When Cas is taken by the Empty, Dean scours the lore for ways to get him back. One of the first things he reads about is the ć矜鶎 (senbazuru), a Japanese myth that someone who folds 1000 origami cranes in the span of one year is awarded a wish. He doesnât really believe anything will come of it, butâwhat the hellâhe didnât used to believe in angels, either.
Every day over the next year, as he and Sam try different methods, each resulting in as much failure as the last, he tries not to give up. Every night, like an evening prayer, he pulls up a new sticky note (or five) and jots his thoughts and feelings onto the pad. Sometimes just doodles. Other times an attempt at poetry. Many of them tear-stained and illegible, not that it matters when theyâre folded up.
He loses count, but he keeps writing. He keeps folding. He hides the tiny scraps of yellow, blue, and green in every drawer and dark corner of his room, away from the pitying gaze of prying little brothers.
On the eve of the anniversary of Castielâs departure, Dean writes a single note. Surely heâs written a thousand by now. Surely it hasnât mattered. But he writes it anyway, tucking four sacred words into the creases of teal wings and a pointed beak. Then he crawls into bed, sets the wish gently on the pillow beside him, and falls asleep.
Somehow, he rests more peacefully than he has in a long, long time. And when he wakesâthough he can scarcely believe itâthe ocean eyes staring softly back at him are not, in fact, a dream.
