Archive of Our Own

It took eighteen days for Sam to enter the room. The eighteen day mark felt significant. Sam wasn't sure why. Maybe because it wasn't biblical, it wasn't three, it didn't mark loss or resurrection or anything Sam could think of. 

At first, Sam thought about observing shiva. He thought it would’ve been what Mary would’ve wanted. But it took only three minutes alone in the bunker with a dog on his heels to know that he didn't have room for religious rituals of any kind anymore. Maybe the grieving period was religious anyways. It felt sacramental, lighting the funeral pyre in an empty field, sitting in that one arm chair and making call after call after call. He’d sat there and absorbed it all, spongelike, listened to Claire try and choke back a sob at the double-loss, listened to Donna’s rushed offers to come by and keep him company, Garth’s solemn devastation. There was a sacrificial tone to it all. 

He hated it- of course he hated it. His brother was dead. He was supposed to hate all of it. The formality of it all, the coldness of the bunker, the lack of bitching about almond milk, the way he had to comfort every single fucking person he called, the way that he still hadn't talked to Eileen since last week. 

There was something else, though. There was this emptiness somewhere in his ribs. He was used to this feeling, he knew it well. The symptoms of grief are constant enough. Maybe the problem was that this was real this time. Dean said it himself, practically begged for it, no deals, no take backs. Sam is well accustomed to grief, it’s one of the first emotions he vividly remembers being surrounded by. When he was a little kid, it hung off John like cheap cologne, overwhelmingly present and practically radioactive. He thought he sensed it in Dean back then too, but it was always different when filtered through him. And then there was Jess, and then Ellen, and Jo, and Adam and Pamela and Christ , so many others, and Sam learned a very valuable lesson there and then, when he was 24 and already exhausted- grief is never just about the person you lost, but the life you lost with them. 

And here he is, on the 18th day, mourning a life in the doorway of a room he hasn't had the courage to step into. Sam had lost Dean countless times before. He had been through this exact sequence of motions more times then he cared to remember. It always went like this: Sam mourns, Sam cries, Sam grits his teeth, boxes up his shit, moves out, reinvents, and waits six months for Dean to appear resurrected and cocky. 

This was different. This was new. Uncharted waters had always paralyzed Sam, and this was nothing if not unprecedented. Sam almost laughed at himself for having that thought at all- death should never be considered unprecedented. Death is nothing but a precedent, reestablished over and over and over until the dead outnumber the living 15 million to one. Even in Sam’s own life, death is a harsh, simple fact. It is cold and it is uncaring and it is iron-clad. 

But it was new, it was a dramatic change because the one thing Sam knew about Dean, the one fact that nothing could shake, was that he will always, always , come back for Sam. It was what he did, it was just a known element of the universe. There’s Newton’s laws, the concept of the sun rising every morning without fail, there’s the compass that always points north, and then there is Dean’s hand on Sam’s shoulder. 

And now that is gone. It was sudden, it felt a little too much like having the floor ripped out from under you, but it should feel that way because the fundamental makeup of the universe had changed. Sam hit the floor just as hard as he would’ve before, but he almost expected to start floating as gravity itself left it’s post in active rebellion. Dean wasn't here. He would never be here again. Even when Sam left for Stanford, angry and feeling despicably abandoned, he still knew, somewhere deep in his ribs, that he had Dean. It would just take one phone call.

There was no one to call anymore. So, right there in the doorway, he called Jody. 

“How’s Claire doing?” Jody had barely picked up the phone when the words left his mouth, the syllables crowded and chaotic. 

“Oh, Sam,” Jody said softly. “How are you ?”

Sam broke. He did. He cried on the phone while Jody patiently comforted him for twenty minutes straight. She had all the right sweet platitudes, but more than that, she got it. Sam didn't have to comfort her or find the artificial part of him capable of making room for the grief of someone else. She understood, he knew she did, what it felt like for loss to redefine the entire world for you. 

“I think,” he said slowly, when his throat felt a little less thick and the tears had stopped, “I want to move out of the bunker. I don't think I can be here anymore.” 

“Sam,” she said, “I don’t want to invade your space. But I think I should drive down this weekend. Help you box up whatever needs to be boxed up, make sure you’re eating, just. Be. It’ll help me too,” she tacked on quickly at the end. “Help my process.” They both knew it was a half-truth. She was coming to be there for Sam, and that was it. 

Sam nodded, beyond grateful. Arrangements were made and dozens of iterations of thank yous had left Sam’s lips but eventually they hung up, and Sam was alone again, teetering in the doorway.

He should do this now. Alone. Before Jody.

So he did. 

Sam stepped into the room. He half expected the ceiling to cave-in, the walls to light up with some angelic glow reminding him of the importance of this moment. There was nothing. The room remained dark, starkly empty, dimly lit by the lamp Dean forgot to turn off on that day. 

