Good morning, Castiel,
It's Dean. I know, no one writes letters anymore. What year am I living in? What I also know, is that you love getting letters. I wrote it on this cool paper I found that kind of looks like an old map. I can't wait to see you Saturday. The calls don't start for 2 weeks, so I thought a letter would make up for it.
You wouldn't believe it. There was the cutest dog that I saw when I passed by the pet store yesterday. Maybe when you get home we can get a pet. I heard guinea pigs are good too. Also, the corner store dropped their price of ramen by 5 cents. I'll get you some.
I hope you are feeling okay. Charlie seemed really nice. Maybe you could share some of your writing with her. My favorite is that one about the boy and the wolf.
I hope your trench coat is keeping you warm. Hospitals can be pretty cold. I can't believe you still have that thing, and that it still looks decent. There's a car show in a few weeks. I'm going to bring the impala. Maybe I can find someone who loves her as much as you and I do. I miss talking cars with you, Cas.
The wings Gabriel gave you were nice, but you'll always be an angel, wings or not. Speaking of Gabe, I think he and Sam might be getting closer. Maybe now that both of their brothers are total wrecks they'll be able to bond over something. Who knows though? We all know stuff can get pretty weird when you put together a Novak and a Winchester.
Well, that's it for this letter. There will be more, I promise.
Have a great day,
Dean.
The book light made some words darker as the paper bent, and he was afraid the delicate page would disintegrate in his hands. He could almost feel the oils from his skin cracking through the it, so he slightly released his grip. The handwriting was so… Dean. It was sloppy and had odd capitals in random places where there shouldn't have been, but it were the quirks that made it beautiful.
He read the letter over and over, trying desperately to escape the darkening room he was in right now. With each moment the light of the moon rose higher and higher, eventually too high to brighten his window. The shadows slunk closer every second, eventually consuming everything except where the book light's glow touched.
The letter was so familiar, so horribly addicting. He was almost getting high off of longing. The yearn for home and his own bed and books and computer and Dean. How could it have only been five days here? He barely needed deodorant anymore because the bleach scent clung so easily to him. It wasn't possible, more than 7 more weeks here. How?
How? How? How?
Then, he looked out the window of his room. He could just jump out. Set off an alarm or two. Maybe doctors would run in, or walk. He didn't feel like they cared very much about him. It wouldn't matter though, by the time they would get there, he would already be gone.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he thought, something would happen. He knew it. It hurt how vague it was, but something was going to happen. Good or bad, he couldn't quite tell. He couldn't die in suspense, so he waited.
He read Icarus at the Edge of Time. He read it slowly and studied all the pictures of the supernova's and planets, making up names for the shades of pinks and blues. Stuff like Blueberry Core and Duskfall. Perfect. It told of a boy who flew his spaceship so close to a black hole, time got messed up, and in what was one short hour for him, millions of years had passed for his family back on the main ship. Cas was waiting for what felt like a million years for this thing to happen, just like Icarus' family had waited for him.
And then, there was a creak.
It was subtle, unnoticeable to someone who wasn't waiting.
A paper slipped beneath the door, white and haunting in the dark room. Castiel stood up and grabbed it, turning on the book light he had carried over with him. It was a list of all the patients in the hospital. One name though, was circled. In red marker one name stood out from the rest, grabbing Castiel's heart and ripping it up into shreds.
Patient number 21:
Amara Shurley.
And in the dark, Castiel fell to his knees, paper flying slowly from his trembling hands. His trenchcoat crumpled beneath him. His eyes closed steadily, breathing shuddering.
Amara Shurley. His Aunt. She was here. Right now. With him.
No.
This couldn't be happening. She was the reason he was here. He should be recovering, without her behind his back. He needed to tell someone. Everyone here was in danger, especially him.
Charlie. Charlie would know what to do.