It's short, I know, but I'm hoping to make this longer. So far this is just something I wrote in five minutes because I was bored, so if it doesn't continue, it's because I have commitment issues.
A journal. A small, leather-bound journal sits on the wooden desk in front of him, just sitting there. It had been there on the desk when he entered, the only thing not covered in dust in the room. He walked across the room from his position on the bed, wary of the unfamiliar book, before deciding it was safe and slowly picking it up from the desk. The leather was split and torn, the pages worn from constant use. Sitting back on the bed, he opened it slowly, unsure how stable the binding was. After all, the journal did seem old. A small note fell from the pages and into his lap. Confused, he unfolded the small piece of paper and began to read.
People have told me that when you meet your soulmate, you can feel it. Like a sudden moment of realization, an explosion of love, a single second where nobody in the world matters as much as they do in that moment. Some people have described it as being the most important moment in your life, but to be honest, I don't really care.
I've never had that moment of realization, that spark of recognition, so I've never thought it necessary to make it the most important moment in my life. But I know who my soulmate is. Known him for years actually, many pain-filled, long years.
We met eight years ago, at a gas station in the middle of literally nowhere. I think he tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear him. I remember stealing a shitty car, a vintage looking white one that nobody cared about. I remember talking to him again, but this time I did listen. He was like an angel, showing up and being all sexy. Let me tell you, that was not my first thought. I was, to be honest, very intimidated.
I went through heaven and hell to be with him, yet I couldn't find the courage to tell him how I felt. So instead, I started writing letters. Letters addressed to him. Despite knowing I'd never have enough courage to send him the letters, I wrote them anyway and collected them in a little brown book, saving them for a reason unknown to even myself.
So Castiel, if you're actually reading this, these are my letters to you.
Sincerely,
Dean Winchester