I⦠I donāt 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. Youāll know why I died as well. Freaking brain tumours, man, they just donāt 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 wouldnāt be aware of this movie⦠Great, now you know this wasnāt 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. Youāll never know.
Anyway, I went off track. Not that Iām actually following a plan here⦠Iām writing this on the same day as my diagnosis. I havenāt even told you yet. But I know I have, at most, four months to live; the tumour is basically eating my brain. I havenāt told Sam either.
Iām scared, Cas. Iām scared of dying.
Itās irrational, I know. Iāve died⦠a lot. But not like this. This is⦠This is different. Iām 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 Iām afraid of is leaving you and Sammy behind. Youāve said it yourself, Cas, Sam is an āabominationā, and Iām pretty sure heaven doesnāt really have much room for abominations⦠And you. A fallen angel. Is there room for you in heaven? Cas, Iām afraid of never seeing you both again.
Cas, Iām going to write you loads of these letters, okay? Weāll call it therapy. Hopefully it will help me get through the coming weeks, give me a project, because Iām assuming hunting will be deemed off limits for me. Iām hoping these will be a kind of therapy for you, too, after Iām gone. Maybe you can read them to Sam or something, I donāt know. I guess I just want you guys to be okay.
Until we meet again,
Dean