Sam reached for the light switch slowly. The cheap overhead lights whirred as they turned on. It didn't smell like him anymore. Maybe it would when he reached the bed or the closet, the places where deodorant and cologne sink in the deepest, where stubborn scents linger. But from here, the room felt cold. Oddly military-like. Dean never managed to get out of the habit of making the bed and packing a small go-bag every morning. It was all clean. Neat. The bed was mussed, though, Sam realized, from where Miracle still liked to sit. Waiting. She didn't get it yet. 

On the desk were a few loose pens and three books- Sam didn't even know Dean had been reading. He ran a finger over the spines. A well-worn copy of The Outsiders that Sam could remember from his youth, a softcover copy of Annihilation, and a shitty looking dime store romance novel. 

It was an accident at first, Sam would always attest to that. When he reached for The Outsiders , wanting to pick up the tattered thing, hold it, maybe check for annotations, he knocked one of the pens to the ground and it rolled straight under the bed. And without thinking about it, consumed by the impulsive need to put the room back right the way it was, he dropped to the ground and grabbed it.

That's when he saw it. A small shoebox, stuffed way in the back, shoved as far into the shadows and dark as possible. For a moment, Sam tried to tell himself it was just porn. They’d joked enough, even with Eileen, about hiding cheap porn mags under mattresses or shoved deep underneath the confines of a bed frame. But as soon as he touched it, he knew this was different.

He pulled himself into sitting cross legged on the floor, took a breath. The lid slid off easily. It was crammed full of envelopes and a small brown moleskin notebook, pulled closed shut by a mess of red cord.

He carefully reached for the first envelope. There was no stamp, no name or address, just a little minute number 1 in the corner. It wasn't even sealed. Sam held on to that- it wasn't sealed. This wasn't violative. It wasn't sealed. 

It was Dean’s handwriting, messy and rough, but careful. Purposeful. He had clearly put effort into these words.

Dear Cas,

Sam dropped the letter, and it joined the discarded envelope on the floor between Sam’s feet. His pulse was through the roof, head spinning. His fingers felt tingly, like he had touched a hot furnace moments before and his brain was still assessing the damage, 

This wasn't right.

Sam always knew there were gonna be parts of Dean he simply wasn't privy to. Dean loved his secrets, whether they were the cheap kind he used to make him the vagabond mystery man his aesthetic revolved around, or the kinds that were never to be spoken of, the kind that Sam couldn't prod at, couldn't touch, the kind that even vague allusions too caused Dean to shut down and shut up in an instant. Sam looked at the box of letters in his hands. He never knew there were this many. 

He thought about finding Dean unconscious that one morning, the day after whatever had happened to Cas. Sam had been so angry about the lack of details- it was his best friend, he deserved to know, but at the end of the day, his desire to not press any of Dean’s buttons, and Dean’s mutual stubbornness, won out. He stopped asking. He thought he’d have years to ask.

He looked at the letter on the floor.

Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he genuinely thought Dean deserved to be known. Maybe he was so sick of trying to piece together the fragments of his brother he possessed, maybe, just for once, he wanted someone else to be standing over that jigsaw puzzle with gorilla glue.

So he picked up the letter.

Dear Cas,

So. You got to make your grand exit, huh? Guess I should’ve expected that you’d leave as dramatically as you arrived. I still remember those sparks, the lights going to shit, the roof clanging like a tornado was on the way, Bobby clutching his fucking shotgun. If only we knew. 

Even then, when I saw you walk in that barn, I knew there was something about you. Christ that sounds cheesy, I don't mean it like that. I mean. There is this something about you- it’s all in the eyes. Have you ever been to the National Cathedral? The big one, in DC? I guess you get windows like that in any church in America, but I have this vivid memory of being there for a case this one time, late 2003, I think- some ghoul had taken up residency in the crypt and was taking out nuns and scaring private school kids, but I remember walking into that building this one morning, when the light hit it. The entire room was lit up by this glow, with purples and blues and reds and oranges all at once, it felt like I was surrounded by this purpose, this beauty, that I’d never felt before. You know I’m not a Jesus-type, especially after all the shit we’ve seen, but that was the closest I think I’ve ever come to thinking that all those religious folks might’ve gotten something right. I think I understood at that moment why you might go to church for salvation. And I’ve never seen anything like it since- except when I look at you, with my head tilted at just the right angle. You just- it’s otherworldly, that's the word. Maybe it’s just an angel thing, but I don’t think so. I think it’s just you. I think it’s always been just you.

I used to think it was a grace thing. Because see, I met Jimmy, and yeah, he was a great guy, seemed real nice and all, but there was something off. Maybe it was the eyes, and that makes no sense, objectively y’all have the same fucking eyes, but he didn't have it, he didn't have this, this energy that you do. You have had a way of looking at me that made me feel like the only thing on Earth that mattered, and Christ I wish you used that look on any poor sap other than me, because I’m just some guy, Cas. They can call me the Micheal Sword the The Righteous Man or whatever design I’m supposed to fit into, but I’m just. I’m just me, I’m some motherfucker with a drinking problem and anger issues, I’m not special enough to be looked at like that. I don’t think you understand what it feels like to be seen by you, because if you did you’d stop looking. It’s all consuming, Cas, it fills me up and exalts me and makes me wish more than anything I was someone that I’m not. I mean, I’m. I’m not holy. You get that, right? You have to know that, you’ve held my soul in your hands, you’ve carved your name on my bones, you have seen me like nobody else has. You know you can't make me holy. So why do you keep staring at me like I’m absolution? 

