I… I don’t know what to write… I never… God, I never, ever though this would happen. Um, by the time you get this, I will be dead. Gone. Dust in the wind. You’ll know why I died as well. Freaking brain tumours, man, they just don’t know when to give up, right?
So maybe I stole this idea from some cheesy romance movie, but given the fact you are a celestial being, or, well, you used to be, I figured you wouldn’t be aware of this movie… Great, now you know this wasn’t an original idea.
You must realize though, there are seven billion people on this planet, surely if supposedly seven people look identical to me, at least seven people will think exactly like me. So maybe, the idea of writing these letters was an original thought, which was also thought by six other people. You’ll never know.
Anyway, I went off track. Not that I’m actually following a plan here… I’m writing this on the same day as my diagnosis. I haven’t even told you yet. But I know I have, at most, four months to live; the tumour is basically eating my brain. I haven’t told Sam either.
I’m scared, Cas. I’m scared of dying.
It’s irrational, I know. I’ve died… a lot. But not like this. This is… This is different. I’m not dying for a cause. My body will not be raised from the dead this time. Hell, I might even get into heaven this time round.
But the thing I’m afraid of is leaving you and Sammy behind. You’ve said it yourself, Cas, Sam is an “abomination”, and I’m pretty sure heaven doesn’t really have much room for abominations… And you. A fallen angel. Is there room for you in heaven? Cas, I’m afraid of never seeing you both again.
Cas, I’m going to write you loads of these letters, okay? We’ll call it therapy. Hopefully it will help me get through the coming weeks, give me a project, because I’m assuming hunting will be deemed off limits for me. I’m hoping these will be a kind of therapy for you, too, after I’m gone. Maybe you can read them to Sam or something, I don’t know. I guess I just want you guys to be okay.
Until we meet again,
Dean