Description
A few days ago, Dean received a letter. He hadn't recognized the address so he’d been half tempted to simply toss it. It’s Sam who suggests he at least read it.
"The worst thing that can happen is you wind up with a paper cut,” the younger Winchester had joked.
Ever the comedian that one.
Still, despite the suggestion, Dean had ignored the letter for a few days, paying more mind to finishing up their latest hunt. It isn’t until Dean pulls the impala up to Bobby's place and begins to settle in for the night does the letter even cross his mind. Curious and somewhat bored, he reaches over the edge of the bed, drawing his duffle bag closer and into finer reach. He shuffles through, eventually extracting the letter after a bit of rummaging. It's a bit wrinkled but there no rips or tears. Messily Dean unseals the envelope and withdraws the neatly folded slips of yellow stationary papers.
It's been ages since he’s received a handwritten letter. The words are written in fine and pristine cursive and the calligraphy is one the Winchester doesn't recognize. 'Dear Dean,' it starts and Dean shifts to settle down on the bed more comfortably, drawing his legs up onto the mattress and crossing his feet at the ankle. His eyes skim the first few lines as he settles into the few pillows available for him to prop up.
Dear Dean,
If you are reading this, then I've somehow managed to track you down. You're a difficult man to find. I hope this letter well. Are you still chasing after mythical being, hmm? I jest...it's hard to write this letter, to put my thoughts and worries into written word. But I feel as though I have to—I must!—get my feelings across. I'll do my best not to bog you down with trivial recounts and redundant testimonies.
Frankly, I miss you. I used to think about you a lot when you first left, but now you only cross my mind when I feeling down and need something cheer me up. That's good, I suppose. It means I spend less of my time sad. But I always miss you, even if you're not at the forefront of my mind. I still get excited when I receive the letters and books you send my way. I've got them all neatly stored in attic. Daniel always makes sure to send them my way since you’re impossible to find and I’ve no way of telling you of my new addresses.
Oh! Do you remember elderly couple, the one whose son was going blind? Well I 'met' him, their son I mean. His name is Adrien. When you left I started attending the group therapy sessions again and eventually he worked up the nerve to talk to me. Turns out he's only 'blind' in one eye. He's isn’t completely ‘blacked out—his words, not mine—but it's certainly difficult for him to make anything out with his left eye. He's a great guy, Dean. He makes me laugh and cry and feel every emotion in between. I think I can feel this way now thanks to you.
Anyhow, I left the hospital, Adrien and I together really. I just couldn't see the point in wasting away there as opposed to being alive out here. The only other times go back now are for my bi-monthly check-ups, my occasional lunch visits with Daniel and, my personal favorite, the old ultra sound visits and the birth of my son.
We named him Oliver. It's a family name on Adrien’s side of the family and I'm as partial to it as Adrien. It's actually rather funny. Oliver means 'olive tree' and olive branches are a symbol of peace and love. And that's exactly what he is. He brings peace into my life and he was born of the love between Adrien and I, the love I didn't know I still had until you came along and showed me. He's three at the moment and too smart for his own good. Always up to no good that one. Also, most importantly, he is healthy. He doesn't have my illness. It's genetic, but he doesn't have the necessary alleles for it, plus it helps that he's male. I must've cried for hours when I heard the good news. It’s a good thing Adrien was there. Someone needed to keep a level head, though I'm fairly certain he teared up quite a bit too.
I’m rambling. I don't really know what the point of this letter is: to tell you about my life as it is now or to find out if yours is going well? I think I got a bit lost along the way. I don’t know if this letter will actually ever find its way to you. I can only hope that it does. That way—if it does—then I can finally tell you how thankful I am for being able to have met you…to show you I’ve stayed true to my word.
No more resignation.
PS: Oliver loves the ‘Little Prince.’ You know, the first book you gave to me? It’s his favorite and it’s mine as well. He has his father read it to him almost every night.
PSS: I’ve told him about you, recounted all of your crazed tales to him as bedtime stories—omitting certain scary bit, mind you—and he adores them all. He really wants to meet you and I hope that one day he will.
~Sincerely yours, (Name) Collins
The oldest Winchester sits up, uncrossing his legs and drawing his knees up so that he can rest his elbows upon them. His head is swimming. It’s been years since he first met (name)—seen her, heard her voice, held her body in his arms—and here was this letter. Dean had never been on the receiving end, always too on the move to have a permanent address. He supposes he could’ve just used Bobby’s address, but it never occurred to him before now. He really wished that it had. He lets out a heavy sigh that blends into a sort of laughter.