Maybe you’re like a bull, you can't see the reds. You look out at everything and you can ignore all these glaring issues, these tragic outliers, and all you see is beauty. Or maybe all bulls can see is red, maybe I got my examples mixed up. Maybe all you can see is the red, and I’m a giant red flag, amalgamation of problems and violence and anger, and you have no choice but to look at me because I’m all you can see. 

And shit, Cas, I spent months lying in motel beds telling myself I didn't want you to look at me like that. Cas, I think it’s all I wanted. Cas, I think all I wanted to do was look at you back.

And Cas, I wish more than anything I had.

Yours,

Dean

Sam sat on the floor, letter in hand, gazing down at the paper in mild awe.

It’s not like he was an idiot. He had lived with these idiots for years. He’d seen the mating dance from afar, the glances, the blatant pining, the snarky comments. He shouldn't feel floored by this.

Maybe it’s because Dean doesn't write love letters. Maybe that's just it- maybe Sam is so floored because Dean has always been so secretive about his love life. Not his sex life- he flaunts that, constantly to the point of immense irritation, but his love life was an entirely different thing. Cassie was a perfect example- Dean loved her. He had. And Sam could barely get him to talk about it, about her, anything even related vaguely to real romantic emotion. Of course Sam knew Dean was capable of love, but. This felt like another. Like something else.

He reached for the next envelope, ran his thumb over the blue ink #2 in the corner. It was written in cheap ballpoint, the type of pen you find attached to little chains in post offices or police stations. 

He looked in the box, ran an index finger over the crisp envelopes. There are seven total. Sam isn't sure he can read six more of those. 

Dear Cas,

I don’t know why I’m writing these, really. I was dealing with a case today and swung by the station to try and smooze my way into some incident reports, but I ended up with a box full of witness statements instead. Those are great, total goldmine for the case, probably saved my ass a lot of time, but it got me thinking. Witness statements. That's such a concept, isn't it? A methodical log of what happened, supposed to be as objective and free of emotion as possible. A story, really. No. A report- that's what they are. A methodical concise report of the event, of what happened, of all of it. One of the women at the station, this counselor there for victim support called them cathartic. Said often, they help people get their trauma out there, let them voice it, let them be at rest.

So, fine. Okay, Cas, here is an objective report: you’re dead, and I’m still here. Let me add more detail. You said. You said what you said and now you are gone and I can't find you, I can't fix it. It’s like this: void. 

That’s my witness statement.

Yours,

Dean

The next letter was already in Sam’s hands. He was too far gone now, too invested, too desperate to understand. He considered taking a break, eating something, doing anything other.

Dear Cas,

I told you before- the closest I’ve ever been to the Garden of Eden is when I’m in your sights. That was a lie. The closest to holy I will ever be is when I’m wrecked to shit, nose bloody and face caved in, and your hand finds my cheek. It’s a ritual, I goddamned know it, but when I feel your hands, when the buzz of your grace, of you, rushes through my system, Christ, there's nothing else like it. For a moment, I don't need to look at you back. For a moment, it is definitive: I am yours, and you are mine. For a moment, I remember that it was you that resurrected me, that built me, and I feel your fingerprints all over my soul. I have been to heaven, I have breathed in its essence, and you know damn well I’ve been to hell too, but I can assure you of this: you are my bliss. You are the closest thing I will ever have to heaven on earth. 

And I lost you. That’s not true. You lost you. That’s not it either. I think it was a mutual loss, right then. You’re gone, and we lost a world that almost was. When I was a kid, I used to think fantasy words were for sissies. What mattered was the real- the amount of cereal left in the box, the number of shotgun shells that your father had pressed into your hand, the amount of money you need by the end of the week if you’re buying Sammy that textbook. Fantasy was a luxury that I didn't have time for. I know Sam needed it so bad, he loved fantasy in any form, books and tv, escapism at any turn. I never needed it in the same way- the real was overwhelming enough. But Christ, Cas, I’m mourning a life for us that never even existed in the first place. It’s the almost, Cas, that keeps taking me out, the almost. You said the words. I- 

Fuck, Cas. I wish you said something before then. I wish. I-

I think I will always mourn the almost. I think that will always leave me gutted, lying here bloody and empty and brutalized. 

The almost. The maybe. It’s not real. Fuck, I wish it was.

Yours, 

Dean

Sam realized with some surprise that he was crying. He put the letter back into the box, brain reminding him not to contaminate the pages. This is no place for his grief. It is here anyways.

Seeing his name in the letter shocked him a weird amount. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it's because this seemed like such a private elegy, a testament to Dean and Cas and them alone. Maybe because it reminded him of the sheer level of privacy he was invading. Maybe because seeing his name in a dead man’s handwriting made his ribcage constrict. 

