cupidsbow (cupidsbow) wrote,
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cupidsbow

FIC: "Epistles" (SPN, PG-13, Dean/Castiel)

Title: Epistles: Five Letters Penned by Dean Winchester
Author: [personal profile] cupidsbow/cupidsbow
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel implied, brief Dean/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,400 words
Warnings: Canonical death; spoilers for all seasons, including S7
Summary: Five times Dean Winchester asked for what he really wanted.



November 20, 1983
Unstamped letter addressed to: God, Heaven, The Milky Way, The Universe



Dear God,

Mrs Hambly said my Mom was with you now. Can we have her back plees. Samy misses her. He crys all the time. I don't cry becors Daddy says I am a big boy now I try hard to be good. I dont no how to make Samy good. Only my Mom nos. So can we plees have hir back. You can have anything els of mine even my lion book except my machbox car becors I gived it to Samy.

Love Dean. xoxoxo

* * *



October 15, 1993
On stationery from Green Carp Motor Inn, Sunfish Lake, Minnesota



Dear Pastor Jim,

Sammy and I are both good. How are you?

Last week we went to church and the choir was real nice. They sang Amazing Grace and another song that sounded like something off the radio. I didn't know you could do that in church. We were mostly there waiting for Dad while he was taking care of some busness in the semetery. Sammy liked it he went to the whole thing. I ditched after the choir because the Preacher was talking about the Rewards of Heaven and it made me real mad. Sorry, Pastor Jim, but I don't see how Mom would like Heaven better than being down here with us.

I like your sermons much better, especially the one you did about the Flood. I bet Noah and his sons had fun working on that ark, even if there was trouble coming once they were done.

Sammy is doing real well at school. He's so smart. He knows all the dinosaur names and when they were alive. He wants to go to a Dinosaur Day his class is going to next month. Dad says we'll still be here, and I got enough money saved up for him to go, but he don't fit into his winter coat and boots from last year and the cold is starting to come in. I was wondering if you had anything his size in the poor box? He's still a medium in junior shirts, and #10 boots. If there is, I'll wash your car real good when we visit next time. I need to know by 14th November at the latest to send the permission form in on time.

Give Rosco a pat from me.

Yours sincerely,

Dean Winchester.

PS -- I forgot to say we are in room 154. The place doesn't look like that picture at the top of the page any more. The caretaker told me that about three years ago a twister came through and shorted out half the electrics, and the owner never got around to fixing it. So at night instead of Green Carp Motor Inn, the sign reads Cr-a-p t-inn. Ha ha ha. I reckon God has a sense of humor.

* * *



August 16, 2004
On the back of an unpaid parking ticket issued in Waterloo, Nebraska



Sammy,

If you get this I've really fucked up. I'm in a pretty tight corner here, and I'm starting to think I'm not going to make it. Fucking witches. Never trust a witch, Sammy, they are fuckers to the last.

I don't have long to write this, as the light is going and once it does I won't be able to see my own nose, let alone pen and paper.

It's like this: I've fallen half way to hell and I can't climb out again. My ankle hurts like a son of a bitch. Can't stand on it, pretty sure it's broken. My phone's broken too. Can't shout for help. The coven is up there, chanting something about Lucifer. Gives me the creeps.

It's a miracle I even survived the fall. The girl I was trying to save wasn't so lucky. Her head's twisted right around like one of those creepy ball-swallowing clowns at the fair. Jesus, Sammy, she was just a kid. I can see her backpack from here, balanced on a ledge about six feet above my head. She has a cell phone in there, covered with fairies or some shit. Might as well be on the moon.

Wanted to tell you something. Don't get drawn back into this, Sam, no matter what Dad says. You're well out of it. Don't let him guilt trip you because of me. Don't guilt trip yourself with might-have-beens. It wouldn't have made any difference if you'd been here.

God, I miss you. I'm still pissed at you for the way you left, but I'm glad you're safe. Stay that way. Find a girl who makes you happy and live a proper life. That's all I've ever wanted for you -- to be happy, and have all the good things you deserve. Be true to your own dreams, and don't let anything stop you.

You're a good kid, Sammy. The best brother I could ever have asked for.

* * *



July 19, 2006
Addressed to Singer Salvage, via email



Bobby,

Dad's dead.

The hospital knows we're relatives but we don't have the papers to back it up, so we can't get the body. Can you pull some strings? He'd want us to salt and burn.

Dean W.

* * *



October 17, 2011
Written in a lucid dream, on a blank page in John Winchester's diary



Cas,

Remember how you asked "What would you rather have: peace or freedom?" and I didn't answer you? I've thought of a hundred answers since then, and none of them are "peace" or "freedom". A lot of them begin, "Fuck you."

So let's start with that. Fuck you! Are you even dead? Fuck you for being dead. How am I meant to answer you if you're dead. Do you expect me to pray? I'm not praying for you, because what the fuck is the point? No-one is listening. And I'm not praying to you, because we are so far beyond that. That's not us, man. If you want a proper answer, you'll just have to come and get it.

And another thing. You were spying on me, weren't you? That year I was with Lisa and Ben. You were invisibly hanging around, and what? Watching me work my 9 to 5? Watching me grieve over another fucking hole in the ground? Watching me sleep and sleep and dream of Sam?

How is that freedom? Did I look free? Did you see any peace? And what about you, huh? As you perched on my shoulder like the Guardian Angel you always swore you weren't, did you feel free? I sure as shit know you didn't feel peace.

You know what I hate most about you being dead?

I wish I could call you. Not all the time. It's not like I want to talk to you all the time. Two hours ago I was in a bar drinking shitty whisky and all I wanted to do was crawl between this gorgeous blonde's legs, and you were the furthest thing from my mind. She wanted me, you know, and it was easy. We went back to her place and she tasted like cigarettes and fake cherries. Ironic, right? We were on the bed and I was unbuttoning her shirt, her tits falling out, soft and ripe, and I bit one, nuzzled in, tasted the salt of her skin and wanted nothing more than to sink inside of her as deep as I could go. And then there was metal beneath my tongue, between my lips. You know what it was? I was licking a fucking cross; it was hanging off a thin chain, hidden there in the vale of her breasts. This tiny silver cross that had stuck to her skin and left a red indent along one side. It tasted like a knife. And when she said, "Hey, baby," and pulled me closer, I didn't even want her any more. All I wanted was to hear your stupid voice saying, "I don't understand, Dean."

Sometimes I call your number and that's what I hear. "I don't understand... why do you want me to say my name?" Over and over. I keep thinking one time I'll ring and it won't go through, but it always does.

I'm so tired, Cas. I get into bed at night and I feel like an old man. I'm sick of talking to stupid people, who lie to me and disbelieve their own eyes, and do everything they can to keep that so-called peace of yours. I go out after every hunt and get fucked up. Because it's easy, you know.

Easier than thinking of you.

* * *


This entry was originally posted at http://cupidsbow.dreamwidth.org/376027.html.
Tags: dean/castiel, fiction, supernatural
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