It felt good, even after all this time, to hear from her. Even without her being present, Dean could imagine the pitch and tones of her voice in his head as he read each shrewd word. A smile settles on his face as he recounts their time together—from the day they met to the moment they bid one another farewell.
"I'm fine, Dean. I wasn't before but I am now. I'm alright, I promise,” she had said.
And Dean can see now just how much she really meant it…how much she had stayed true. That was thing Dean admired about (name): her ability to be open to others opinions yet somehow manage to stay true to herself. Perhaps even incorporate those new and foreign ideals into her already preexisting ones. She’d gone out into the world and made something of the hand fate had dealt her. She’d fallen in love, gotten married, had a child, and created that warm home every child longs for. The sort of home Dean himself used to long for. It almost made him a bit envious. This Adrien managed to sweep in and take up the gem that was (name) and start a life with her. Dean would only be lying if he said such thoughts never crossed his mind.
“Well played, man. Well played…”
With a toothy grin and a chuckle, Dean slides the top page—(name)’s genuine letter—behind the other remaining page. With a warmth swelling in his chest—something he hasn’t felt for quite some time—his eyes set out to read the second and final page. The handwriting is the same, relaying that whoever wrote this letter likely wrote the first it in (name)’s stead.
Hello, Dean,
My name is Adrien and I’m sure you’ve already read a decent bit about me by now. My wife wrote this letter 4 years ago with the hopes of sending it off to you one day. Unfortunately, she recently passed away a few months ago…
Dean halts immediately, heart lurching at those words. He didn’t even know he could still feel that way anymore. It had been so long, but…(name) was still so important. He takes in a deep breath, running a lone hand through his messy hair.
“Damn it…” he finds himself muttering aloud somewhat angrily and he almost doesn’t want to finish the rest of the letter.
But he has to. He simply must…he owed her that much.
As I was searching the attic for some old photos, I came across the books and letters, the one you just read in particular. It was then I knew what I had to do. I simply had to track you down…for her. I managed to narrow down the send addresses from all the previous letters and find one that came up a few decent times. I can only hope his letter makes it to you, Dean, so that you can finally receive the thank you she has been longing to give you...and mine as well. I'm not sure I'll ever understand what the two of you had, but I do respect and appreciate it. Without you, I don't think I would've ever been able to spend these last few years with the love of my life. You changed her for the better, helped her see the good that was always there. Thank you for that.
I'm not sure if you'd be interested, or if this letter even got to you, but my son, Oliver, has been dying to meet you. (Name)'s told him all of your stories and he finds you absolutely fascinating. Perhaps you'd be interested in meeting him too. Below I've written both my cell and home number. If you find yourself feeling up to it, just give me a call. (Name) has always wanted him to meet you, but if you're not comfortable with the whole thing then I completely understand. I sincerely hope to hear from you.
Home: (XXX)XXX-XXXX
Cell: (XXX)XXX-XXXX
-Adrien Collins
Dean throws himself heavily back onto his pillow, teeth gritted as mixed feelings swam in his chest cavity. He’d always pondered upon a day where they’d meet again: a day where they’d settle on down on that hospital bed and talk the day away. Dean can only suppose that his memories with (name) never aged, leaving her in a timeless state. It never occurred to him that she too would go on with her life, undergo so many life changes. That one day she really wouldn’t be here anymore…
And her illness…it, more than often than not, slipped his mind.
He never meant to seem so insensitive, but (name) behaved, spoke, and lived in such a manner that often times Dean could convince himself she was only staying at the hospital until she healed up from a recent surgery or something of the like.
Dean can feel a heat at the back of his eyes, but he refuses to acknowledge it. He rises to his feet, neatly folds the letters, slips them back into the tattered remains of what was once an envelope. He places it upon the bedside table and, without so much as a second thought, heads to the bathroom for a much needed shower.
Dean’s shower is a bit longer than normal and as the heated water cascades over his skin he thinks. Dean thinks, muses, and ponders. He winds up leaving the bathroom without having come any closer to any sort of revelation. He dresses slowly, ignoring the chill against his damp skin. Wearily he sits down on the bed, elbows resting on his knees and head help in his hands.
There, in silence, Dean mourns.
The past…
The time lost…
Her passing…
The present…
There Dean allows himself to lament over the many things he’d never allowed himself to before.