His head is still trying to tie together the pieces. It's weird, isn't it, that he could read something like that and have more questions than answers. 

He hadn't been looking for this, when he walked into Dean’s room, he swore he hadn't. Maybe he wanted a conclusion, an ending, an assurance Dean was gone and the need to turn to practicality to move on. 

But not this. Never this.

He dully wondered how young Dean was when he got it- when he understood grief was about the tangled possibilities wrapped up in a person, not just the person gone themselves. Maybe he knew it instinctively when he was four years old, looking at the burning house, infant in his arms. Maybe he knew right then loss was always defined by the entire world irrecoverably changing shape, by cut strings and desperation. 

He put down the box, stood up, and walked out. He needed a moment. It took six hours before he opened the next one, bringing the box out of Dean’s room and onto the dining table. 

Dear Cas,  

I should stop addressing these as letters. I should stop pretending that's what these are- this is a confession. This is me desperate and begging. I shouldn't drag your name into it. These are a waste of envelopes, these are letters for a dead man that will never be sent. Shit, Cas, that's what you are now. You’re dead, and there's something in my head telling me that it’s real this time. I’ve done the research, I’ve asked Jack a dozen times over I, I know you’re gone. I do. 

But that's the thing- You always come back. Right? Leviathan. Purgatory. Naomi. No matter what shit Chuck threw at you, you bounced right back. You stood up in that blackberry field, the one where I put you, and you came back to me. 

Don't make this your exception. Be my exception. Be the person who doesn't— who doesn't fucking leave.

I know that’s too much to ask. I know it’s done. I know that door is closed and that this is the world I am left with now. I know there's only so many times I can ask Jack to define what “he’s at peace now” means. I know I am out of favors with the world- I used them all up on my own resurrections. So this isn't a letter. This is a desperate plea, this is me telling the universe exactly how I feel and exactly what’s missing because I know we saved the world but clearly we didn't do it right. So for now, I will get drunk, and I’ll write and write and write until I get the words right and then I’ll stuff it into an envelope and nobody else has to deal with this, this is just me and the tar that seems to be eating me from the inside. But god. Sometimes I get to thinking. You remember that one night, in New Mexico? The sun was setting and our motel has an AC problem and it was hotter then hell out- we can attest to that one, it really was- and we were sitting there on the back patio, shirts unbuttoned and trying not to melt, and the sun was in your face and your tie was hanging open and you made a joke bout New Mexico being God's microwave and Christ, I think that was the first time I needed to kiss you. 

You wanted me to be better. You said so. I’m trying, Cas. I’m trying. You know, I got a dog. Named her Miracle. She’s goddamn precious. I even let her sit in Baby- can you imagine? And I’ve been seeing Claire more regularly. She’s a good goddamned kid- you know that already. And Sam and Eileen have been getting closer- I’m hoping Sam moves out soon. Or Eileen moves in. They deserve a life together regardless. I need to not be in the way. 

You know, since you’ve been gone, I’ve wondered how often you healed me, patched me up, and never said a thing. I ache now, in ways I didn't used to. Did you patch me up when I wasn't looking? Did you care that much, feel the need to shelter me to that extent? I’ve never been the one shielded from damage that I didn't see coming. That's my job since forever- take the hit, don't say a word. I don’t- I don’t know how to deal with the idea that I’ve ever been anything else. How do you do that, Cas? How do you make me reevaluate everything I’ve ever known about myself without a single word? How can you unmake me so quickly? 

I’d like to be unmade again. I want you to meet Miracle. I want to see Claire’s face when she sees yours. I want to hear your comments about molecules or sunsets or bees or redwoods. I want to listen to your Beyonce albums and watch you be a dork when I swear. Just. Come back, just one more time. 

Please. 

The next one was short. A postcard. Sam recognized the location- Dean must've bought it when they were on their way up to visit Jody and Donna and the girls. WISH YOU WERE HERE is written in a big, cheery, yellow font stretching over a picture of Lake Superior. He must’ve gotten it at the rest station they stopped at. Sam bought an orange juice. Dean got. This. 

Dear Cas, 

You promised me once that at the end of it all, when I had broken everything and there was nothing left, you'd be here. Well- where the fuck are you?

• D

  Dean had been filled with this silent anger that day, an anger Sam was honestly afraid of questioning. It happened, sometimes, he’d grip the steering wheel with white knuckles and grit his teeth and tough-guy it out but he radiated the anger, even when he tried to shove it anywhere else. Dean was like that- he told himself the entire world was his burden and would be damned if anyone had anything different to say. It was exhausting, growing up with someone that self-sacrificing and non communicative. Sam wishes he missed it less. He wishes a lot of things.

He leans back in his seat at the table, stretching his arms behind his back, trying to shift his spine, his collarbone, his ribs, anything to make this new feeling click into place.  

