Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to Supernatural. Eric Kripke and the CW have that incredible privilege.
The Letter
By: Vanessa Sgroi
There is not much time left now—a little more than an hour. My stomach's churning thinking of the Hell Hound making its appearance. I'm sitting here in yet another motel room. Another dingy, dreary one, but appropriate, I guess. For a few minutes, I considered waiting in the Impala. It's really the only real home I've ever known—the place where I've always felt most comfortable and safe—but couldn't bring myself to do it.
I actually showered and dressed in my best clothes a little bit ago. Hey, if I have to go out, I might as well go out looking good. Now there's only one thing left. One very important thing left to do. Sitting down at the tiny, faux walnut table, I stare down at the blank piece of paper in front of me, hesitating for a second before picking up the pen.
Dear Sammy,
Please don't hate me—please don't hate me for disappearing and doing this alone. I couldn't stand the thought of you actually being here to see the end of the deal. It's my last gift to you—though I know you won't see it that way.
I couldn't go without saying goodbye. I screwed up everything else all my life, but I won't screw up this. I never told you—never really knew how to say it—but you're the best little brother a guy could ever have. You probably would've liked to hear that before now, huh? Sorry.
Please have a good life, Sammy. Forget hunting. Go to law school (you'll make a great lawyer). Find a wife. Have some kids. Have the normal life you've always longed for. Please. Do it for me. Just promise you'll take care of the Impala. My baby's got a lot of life left in her.
I . . . I LOVE you, little bro. Always have.
Dean
Putting down the pen, I ignore the little trio of wet spots suddenly decorating the paper and smearing the ink while scrubbing the moisture from my cheeks. I fold the letter and stuff it in the envelope before scrawling "Sam" across the front. Grabbing the keys to the Impala, I jog to the car and leave the envelope on the driver's seat and leave the keys under the seat, even though Sam has a set of his own.
Returning to the room, I stretch out on the bed and pull out my cell phone. I scroll down through the list of familiar numbers and stop at the most familiar one of all. I press "Dial" and listen as it starts to ring. I hear the deep voice before the first ring ends.
"Dean? Dean, where are you?" The grimness I hear in his voice rips my heart in half and I feel wetness once again on my cheeks.
"Sleep Tight Motel. Lawrence." Nearly choking, I hang up before he can say anything. He won't make it here until long after everything is over. I just want him to come get the Impala and the letter—my final goodbye.
A glance at my watch shows that I only have a few minutes now. You'd think I'd be preparing to fight, but I can't. That spark was snuffed the minute I hugged Sam after finding him alive and well in that cabin in Cold Oak. Instead I lie back against the pillows, close my eyes, and wait—wait for the terrible sound of hellacious clawing at the door.
Fini
