Journal of A Man of Letters

Art and Text by Petite-Madame
An BIG thank you to (in alphabetical order) Becc-j, Maichan and Quickreaver for the English beta.
JOURNAL OF A MAN OF LETTERS -MASTER POST

Sam Winchester’s Journal – Entry #14


H-minus three.

I didn’t manage to tell Dean everything I wanted to. In fact, I didn’t manage to tell him a single word, except for the small talk and the usual lies about me feeling better. Even the joke of a note I prepared was useless. It seemed so simple when I rehearsed everything in my head last night. I could see myself in front of my brother, full of assurance, telling him with a calm yet firm voice to take care of himself and not bring me back. These were my last wishes and he had to respect them if he loved me.

But I couldn’t.

I guess that’s what people do all the time, pretend to be a better version of themselves when facing the ones they love. But they never speak the words. They just lower their eyes and walk away. I used to do the same thing with Dad. I can’t remember the number of “conversations” I had with him in my head. Well, except for that night I left for Stanford. The talk we had then was real for sure, and for the first time I had the guts to tell him everything I had kept bottled up for years. It worked so well and it was a helluva improvement in our father/son relationship. I don’t even know why it still surprises me. Our family has always had a certain talent when it came to expressing emotions. We can’t do it without flipping a table or two and breaking at least half a dozen of whiskey glasses in the process.

I tried to raise the topic of my last wishes again in the car, but Dean just shook his head without even looking at me. It was over, everything had already been said and this last attempt was useless.

None of this mattered now anyway. Kevin’s gonna give us the tablet in an hour or so. Then we’re gonna meet Crowley. Even if we manage to catch this bastard and cure him, I‘m gonna die because of the last Trial. I know it and bizarrely, it doesn’t even matter anymore. I don’t feel anything – no fear, no anger. I’m already dead. One foot in the Impala, the other in the grave.

Everything will soon be over, at last, and I’ll go to a better place with the knowledge that Dean and the whole world with him will be all right.

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    this is so beautiful. is it okay if i just sit here, stare at it… and cry a little??
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