There was a slamming at the top of the stairs. Sam startled in his seat- Jody wasn't supposed to be here until two days from now, there was nobody else expected, nobody who had called nobody who-

Eileen stood at the head of the stairwell, looking down at Sam with a glare. He stood there, shoebox in his hands, entirely struck dumb.

“You,” she signed, “need to call me back.” Sam’s shoulders sagged. He put the box down gingerly on the table, letting it join the empty husks of envelopes 1-5 and the abandoned letters. 

“I know,” he signed back. “I’m sorry.”

Eileen made her way down the stairs. She looked him up and down. Eileen always had a brutal once over, she used it the first time they met and every reunion since. 

She held out her arms. Sam fell into them.

____________________

Eileen sat at the table, reading letter #5 silently, lips pursed. She had put up a small fight before reading them, her thumb touching her mouth rapidly as she signed about privacy. Sam wasn't sure exactly what changed her mind- her desire to support him, or the fact that she had just as many unanswered questions as he did. Either way, it felt like a violation, they both knew it. 

Sam reached into a colder, harder, part of his heart to justify it: since when do the dead get a say, anyways? Mom died and she became a vendetta. Charlie was a martyr that almost destroyed Dean. Jess, was. Well. Jess meant there was no turning back. 

So Dean was dead. Dean was dead and burned and buried. He would never again occupy the spaces in the bunker where only he fit, never again grin from the front seat, never again fry bacon in the kitchen. Dean was gone. And he left this in his wake. So Sam gets to measure the damage and piece together what he can and move on and Dean doesn't get a say anymore. That's how it is. 

They read the next one together, heads bowed over the paper in silent penance. 

Dear Cas,

I wrote your entry in the bestiary today. I wasn't sure if you belonged in there, exactly, but I wanted your name somewhere. That felt important. I know history will probably forget Sam and I- that’s part of the whole point- but the idea of you being forgotten, slipping through the cracks, it splits something inside my chest. I don't much care what history has to say about me. Sam either, if I’m being honest. Depending on who you ask, you’d get a dozen interpretations- serial killers, bank robbers, heroes, martyrs, lost causes, trouble makers, whatever you like. I don't care how they choose to paint me, heaven or hell or just people trying their hands at conspiracy theories. But I want them to get you right, paint your story full of color and beauty and kindness and growth and love. And I want them to know I loved you back. As long as they get that right, I don't much mind what they claim to know about me. 

Yours,

Dean

P.S: I realized I’ve been signing all these with yours. It’s true. I am. I pretend I’m not, I try to deny it or fake nonchalance, but I’m spoken for. I’m gonna walk through the rest of my life claiming it isn't so, but it’s your handprint on my arm. I’m not meant to love anyone else, not anymore. You’re it for me, Cas. You’re it. 

Sam wants to cry again. Eileen takes his hand.

“It’s just,” he speaks as he signs, voice choking on the words and hands shaking, “I don’t know why he never told me. He could’ve told me.” He tries to take a steadying breath. “He could’ve told me and I would’ve understood, I would’ve! I do! I-” He clenches his hands into fists while he tries to find the words. 

“He had so many secrets, he always did. He loved his secrets, loved unraveling them at the most random of times. We’d be driving and he’d mention a girl or a place or something Dad said that would blow me out of the water, and he'd be so. So casual, so nonchalant.”  

He was fully sobbing now, he realized. Eileen reached up, wiped his cheek with the arm of her flannel.

“I just. I wish he shared the ones that mattered with me. I wish-” He cleared his throat, shook his hands out to try and start anew, “I don’t know why he wouldn't tell me. Did he think I wouldn't support him? Did he think-” his voice broke, just slightly, “Did he think I was like Dad? That I’d react like him?” 

Eileen let him speak. He knew he looked a mess. He knew he was making no sense. God, he loved her. “I just. Cassie. He never spoke about her, and I knew he cared, I knew he loved her, and he only ever spoke of her the once, when he had to. What if- what if it was all like that? If I just knew this version of him he was pretending to be and I just kept acting like I knew him?” He cleared his throat.

“I mean. I knew about him and Cas. Kind of. It was pretty fucking obvious, the two of them, but I didnt know he felt it all like this. I didn't know there was this level of grief, that he was carrying that and not saying shit.” He laughed, a little hysterical now. “I. It’s not like he was hiding it well but I hate that he felt like he had to hide it at all. I hate that I’m finding any of this out because of a box he stuffed under his bed like he was hiding porn, or something shameful and dirty and secret.” 

“I hate that in death, Dean made himself an enigma again. He’s not an enigma. He’s Dean. He’s my brother. And.” Sam’s hands were shaking so bad he barely got it out before reaching for one of the beers Eileen had grabbed. “And I wish he let me know him, all of him.”

Eileen touched his knee softly. It wasn't sexual, or heavy handed, it was sweet, comforting. I am here. 

“Sam,” she signed carefully, “Dean’s burdens aren't yours to carry. We all have demons. It’s not like you told him everything you’ve ever experienced, every thought you’ve ever had, every personal trauma you’ve experienced.” 

She paused. Sam knew she was right.

