call me crazy one more time. (super_six_one) wrote in super_fic,
call me crazy one more time.
super_six_one
super_fic

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Let's bow our heads and let the angels sing

Title: Let’s Bow Our Heads and Let the Angels Sing
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,311
Summary: Dean writes to Sam.
Rating: R [language, incest, major character deaths]
Disclaimer: Don’t own these guys; simple as that.
Spoilers: Through AHBL2; AU past that.
Notes: Wrote this for spnflashfic some time ago - not sure if it's worth reposting, but what the hell.



Let's bow our heads and let the angels sing



16 February 2013

Man, why you bought me this journal thing is beyond me. It’s not like I’m ever going to use it, except now, and I’m only using it now because you’re looking over at me with that “I spent good money on that journal” look you have, and I think if I don’t use it, you won’t let me have pie. And a man’s gotta have him some pie, or else life has no meaning. I can’t remember who said that. I think it was Carter, or maybe Nixon. He looks like a pieman. Looked.



17 February 2013

I can’t believe you made me go to church after all the shit we did last night. And I can’t believe you’re going to be baptized, also in a church. You’re the weirdest person I know, and I fucking love you. That seems wrong now that I think about it, using FUCK in the same paragraph as CHURCH. Never mind the part about the incest. FUCK.



18 February 2013

You have no idea how happy it made me to see you’ve cut your hair. It’s very short, and it’s the first time I’ve seen your forehead in like, years. And I can see your ears. It’s kind of turning me on. The pen I’m using to write this is running out of ink, so I guess we’ll just have to go have sex instead.



19 February 2013

Got a job today. One of those REAL ones, with the weekly paychecks and the shitty health benefits and the really fucking annoying co-workers. But I also got to feel up a ’65 Ford Mustang, so I guess it was alright. I still can’t believe you’re working at an army-navy surplus. It’s so… not gay.



20 February 2013

It rained today. It was warm, though, which was weird. A chick with a shitty old 1980s Mercedes came into the shop and tried hitting on me. I told her I had a boyfriend at home. Then, I came home and I told you I loved you in the backyard in the rain. I will never show this to anyone, not even you.



4 March 2013

Bobby’s dead.



23 March 2013

We buried Bobby two weeks ago, and the only family that came to his funeral was his twenty-year-old daughter who couldn’t stay because she had this really important chemistry final. Bobby died a hero. People are evil, you said. And I couldn’t breathe, could you?



30 April 2013

Things are better now. I forgot about the journal you bought me, but only because of the flare of demon activity up north. And that it kind of slid into the crevice between the wall and the bed after all that fucking angry sex you keep INSISTING we ENGAGE in. It’s all your fault, bitch.



2 May 2013

I got



3 May 2013

Because I was so rudely interrupted last night, I got you the coolest fucking present ever. It really was awesome, wasn’t it? And the best thing about handcuffs is that they’re REUSABLE.



5 May 2013

Cinco De Mayo! I guess that means I’m going to have to drink until I pass out tonight! We live in good times, Sammy, good times.



4 July 2013

I think I’m actually getting better at this journal thing. I only wish I could remember to open it, though. Then I’d be really good at it. Yesterday, I put spinners on a Chevy Cavalier. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE. And the driver of the thing? He looked like Kellerman. Laughed my fucking ass off, Sammy. Wild.

BTW (that means “by the way”, in case you were wondering or anything), Happy Birthday, America!



5 July 2013

Your hair’s getting pretty long again, buddy. You oughta cut it. BTW, your French toast is like sex, only not quite so good, but really pretty good. You laughed when I told you. You should laugh more. AND THEN GET YOUR HAIR CUT!



2 December 2013

You once said that everything happens for a reason, and that God has a plan for all of us, no matter what evil’s mapped out for our lives. You said that after you pulled me out of hell. I’d always wondered if you remembered that, those couple of minutes after you pulled me through. Your body was steaming. Jesus, there I was, three months in hell (which was lifetimes too many, btw), not a scratch on me. But you, you had a 105 deg fever and this awful gash across your chest.

You nearly died, Sammy, and you kept saying “don’t do anything stupid, Dean, don’t do anything stupid, please” and Bobby was there and he told me “you better listen to your brother, boy” and “don’t you dare break his heart again” and you nearly died. In the end, it was Bobby who really saved you, because I couldn’t breathe, could you?

Then, the bleeding stopped and your temperature dropped and you looked up at me and smiled and I knew I loved you, REALLY loved you, right then and there. Is this the part where I can say: “the rest is history”? You should’ve seen your face when I took you to that piece of shit house in Cambria. PIECE OF SHIT HOUSE, but you loved it. You deserved it, Sammy, you deserved the world.

You and me, we fixed that house up pretty good, didn’t we? How the hell you knew how to do all the shit is beyond me. Shingle a roof, install a fucking kitchen, put up a Christmas tree? You were twelve shades of amazing, Sammy. We should’ve tried out NORMAL a lot sooner, probably. You’d still be alive. You’d be right here in the kitchen, probably giving me that “I spent good money on that journal” look you had down so goddamn well. Then the pen I’m writing this would start to dry up, and the rest is history. Yeah.

But instead, you’re buried in an oceanside cemetery, because that’s what you said you WANTED, you selfish son of a bitch. It’s always you. What about me? You left me, Sammy. You left me behind. Said you didn’t want me doing anything stupid. We should’ve made that your fucking catch phrase, huh? Put it on a coffee cup, maybe a shirt.

You died trying to protect a stranger. That’s you, always the fucking HERO, always trying to save everyone but yourself. Man, even superheroes die, though, didn’t you know?

There’s a gun on the table beside me and I’ve tried so hard to pull the trigger, but it doesn’t feel like the end.



5 July 2014

Do you remember the rain, Sammy? The way the rain was so warm and the sun was so bright and how I told you I loved you?

It’s been a year since you died, and the fog’s rolling off the ocean and the water is so, so blue. I can see it from your grave, just past the angel and the trees.

Today I took the highway, and the roads were slick because of the rain. I took a curve too sharp, and I lost control, and Jesus, Sam, that’s 200 feet straight down into the Pacific.

I thought about letting go, flying into the sky. I thought about my words on a page and my finger on the trigger, and then I saw you, Sammy, saw you move me back on the road and disappear.

Maybe I’m going crazy. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe it was something else. Are you watching out for me?

I believe in coincidence, pure luck unaffected by God, only I think you saved my life today, Sammy, but tomorrow’s Sunday, and I haven’t been to church in awhile. Maybe I’ll swing by.



NOTE: This is a little OOC, I know, but hey! I tried! :) Thanks for reading!

Tags: fic, sam/dean, slash, supernatural
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