Author: FeathersMcStrange PM
He started the letter several times before he got it right. But did he really get it right? How could he have. There is no right way to say goodbye to your baby brother. Yet here was Dean, writing words on a tearstained page, hoping it would be enough.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Family/Angst - Dean W. & Sam W. - Chapters: 2 - Words: 2,636 - Reviews: 30 - Favs: 29 - Follows: 18 - Updated: 05-20-12 - Published: 05-19-12 - id: 8129631
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
So, I sat down intending to write another The Road So Far drabble, and out came this. I don't know why, but I hope you like it.
Dean is writing a letter to Sam, the night before he is scheduled to die in season three.
Planning on making it a three part piece, with Sam's reading the letter and then after Dean gets back from Hell. Do you want to see the rest of it?
Please review, let me know what you think!
Well, it would appear I've finally bit it-
When Sam read this, he would have just died. It would be no time for lighthearted jokes.
You have to let me go. There's nothing you can do-
He couldn't be that harsh. No way no how. Not when Big Brother wouldn't be there to comfort him when the blunt words ended up hurting so bad he started to cry.
I love you-
That wasn't it either. While writing it the way their father would have would surely make Sam burst into tears, an open declaration like that would do just the same.
I know you're hurting. I'm gone and believe me, I would know better than most about how much it sucks to lose your brother. Please, I'm begging you little brother, don't be angry at me for doing this. You died right in front of me, in my arms, and I couldn't handle it. But you're stronger than me, Sammy, and you can make it. Bobby will help, I know he will, and you'll be okay.
You have to be okay. If you can't bring yourself to do it for you, do it for me. Live the life I won't. Take care of yourself.
All of my life, my job has been 'take care of Sammy'. 'Look after Sammy'. 'Keep Sammy safe'. I know that a lot of the time you think I resent you for that, but I don't. God, kiddo, I don't hate you. Especially not for that.
I can remember when I was little, and we were moving all around the country and staying in motel rooms. You were the sweetest little kid, all big brown eyes and floppy hair. We'd be sitting in the back seat, and you'd climb up into my lap and fall asleep. Just right there, all curled up and tiny.
And then something happened. You grew up. You weren't a little baby who could fall asleep with my jacket as a blanket. But every time I look at you, I still see that baby. Your eyes, Sammy, your eyes have stayed the same.
Another thing from when we were kids comes to mind. You used to have nightmares - still do, and don't think I haven't noticed - and when you woke up Dad could never get you back to sleep. You'd be cryin' and cryin' and you wouldn't stop until I picked you up and held you. 'De' you would say (That's what you called me. De. Still do when you're out of it.) and I would ask you what was the matter. You'd smile at me, and tell me that nothing was the matter anymore. As long as De was around, nothing could hurt you. I protected you.
That's what I'm doing with the Deal. Protecting you.
I know that I don't have the right to ask you for anything, I've already left you all alone, but listen to me.
Don't cry over me Sammy.
Dear God, don't you cry. Because if you cry, wherever I am (Hell or wherever) I will know. I always know. And it's going to suck twice as bad for both of us because for the first time I won't be able to be there to make it all better again.
Baby brother, please don't cry.
I guess seeing as this is the last time I'm ever going to talk/write to you, I better say it. I love you, Sammy. There. I said it. Trust you to turn me into a chick, Sam. But you needed to hear it, and I needed to say it. Write it. Whatever. Either way, I mean it. I really do. I'm not joking, or being sarcastic. I. Love. You.
I'm not doing it, giving up my life, because it's my job (even though it is). I'm not doing it because it's my responsibility (even though it is). I'm not doing it because it's some kind of obligation (even though it is).
I'm doing it because I love you. When it all gets too hard, remember that, okay? When you feel like the world is closing in on you, and something's crushing your heart in a vice, and it hurts so bad you can't breathe, remember why I did this.
So, I guess this is goodbye, isn't it? Goodbye, Sammy. It sounds so strange. You never got to say goodbye, that day in Cold Oak. At least I get that.
The glovebox in the Impala is where you'll find this, though I suppose you already know that, don't you? Anyway, goodbye, good luck, and take care of yourself.
Everything will be okay, Sammy. I promise. It's all gonna be okay.