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It’s not fair to Sam, or Eileen now that she’s in the bunker. Dean knows this. It isn’t fair to the people who died to get them to a world where freedom knows no bounds. It isn’t fair to himself, when he’d sworn up and down that, if he survived Chuck, he would never go near a hunt ever again. He’d find a little house, or a nice plot of land where he could build one. He’d get a pet. He’d have a home with windows and a fresh breeze, and he’d walk around in his boxers and make two cups of coffee in the mornings.
When he’d dare to imagine life after Chuck, he’d always imagined it coming in sets of twos. Two cups of coffee, and two pairs of shoes by the door. Two chairs on the balcony, and two closets in the bedroom. Two pillows, at least, on the two sides of the bed. A set of blue eyes, and two people—one not-person—figuring out what peace is supposed to feel like. He never dared to want it out loud. He never thought he could.
Magic wishing wells, he muses, watching Sam talking on the phone through the window. We’re down to the reruns.
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While chasing a case, Sam and Dean stumbled across a cursed wishing well. What comes back isn't quite what Dean wished for. -
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Bookmark Notes:
Lwk one of my favorites, if not my actual favorite
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Bookmark Notes:
Beautiful. Fave.
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Bookmark Notes:
so you say you want a deathbed scence
goldandtherust