Chapter Text
Sam wasn't sure volunteering at Goodwill was the best use of his time while he and Dean were still fighting the Darkness but, when every lead led them nowhere, he needed to know he was doing something for the greater good. This job in North Carolina seemed like a step in the right direction. They guessed they were hunting for a cursed object to stop what they think is a ghost and had traced it to this little shop in this tiny city north of Raleigh. Dean was looking into the local history, trying to figure out why six bodies hadn't garnered more investigation by state and local authorities. In the cops' defense, there wasn't much they could go on; all the victims, cousins, had died of alcohol poisoning and smoke inhalation two weeks apart six months after their alcoholic grandfather died in a house fire his drunken negligence had caused. The best the boys could figure, the family had been passing around his effects from relative to relative until the last death three days ago; when the victim's daughter had donated everything to Goodwill. Sam had volunteered at the shop in hopes of finding the object and ending the string of murders. For the past two days, he has been organizing the store room and scanning for EMF while Dean searched the family history trying to find out what, in this mess of boxes and bags, Sam should hope to find.
Just before closing, Sam is on a ladder reaching for a box when he knocks a set of black luggage with little white circles all over it down off the shelf and nearly sends his ladder crashing down as well. He is relieved he doesn't find himself sprawled out on the floor, and gets down to pick up the suitcase. The zippers were all undone, though, and he finds himself picking up three cases, a duffel with wheels, a small duffel, a bag, and three small cosmetics bags; and a green canvas bag that looks out of place with the rest of the luggage. He had already stacked all the black bags together, making sure to zip the largest case, then reached for the canvas bag; it looked like an old military bag that had been so well used it had faded from dark green to almost cream colored from washing and the handles had, at some point, begun to fray because someone had used bright blue yarn to crochet around them. When he picked it up, a red spiral notebook fell out of the bag, open, onto the floor. He noticed a date at the top of the page, earlier this year, and the handwriting seemed familiar; which was ridiculous, but he picked up the notebook and started to read.
I think I'm transgender.
I'm pretty sure I'm transgender.
I know I'm a gay man.
Which, by definition, would make me trans.
The letter went on for several pages, describing the life of a woman with miserably low self-esteem who was riddled with anxiety and, despite asking for help, she seemed to consistently find none. The last two paragraphs made Sam worry and wonder, how had the bag, and the notebook, ended up here and was this woman still alive?
The letter ended:
I am a trans man. I am a gay trans man.
I am so completely over my own existence it is a wonder I don't simply vanish from force of will because I really do just want to cease to be.
It wasn't signed, but Sam was certain he knew it was Olle's handwriting; which was crazy! He flipped backwards and forwards through the notebook and found more journal entries, shopping lists, Christmas lists, menus, even addresses labeled “For Wedding Invitations.” The date at the top of this letter, though, was the most up to date; seemed to be the last entry. One of the addresses was local and some of the names and the last names could be Googled. Sam tucked the canvas bag under his arm, put the black luggage back on the shelf, and took the canvas bag out front where he purchased it then told Shandry he would see her for his shift tomorrow.
He kept thinking about Olle, about how Dean had emptied a clip into him when they found out Crowley was feeding souls to Amara. When trying to feed him to her had failed, Crowley had cursed him with the same spell Rowena had used on Cas. He had been a force of nature when he had come at them; he nearly killed Cas and Dean had taken a beating that would have killed him if Cas hadn't been able to heal him. Olle had even broken Sam's ribs and nearly choked him to death. Later, after they had salted and burned his body, no one expected him to come back, whole, crawling out of the ground like a zombie. Then, it had been hours of Olle trying to explain his curse, and the rest of them trying to wrap their heads around an immortal brain surgeon who was the best damn hunter they had ever seen. Which stands to reason since he is who knows how old. The details were vague, but it was clear Olle was cursed because his soul could not be consumed by the Darkness. Sam knew his handwriting, knew that letter was his handwriting, and was determined to figure this out. By the time he looked up from his thoughts, he was passing the post office and less than a block from the rundown hotel where they were staying. He stopped at the little Mexican place beside the Family Dollar and grabbed dinner before crossing the street and jogging up the stairs of The Little Hotel carrying the luggage and a bag of food.
Dean wasn't in their room so he threw the canvas bag on the bed, dropped the notebook and the food on the little table, put the bottles of soda in the fridge, and pulled out a beer before he dropped into a folding chair and fished his chicken and black bean burrito out of its bag and started to eat.
A quick search with his laptop and the names from the letter meant he had a local address which, oddly enough, was right beside the hotel. Another search of another name found another address that was about a mile away so he decided to check the first one out when he finished eating and, when Dean got back and they talked more about this case, he would check the other one.
A walk down the block proved the current residents had bought the house from the realty company next door and a flash of his badge there meant he knew the previous family had lived there since 1998 and had been gone since 2010. He also knew their names and knew their forwarding address matched the next address on his list. Coming out of Wester Realty, he heard the Impala, which Dean had been parking in their back lot as it was right beside the hotel.
“Heya Sammy,” Dean said closing the door and walking toward his brother. “Find anything? Because I'm grasping at straws.”
“Nah, Dean, sorry,” Sam said following his brother as they headed back to their room. “I was looking into something else. I found something at Goodwill that could be a case, but I wanted to check it out before I mentioned it.”
“Another case?” Dean asked, skeptical, jogging up the stairs to their room.
“Yeah, man, I'm pretty sure it's nothing. I got you some food. I'm just gonna take a ride and check it out.”
“You need me to come with?” Dean asked throwing his bag on the bed and looking at the table for his dinner.
“No, it's just a couple questions for a local family. I can handle it, they may not even want to talk to me.” Sam grabbed the bag then tucked the notebook under his arm and reached out to his brother for the keys. “I should be back in about an hour, it's just right down the street. Can I have the keys Dean?”
“Yeah Sammy, sure,” his brother said digging in his pocket while he rummaged in the food bag with his other hand. “Call if you need anything.”