it so you don’t hurt yourself.” Now that they weren’t in the living room anymore, Dean’s voice was softer. “And turn that thing off.”
The next footage started immediately after, in an outdoor setting that Sam recognized instantly as the small forest bordering Bobby’s property. The image was steadier and more interesting than in the previous one. Dean was twenty feet away, from side-on, directing a rifle towards a pumpkin on a stack of log.
“Tell me why you made a shotgun again?”
Dean turned towards him and shouted back. “Sam, you’re supposed to keep watch in case anybody comes, not record this!”
“Nobody ever comes here.”
Dean just shook his head, adjusted his cap and took back his sawed-off shotgun in his two hands.
“Just stay over there, I don’t want to shoot you.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, I can take care of myself.”
“You’re eight, of course you’re a kid.”
“Are you even sure this is gonna work?”
“Shut up, bitch, I’m trying to concentrate!”
“Jerk.” It was barely a murmur, shaky from a nervousness Sam rarely had when it came to his big brother.
After a moment of silence, the gunshot suddenly resonated. Because of the kick, Dean fell on the ground, as a dozens of birds flew away from the trees.
“Dean!”
The camcorder showed various angles of the scenery as his younger self was running to his brother.
“You okay?”
The young teen looked up, a grin on his face. “It worked, Sammy! Have you seen that? I can’t believe it worked! Did you record it?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Awesome.”
Dean’s face disappeared to let place to the half ruined pumpkin Sam zoomed on.
“You completely destroyed it. That’s cruel.”
“Watch out, next time it could be your face. It couldn’t make you uglier though.”
“I’m dying of laughter Dean.”
The taping stopped there but Sam remembered what had happened next. Bobby had come running, swearing, with his own rifle in his hand. Once he had both check them for injuries and bawl them out, he had examined Dean’s shotgun and asked if he had really built it himself. Dean had nodded and Bobby had looked at him and whistled. “That’s one hell of a job.” They had gone back to Bobby’s house, Sam tucked under Dean’s arm. They kept glancing at each other with sparkles in their eyes. Sam had never seen his brother so proud.
The screen had become black. Sam was about to put the camcorder away, with a nostalgic feeling tightening his chest, when another movie began to play. He frowned at the knot that formed in his belly at the view of the vast pumpkin patch displayed. He faintly remembered this moment. It was so long ago. How old was he? Six?
“Sammy, not so fast!”
“You can’t catch me; you can’t catch me!” was singing the kid running between the pumpkins. The image got closer and closer from his back, until an arm circled his waist and pulled him off-screen.
“Gotcha!”
“Dee! Let me go!”
“Uh-uh, don’t want you running off too far. Here, hold my hand.”
“I want a huge pumpkin, Dee,” the boy seriously said, looking a little above the camera. He was blinking because of the sun in his eyes. “Bigger than me!”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because after I can live inside!”
“And what about me and Dad, you gonna leave us?”
“No, you’ll come visit me! You will, right?”
“Yeah, I will, pumpkin.”
The next shot was exactly what Sam remembered from that day. Dean was looking straight at him and the sun brought out his big shiny green eyes. They were sitting in front of each other, Sam’s pudgy fingers on his brother’s face.
“Twenty-four!”
“Awesome. Can you stop touching my face now?”
“But it was only on your nose! I have to count all of them!” Sam hid his face in his hand, knowing what was going to get out of his younger self’s mouth next. “You’re so beautiful, Dean. I wanna be pretty like you when I grow up!”
His brother kindly smiled. “Don’t worry about that, pumpkin.”
“Why do you call me that?”
Dean leaned back and looked away, like he always did when he was thinking back then. “Cause you’re cute.”
“Dee?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll always be together, no?”
“’Course, Sammy. Always.”
For a moment, they didn’t move and they didn’t talk either. Sam looked at the young Dean on the screen. This is what his brother looked like when he fell in love with him. It was ages ago, and yet Dean had never changed. Soft eyes, loving smile, and still twenty-four freckles on his nose.
“Come on, we better get goin’, the bus will be here soon. Turn that thing off.”
“’Kay.”
The screen definitely turned black. Sam wiped the tear that had escaped his eyes, lost in his memories. A knock on his dorm door made him jump. With a silly apprehensive feeling, he stood up and gripped the door handle, before opening it in one go.
Dean was there, grinning at him. “Hey pumpkin! Sorry I’m late, you know how Dad is when-” His sentence was cut out when Sam jumped in his arm and nuzzled his neck, inhaling his sweet smell.
“Whoa, missed me that much?” Dean laughed, hugging him back tightly.
“You know I did.”
“Yeah. I know. Me too.”
They kissed softly. Dean’s mouth tasted like pumpkin spice.