Nothin To See Here Folks

There are a couple of close calls, like that time Dean found Sam reading a beat up copy of his anthology and had to stumble through an increasingly awkward conversation about how relevant and poignant his works were when read through the eyes of a hunter, or when he, on autopilot, corrected the high school English teacher they just saved from a rougarou when she quoted one of his works wrong.

When they stumble upon a prophet’s book series about their lives, well, Dean is sure the jig is up. Sam will find out his pie-loving, badass, macho, high school dropout of a brother writes poetry of all things and he’ll never hear the end of it. When there’s no mention of it in the Supernatural books, well, he breathes a sigh of relief. (What he doesn’t know, is that one Chuck Shurley, God, is so goddamn jealous that Dean is a better writer that he deliberately leaves it out.)

At one point Sam puts a couple pieces together, and quietly pulls Dean aside.

“Y’know Steve Tyler? How I always thought his works were relatable?”

Dean, sweating, nods. Goddamnit, he knew that latest book about the apocalypse and destiny was a little too on the nose.

“Do you think it’s Chuck?”

Dean almost sags in relief. “Yeah, seems like something that little twerp would do.”

When they meet Metatron, it takes the threat of sticking an angel blade where the sun don’t shine for his secret to stay safe.

“Don’t worry,” the nerdy rat says, voice high and reedy, “I won’t tell Sam about your sickening love poems about short and grumpy over there.”

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t told Sam. He’s been holding onto this secret for so long, holding this so close to his chest, that the thought of other people knowing would kill him.

When his secret does come out, it’s simultaneously earth shattering and anticlimactic. Cas casually strolls into the bunker and announces that he’s finished reading Dean’s works, before tossing a faded and well read copy onto the table. Sam loses his mind.

There’s a long break, between poems, when things are at their worst. When Mary dies, again, he posts a single sentence to his website and doesn’t touch a pen for a long time.

I learned to love more than the idea of you, but I learned it too late.

Later, once they’ve saved the world (again), and Chuck has been dealt with, Dean sits down in the bunker, and stares at his notebook. All the little things that have been sitting in his chest stab at him like knives.

He thinks about Cas. Cas, telling him the one thing Dean was only ever able to say behind three layers of metaphor, saying those three words like it’s easy. Cas being swallowed up by the empty. Cas, who read Dean’s poetry so much the cover was soft and cracked with repeated use, where the pages were worn and frayed at the edges.