“I know you miss him. You should. He’s your brother. But he isn't a different person because of what he left unsaid.”

She touched his face gently. “There’s just two more, right? And then the notebook?”

Sam shook his head yes. 

“I’m gonna go try and cook some dinner. You need to eat. Read them, and give yourself a minute. I.” She paused again. “I have this gut feeling you’re gonna want to read these alone. And I’ll be here for the after.”

She stood carefully, kissed his forehead.

“I love you.”

Sam smiled softly. “You too.” He signed, not even bothering to speak. “More than you know.”

Eileen smiled and walked into the kitchen, leaving Sam there alone, surrounded by lamps and the words of the dead.

I’m not gonna pretend I’m writing this to you anymore. That’s a desperate ploy, I know it, one that let’s me pretend that you can hear me again, like the prayers I used to speak your way. 

You know, you're the only person I’ve ever prayed to. I never prayed to God, not once. I guess for a while I had my father, lived by the gospel of his voicemails or whatever dramatic shit I wanna emphasize here, but I never prayed. Until you. I know that's probably fucked up- having faith in a god or a parent or an idea is something we all want. I know I wanted it as a kid, and I guess I had it for a while while I pretended my father counted. I guess our fathers are identical in that sense- they occupy the same type of space. That sounds so fancy, so official. Nothing about the situation is that clean. You know that, I know that. I’ll make it that simple, though, for you, because you’ve seen my soul laid bare, you’ll know how to read between the lines: I worshipped my father and I hated him for it. He issued his edicts, he changed reality when it suited him, he stood over all of us with silent power. I waited to have the same amount of power my dead mother held over him. I waited to want to hit him back. I waited for him to show up. I waited for him to ask how a thirteen year old made eighty bucks appear out of thin air. I was his soldier and I was damn good at it until I didnt want to be anymore. I know you understand that. I know your father wasn't there. I know you did his bidding anyways. I know you abandoned that life for me.

Remember when you said that to me? We were in that alley and had beaten the shit out of each other and you said it- “all of it, for you.”

Fuck, man. That hit me in a way I couldn't begin to understand. I think I get it more now. Like I said, I spent my childhood believing in someone not worth my faith. I gave myself up in every possible way to hold on for another week, to stay alive, make him proud, be the son I was supposed to be. I had endless faith for a vendetta that didn't need to exist, a vendetta that wasn't for me.

So when you said that, when you said you it all up for me, you believed in me, in my mission, in my stupid little life that much, fuck. It scared me, Cas. How could you, fuck, how could anyone trust me like that?

But know this: I had that blind faith in you too. I did, I always did, I always will. You proved me wrong so many times but Christ, I kept coming back to you. Even after the Leviathans, Crowley, rings of holy fire, Lucifer, all of it, it was always you. You could’ve told me anything, anything , and if you had that look in your eye when you said it, I’d have complied, fallen in line, sheer faith. 

That scared me too. I’ve never trusted someone like that off impulse alone, when every logical survival skill ingrained in my head screamed at me to not. I told you before, Cas, I was yours, I have always been yours, and my nervous system knew it before the rest of me could catch up. 

I can’t believe I’m writing all this at one in the morning. I’m like a goddamned teenage girl, writing about lost loves and my daddy issues. It’s fucking pathetic- I know that. I know you don't think so. I can’t believe you called me out on that, “think you are your daddy’s blunt instrument,” as if it were a reverential title, like it made me something to be loved or held. You said it like I was a scared little kid again. 

You have a tendency of doing that, you know. Saying things that tear me apart with their gentle power. It’s just like your gaze. It shouldn't feel like absolution, when we’re standing in a gas station and you look at me like that and tell me it’s alright that I’m three dollars short for those iced mothers animal cookies you like so much. But it does. You blow me away like that, all the time. You did. You used to. I need to stop writing these like you’re alive. I need to stop letting myself pretend you can hear me. 

That scares me too. I’ve never had to do this before, never lost someone and just. Not been able to move on. Sam came close, so many times, when that knife was in his back and I found a crossroad, when he went head first into the cage, when that vampire got his throat. But each of those times, there was a fix, there was you. You saved him, you held me together, you strung me together and didn't let go. I don't think I’ve ever been okay when I lost you, not like this. I thought last time, with Lucifer’s blade in your chest, that would be it. That was the last one, it had to be. I wrapped you in silk and used my best lighter on your pyre and threw myself into the mission, because it's what I do. And then you came back. And now you won’t. 

So yeah, I should stop pretending. 

I don't think I will, not yet. 

Yours,

Dean

Sam took a shaky breath, reaching for the final letter silently. He could hear Eileen in the kitchen. He could do this. One more time. Just once.

Cas-

Fuck, I’m tired. I know I don't get to be tired. I know I won, we won, that I get to rest now. There's no rest here. 

I think I might be done. That’s a horrible thing to admit, I know that. But I said it before- this is it for me. I can't conceive of anything other.

You know, when I was twenty-something and stupid, I was absoluetely content with the idea of dying young and bloody. Made me feel like a vagabond, like my father’s son, like an action hero. It seemed nice to be the martyr for a change. 

