Hi guys!
Okay. So, this is my first foray into the world that is Supernatural Fanfic, and it's going to be a weird one. Mostly because of how I see it in my head - it's not a story in the sense of a story, but it is, at the same time.
It's going to be short. And it's going to be far different from what I typically write (which you can check out if you're a fan of Morganville).
And yeah. So, quick request from you all, as well as the requisite "I don't own this." I like to ask that my readers do 4 things for me. Read, enjoy, fav/follow, review.
The second one on that list is most important for me, although we can all agree that you can't do number 2 if you didn't do number one. The others are, of course, optional, but very much appreciated.
And, of course, I don't own this. I don't own Dean, or Sam, or the world of Supernatural. I merely like to play with them from time to time, in my own head. And, now, in print.
Here you go. A love letter, if you will, from an unknown narrator to a beloved fictional character.
Dearest Dean,
I am so, so very sorry. You have met with a terrible destiny. It has been a long, hard, treacherous road for you; one full of pitfalls and despair and far too little goodness. You believe you have been cursed. You have been damned more times than you remember. You're so very tired, and yet the road seems endless.
You feel as if you are alone in this. Certainly you have Sammy, you have Castiel, you even have Crowley as much as it pains you to admit it. And yet, they have all traveled their own paths. Certainly, those paths intertwine with yours, sometimes those paths even become one for a distance. And of course, you remember those whose paths were all too short. They are with you, in your heart, your mind, your soul. But in the end, you are so terribly aware that you are alone.
I am sorry for that. But there can be no other way.
You have fought a hard, desperate fight for as long as you can remember. You have fallen, you have been victorious. You have, above all else, come to know fear. You know anger, too. And sorrow. And far too little joy.
For that I am sorry, as well.
You have been placed here to be a hero. Long after you are finally, truly laid to rest, when the world is dark and humanity is in its death throes, stories will still be told. Of brave men, men like you - who gazed into the darkness and did not flinch. Of individuals such as yourself that refused to hear that something was impossible, who made up their own rules to the game that is life, who scratched with bloodied fingers to carve out something that was real. Who carried the torch of truth no matter how it burned their flesh.
I am certain it is of cold comfort to you - you have never been one to desire fame - but your stories will be told to young men and women for millennia. These children will grow up knowing their duty while on Earth - to follow in your footsteps. To do the right thing, regardless of the consequences to themselves.
You don't know this, though. All you know is you have made a terrible mistake. You have unleashed the Darkness. As you sit, huddled in your father's Impala, yearning to be told what to do to make things right, you only know that you couldn't cut your brother down. Even at the expense of humanity itself.
And that's okay.
Of course, you don't know that it's okay. Even if you could hear my words, my beloved Dean Winchester, you would doubt their validity. You believe you deserve this. You believe you deserve to be punished. That you deserve this pain.
And I am the most sorry that you must feel this way.
It's not your fault, my darling. It never was.
I wish that I could touch you. That you could feel me here, beside you. That your world didn't have to be this dark, that your soul didn't have to be this heavy.
I have given you what I could, my child. I have given you the brightest of lights in the darkest of times. I have given you beauty where there was only meant to be ugliness. I have given you my love, when there was no love to be found.
The rest, I fear, is up to you.
Carry on, my wayward son. Carry on.