The quick succession of buzzing from the bedside table draws Dean from his comatose stupor. With both curious and weary eyes, he looks to his cellphone resting on the nightstand. Dean is motionless, wordless, and contemplative as he gazes at the device. Almost hesitantly he stretched his body and slides the phone off the edge and into his awaiting hand below.
Somewhere inside he almost wishes it’s (name)’s ghost calling after him in an attempt to reprimand him for never visiting her. That thought manages to coerce a small chuckle from his dry throat. Unsurprisingly, it not a call from beyond the grave, but instead a text from Sam.
‘You awake?’ the text reads and with a sigh Dean sends a short reply.
Dean lets the device fall into his lap as he moves to run both his hands through his still damp hair. It’s borderline unfair, but Dean knows he really should be used to this sort of thing: this constant flow of emotional let downs. He really should be used to it…but somehow somethings still managed to get to him, things that made him want to quit it all. To quit the whole shebang and give in…
No!
He couldn’t be this way…not after they both worked so hard to be better than this. Not after he vowed to continue these hunts not because he knew no other way of life or because it was expected of him, but instead because he felt a genuine desire to take care of the world so people like (name) could live peacefully in it.
Dean was more than just big talk and he knew it. It was okay to want to grieve over her death, but he was going to do nothing more than that. He wouldn’t let it consume him. Instead he’d use her life and his memories of her as fire to incense his passion, his will, and his resolve. Dean snaps to his feet almost immediately as the though crosses his mind, fingertips folding tightly about the cellular device in his hand.
He knew what he needed—had—to do.
“Sometimes you don’t need eyes to be blind.”
(Name) worked so hard to find her ‘sight’ and Dean would be damned if he’d lose his.
Slipping on his shoes and snatching up the letter, Dean exits the room with slightly hurried feet and makes his way to the front door
"Headin’ out?" Sam inquires from his place of the sofa in the living room, a thick leather bound book cradled in his hands.
The youngest Winchester flips his book over on his lap to save his page before he looks back to his brother with curious eyes. Dean offers him a small smirk and despite the minuteness of the gesture, so much confidence is packed within that single smile.
"Yeah. I need to make a call," Dean replies as he snags his jacket from the coat rack and easy slips into its form.
Sam quirks his lips a bit confused as to why Dean needed to make this call outside, but Sam is wise enough not to question certain things. Dean was peculiar that way sometimes and Sam never saw any reason not to leave the quirk be.
“Alright,” Sam says simply, a light smile tugging at his lips, “Try and stay warm, yeah? You won’t be any use to me if you catch a cold.”
Dean snorts with mock indignation, flipping his younger brother bird before heading out the door. The winter air hits him hard, but Dean doesn’t pay it much mind as he scales the steps of the porch. His gaze shifts to the portable device in his hands and he meanders down lamp lit sidewalk. Smoothly Dean unlock the phone and opens up the dial pad.
He had a call to make.
The phone rings a couple of time before a voice, tired and small, answers.
“Hello?” a tiny voice inquires and Dean is instantly aware of whom he is speaking to.
“Oliver, right? This is Dean. Is your father home?”
A yawn crackles through the line, “Dean? Like my mom’s friend Dean?”
“Yeah. That’s right, kid.”
“Oh!” the voice calls out, a bit more enthusiastically and more awake, “Dad! Dad, come here!”
Dean can hear a male voice in the background and something about ‘what are you doing up’ and ‘who are you talking to.’
“It’s Dean, Dad! The Dean mom talked about!”
“What?” the older voice asks almost skeptically.
“He said so himself. I swear!”
A silence falls upon the two on the other end of the line before the male—Adrien, Dean is positive—speaks in a hushed a voice, so quiet Dean almost misses the words.
“I don’t believe it. (Name), I don’t believe it…”
There’s a hurried shuffle feet to the phone Dean lets a thought cross his mind. There were a lot of things Dean isn’t, but one things he certainly is—somethings he’s always been—is a man of his word.
Resigned is no way to live!”
And live in resignation he certainly wouldn’t. For himself, for her and for everyone who’s ever managed to wriggle their way into his venerable heart…and for those who had yet come along to do so.
“Hello? Dean?” the man calls softly, almost hesitantly, as though any loud noise would make this moment somehow untrue.
Dean chuckles to himself before his speaks, his warmth breath condensing as it meets the chilled atmosphere.
“Hey. You must be Adrien. I’ve read a lot about you...”