Cas, here's one thing I’ve learned, one secret, shameful thing: being dead is easy. 

It’s why I still resent my father, because he sold his soul. He did it all for me, but he didn't. He did it because it’s easier to die a martyr and a hero then to live with the after. There's no strings, no responsibilities, no accountability, you’re just gone and there's a void in your wake.

And I don’t know if there's anything that makes it all worth it now. That's selfish of me, I know. It’s so selfish. But it’s true.

The world has been saved. It’s in good hands. Jack never needed me, Cas, he only ever needed you. He’s just like you, I hope you know that. You are two sides of the same coin, near mirror images. 

And Sam, he’s fine. He has a life now, believe it or not. He still lives here, at the Bunker, but I think that's because of me. We barely hunt anymore, but he wont let me go solo. I think he’s afraid I’m gonna get cocky, get hurt. It’s a fine thing to worry about. But oh, Cas, he and Eileen are so damn happy. I love her a little too, not in a romantic way or anything, it’s just, she’s contagious, ya know? Makes me grin ear to ear all the time. She suits him. Short enough to make that giant have to lean down to kiss her, which is deeply entertaining for me. I think she’s his true north, ya know? 

Sam doesn't know that I know this, but he taught himself ASL when she died. Just in case. Stayed up late on youtube doing the motions over and over and over until it was just him in a dark motel room, face lit up by the dim artificial light, hands telling stories I still don't know how to understand. Maybe it wasn't just in case. Maybe he was grieving a lost life with her, too, just like I’ve done in these letters. Maybe he was saying goodbye. But she’s back, and he’s so happy, Cas. Stupidly so. 

He’s got it all figured out. He kind of always has, even when he was off drinking demon blood or trying his hand at law school. He has a good head on his shoulders. And now he has his happy ending, one he chose. He has Eileen. He was a choice. And I’m so fucking proud. He doesn't carry his past or his family or his name like it's bound to him anymore. He has fought for his life. He earned it a billion times over. 

It’s good to see him love like that. Honestly, it’s all I ever really wanted for him- some life right on the cusp of hunting and domesticity, one foot in, one foot out. Options. Joy. Safety.

So. All that's to say he doesn't really need me, not anymore. That’s selfish of me, I know, but he really doesn't. He doesn't need a protector, he doesn't need an addict to watch over, he doesn't need, well, this. It’s a good feeling. It shouldn't be. 

Part of me wants to reinvent again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I thought about applying to work on construction or mechanics or something. Anything with my hands, ya know? Something where at the end of the day, I could see what I’d done, see what I’d accomplished. 

But I don't think I want to reinvent anymore. I don't think I want much of anything here, anymore, really. There's. There's a part of me that wants to do so much. Travel. See the world a little, anything other than midwestern truck stops. Maybe open a new Roadhouse, or a teens shelter, or a garage. Maybe I could try and turn this idiotic bunker into a home for other hunters. Make it like Bobby’s, ya know? That's something I can do for the dead that the dead would actually want, actually benefit from. 

But I don't know. I’m selfish. And I’m tired, Cas. 

You know, sometimes I dream about what we’d do if you were here. I think we’d take a roadtrip. A real one, no case, no nothing, just you, me, Baby and Miracle. She’d nap in the back seat while I took you to California, just to see the redwoods. I’d talk about star wars, try the Han Solo voice, make those god awful ka-chow laser gun noises while we walked where the set used to be. You’d oblige me, because you always do, because my face would be lit up and I’d be geeky and stammering. And then you’d touch the ground with your left hand, careful and soft, and you’d tell me about the trees. You’d tell me what they had seen. You would tell me about mycorrhizal connections, about how mushrooms hold this entire ecosystem together in a giant game of telephone. You’d tell me about how the forest elects mothers, and they allocate water to the smaller, younger trees, how they move their leaves so they can soak up the sunlight and grow, how each tree here isn't competing but is codependent, caring, part of a familial network. You’d look up at the trees with that look in your eyes, and I would know that is the happiest I was ever gonna be, and I would kiss you, right there, surrounded by the trees and the ferns and the quietly observant mushrooms. I would tell you this: I had a dream, and you were it. And you would tilt your head, and ask if that was a pop culture reference, and I would laugh and kiss you again, because you are it. You are everything. That is a simple fact. 

The rest is gravy. 

Yours,

Dean.

Sam placed the letter down carefully, trying to preserve each carefully printed word. Trembling, he reached for the notebook. 

For a moment, he thought maybe he was rushing through all this, going from one thing to the next far too quickly. But he knew if he stopped he’d be paralyzed here forever. In for a penny, in for a pound. Right then, he didn't want to think about each piece of it. He didn't want to think about the suicidal ideation, about the idea that Dean lived for him until he didn't need to, the implications of how Dean made money as a kid, the idea that this is how Dean spent his last days. That made him feel like he was drowning in black tar, pitch filling his lungs until he was in a unrecognizable world of claustrophobic panic and suffocation.

