Dying is an Art: Letters to My Brother

Dying is an Art: Letters to My Brother

Title: Dying is an Art: Letters to my Brother

Author: Foxhunt2blue

Summary: During the events of 'Faith' Dean writes a series of letters to Sam in his journal, telling him everything he's afraid to speak aloud.

Rated: R for language/insinuated Wincest. If that squicks you run for the nearest exit and flee for the hills.

Spoilers: Mainly 'Faith' and mentions of episodes prior to 'Faith'

Pairing: None in fact, Sam/Dean on an emotional level

Disclaimer: The WB owns Supernatural I don't. *Razzberry* If I did we would see more nekkid!Dean and nekkid!Sam...okay fine I'm a bleedin' perv! *g*

Feedback: As long as it's useful in a good way. Flames shall be condemned to hell where they all belong. *g*

E-mail: foxhunter2blue@peoplepc.com

Author's Note: This short story is a filler of sorts between "Village of Voices" and its sequel "More Terrible than Death" which is still a WIP. For all intents and purposes the beginning of 'Faith' in my world took place in Arkansas in mid-April. This bunny popped in my head as I was walking to the corner market for cigarettes and feeling just a bit lost. I relate to Dean on a personal level in a number of ways the first not only being that I'm an older sibling but that I myself feel like a bit of a freak sometimes. As I was walking along the street I looked up at the stormy sky and was reminded of the cold, damp atmosphere in which 'Faith' takes place. No matter how ready we may be to accept our deaths it doesn't make it any easier to be forced to face ours or the death of those we love.

***

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

~ Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"

***

This story is dedicated with all my love to my father Len, who passed away of a massive heart attack at the age of 62 on April 26, 1993. I still feel your protection and presence even after all these years.

***

Journal of Dean Winchester

Saturday, April 15, 2006

I'm not good at this sort of thing Sammy…

God I suck at this emo-shit that you seem to thrive on, but being forced to face your own mortality does shit to your brain that you can't begin to comprehend. Then again maybe you can understand I never know with you. For a guy who always wants to talk out shit you can be close-mouthed as hell sometimes.

You just left here and I'm not ready to go…not really. Yeah, sure our gig its dangerous as all hell and we deal with death every day---just not ours. I'm not sure what made me want to tell you these things, but I just need too, and you know me Sammy. I'm always the hard ass, the big bro', the protector, I can't show you how I really feel. The only thing that ever manages to show is those baser emotions. Bet I surprised you with that, you know the whole Psyche 101, college boy crap.

I guess it was that look in your eyes when I finally got the nerve to look you in the eye.

Jesus, Sammy…

Do you think this is any easier for me. I don't want to see that pain in your eyes, I never have, but every god damn time I turn around there it is. That desperate glittering gaze that bores into my gut like a battering ram or maybe one of Dirty Harry's bullets. It cuts down deep, straight through all those damn brick walls I've been building up since mom died, since Connecticut. It's like you have this power over me and I've never let anyone have that kind of power…not even dad…despite what you think.

God, my hands are shaking so bad. I hate being like this…weak, helpless, and I just want to end it right now. Make it quick and painless.

Does that make me any less of a man?

I just don't know anymore Sam. I just don't.

***

Sunday, April 16, 2006

A priest came by today. I guess the hospital has him visit the terminal patients.

Terminal---now there's an interesting word.

I ask the nurse if she had a dictionary and she looked at me like I'd lost my fucking mind, but she got one any way. I guess she didn't want to seem to uncaring with the poor young man who's dying. God I hate the way they look at me! All tea and sympathy, fake smiles, and gentle understanding pats. I swear to God Sammy if one more motherly nurse pats my head I'm going to scream bloody murder.

Anyway where the hell was I…oh, yeah the word terminal. It means basically the end. It also means a device used to make an electrical connection. Now that's funny Sammy.