He closed his eyes, took a breath. Eileen is here, he whispered, rolling the words around his head. She is just next door, in the kitchen, she is accessible, she is here, you can hear her moving. You are alive. You are grounded. You are-. You are okay. 

He untied the red cord, and the journal fell open.

It was old. Not in the 1000-year-old-ancient-supernatural type of old, but the type of old that means worn. Cared for. Carried.

The first page was simple, yellowed and torn on the edges. Tiny font, neat, clear, concise: Property of Dean Winchester . Surrounding it were dozens of different phone numbers in different colors, most crossed off, varying in age. 

Sam smiled as he recognized them. Old phone numbers that had been discarded over the years gazed back at him. He fought back a small sob when he saw Dean’s current main number, scrawled in the upper corner in green ink.

He flipped through slowly. It was crowded with drawings, clearly going back ages. Charcoal, pencil, ink pen, sharpie, ball point, cheap restaurant kid’s menu crayons, the mediums were chaotic and scattered and starkly beautiful. Sam held his breath on instinct. 

One of Sam slumped in the passenger seat of the Impala, a book clutched in his twenty-something year old hands, bangs in his eyes. There were a few of Cassie, curls in the sunlight, eyes light. There were so many of Sam at first, just little candid moments, him drinking coffee, staring dully at a computer screen, counting rock salt bags from the trunk. Sam couldn't believe he’d never noticed the book before. There were other drawings too- Bela’s side profile, ghosts, the lake from that one case, Chuck grinning menacingly, Bobby loading a shotgun. A few scattered lines of poetry- when i said i was a scholar what i meant is some things can be taught/ and when i said i’m from around i meant nowhere at all.

Then, clear as day, there was a shift. It was Cas. It was all Cas. Him in the barn, surrounded by an explosion of blue-orange light and biblical white eyes that seemed to be drawn with white nail polish. Cas leaning against a wall, Cas under a motel sign, Cas’s hands glowing as he reached for a floating arm. There was poetry under that one too- let me tell you a secret- holiness is in the hands, it has always been in the hands/ even when i cannot help but flinch away from your touch. Cas’s eyes, his profile, his hair messy and his eyes burning with angelic purpose. Cas bloody, Cas vindictive, Cas touching a dandelion. 

There were other things too, of course, polaroids tucked between the pages, a drawing of Charlie in all her LARP royalty glory, Benny and his stupid hat, Sam grinning at something far off in the distance. But Cas outnumbered them all, easy. There were crosses and houses on fire and a few hurried sketches of John, but Cas stood out. Sam flipped through a little quicker, the drawings and snippets of half-finished poems blending together as he did. 

Sam had been long aware of how Castiel looked at Dean. He’d been aware of it for twelve years. 

He smiled at the book in his hands. Dean had been looking back. He had always looked back.

He carefully closed all the envelopes again, making sure each letter went into the properly numbered envelope, chest feeling numb and exhausted and weighed down. He wrapped the notebook closed again, and put the lid of the shoebox back on carefully. This felt like a ritual, he realized as his fingers folded around the cheap cardboard, like a funeral pyre and silk wrappings. 

He thought about burning it for a moment. He didn't want to have to burn Dean again. He didn't want to have to salt the letters- just in case. 

So he made his choice. Carefully, slowly, like a funeral march, he walked to the garage, opened the trunk of the impala, and placed the box right there, in the back corner. Next to where Dean had stashed the trench coat he didnt think Sam knew about.

That was it, he decided. That's how it should end.

So it did. When Jody arrived the next evening, and wrapped him up in a big bear hug, he pressed the keys to the bunker into her hands. They hauled boxes, changed up the furniture, fixed the lighting, painted new sigils, and that was it. “I think it could be a teen’s shelter,” he told her. “Wayward sisters got new digs.” Claire would make fun of him for phrasing it like that, later, and he welcomed it. He and Eileen got a place- this little beachside cottage on the Oregon coast. It’s warded beyond belief and sometimes hosts traveling hunters, as well as a sizable library for anyone looking for a little something, but it’s home. They have a back garden, and it's crowded with life. The sage grows next to the rose bushes. Eileen is trying her hand at magical botany, hoping to cross breed lavender with these seeds Rowena sent over. He loves the sound of her laugh when Alex or Kaia manage to prank him somehow, loves her devious smile when she’s in on it, loves how she could walk on the beach finding agates with him for miles and miles and miles until they’re both exhausted. 

Baby stays parked in the garage. Neither Sam or Eileen could stomach getting rid of it, neither wanna drive it. They’re debating giving it to Claire when she turns twenty. 

Sometimes, when he’s feeling nostalgic, or just misses him, Sam flips back through the notebook. The letters remain untouched- Sam still feels violative when he reads them- but the notebook feels beautiful. It's the world through Dean’s eyes. 

And he thinks, one day, he’s gonna drive that car one last time. He is taking the box with him. He will drive exactly 317 miles to Redwood National Park, and he will leave them there. 

That is as good of an ending as any.