Chapter Text
“Sir?” she repeats. “How soon do you want it to get there?”
Dean rubs his aching knuckles. Looking down at them, he realizes that the skin has split and there are splotches of dried blood on his fingers. "It doesn't matter."
Dean watches the clerk place the box on a rubber pad. The same blue shoebox that sat on his porch just over twenty-four hours ago; rewrapped in a brown paper bag, sealed with clear packing tape, exactly as he had received it. But now, it is addressed with a new name. A false name that will lead to a real person. The last person on Castiel Novak's list.
“It should arrive at this address tomorrow,” she says. “Maybe the day after tomorrow.” Then she drops the box into a cart behind her.
Dean forces a smile. He leaves the post office without his change.
Tomorrow, those tapes are going to turn someone else's life upside down.
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YESTERDAY
2 HOURS BEFORE SCHOOL
Dean swears under his breath as he pads down the wooden stairs. He wipes the sleep off his eyes, and grumbles that the person ringing the doorbell at six in the morning better be Jesus or else Dean is going to start throwing punches around like confetti.
But turns out it's not the Second Coming. He opens the door to a bearded mailman holding a rectangular box. “May I help you?” Dean says with a little more irritation than he intends.
“Package for…” The mailman trails off as he sneaks a glance at the box for a name. “Mr. Dean Winchester?”
“That’s me.” Dean replies. The mailman hands him the package and Dean smiles his thanks. He flips the box in his hands, and sees DEAN WINCHESTER and his address written in neat block print. “Wait, no return address?”
“No,” the man says as he climbs into his delivery van. “I’m afraid not, son.”
Dean heads inside and sets the package on the kitchen counter. He grabs a pair of scissors and cuts the brown paper bag wrapped around what appears to be a blue shoebox. He lifts the lid only to find a rolled-up tube of bubble-wrap, and inside are seven loose cassette tapes. Every tape was numbered in the upper right-hand corner, possibly with a black marker. Each side has its own number: One and two on the first tape, three and four on the second, five and six on the third, and so on. The last tape has the number thirteen on one side, but nothing on the back.
Who would send Dean a shoebox full of cassette tapes? As his younger brother always tells him, no one else besides Dean listens to cassette tapes anymore. It turns out that boy genius Sam Winchester can be wrong every once in a while.
I can’t wait to rub these cassette tapes on Sam’s face when he wakes up.
He carries the tapes to the garage, where his black ’67 Chevy Impala is parked. He gets into the car, pats his baby’s dash and inserts the first tape into the player. He presses play.
CASSETTE 1: SIDE A
Hello, boys and girls. Castiel Novak here. Live and in stereo.
Dean stiffens. I don’t believe it.
No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests.
Dean doubtfully shakes his head.
This can’t be possible. A week ago, Castiel Novak swallowed a handful of pills. He never woke up.
I hope you’re ready, because I’m about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you’re listening to these tapes, you’re one of the reasons why.
What? No!
That can’t be. They haven’t spoken for a month before Castiel died. Dean has no idea how he could have possibly been a reason for Castiel’s suicide.
I’m not saying which tape brings you into the story. But fear not, if you received this lovely little box, your name will pop up…I promise. Now, why would a dead boy lie?
Hey! That sounds like a joke. Why would a dead boy lie? Answer: because he can’t stand up.
Dean huffs a silent laugh but quickly chastises himself. He is laughing at a joke a dead boy made a week ago.
Go ahead. Laugh.
Oh well. I thought it was funny.
Maybe this whole thing is just some cruel joke.
Now I know some of you are probably wondering why I recorded these tapes. Well, the rules are pretty simple. There are only two, so make sure you remember them. Rule number one: you listen. Number two: you pass it on. Hopefully neither one will be easy—
“Dean?” Sam knocks on the car door. Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. He quickly presses pause and rolls down his windows. “What are you doing up so early? And you’re just sitting there, too, daydreaming.”
“Oh,” Dean scrambles for a plausible answer. “I was just listening to dad’s old tapes.”
Sam’s features soften as he says, “Okay, I’ll leave you to it then. Mom just wants you to know that breakfast is ready.”
“Thanks,” Dean replies, “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.” He feels bad for lying. He waits until his brother pulls the door shut before placing his finger on the play button. He hovers over the black triangle for a minute; he cannot find it in himself to have the strength to push a single button. Hitting play the first time was easy, he had no idea what he was about to hear.
But this time, it’s the most frightening things I’ve ever done.
Dean sucks in a breath and presses play.
…for you. When you’re all done listening to all thirteen sides—because there are thirteen sides to every story—rewind the tapes, put them back in the box, and pass them on to whoever follows your little tale. And you, lucky number thirteen, can take the tapes straight to hell. Depending on your religion, maybe I’ll see you there.
In case you’re tempted to break the rules, understand that I did make a copy of these tapes. Those copies will be released in a very public manner if this package doesn’t make it through all of you. I’d say you wouldn’t want that.
This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Do not take me for granted…again.
You are being watched.
Dean feels like there is bile rising in his throat. He feels nauseous. He raises his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. No way could Castiel think that.
He checks the wrapper again—no return address. No clue as to who sent him the tapes. No clue as to who might be watching him.
I almost forgot. If you’re on my list, you should have received a map. Throughout the tapes, I’ll be mentioning several spots around our lovely city for you to visit. I can’t force you to go—and some of you are too far away to visit anyways—but if you’d like a little more insight, just head for the stars. Or, if you’d like, just throw the maps away, and I’ll never know.
A few weeks ago, just days before Castiel took the pills, someone stuck an envelope underneath the windshield wiper of his car. The outside of the envelope said SAVE THIS—YOU’LL NEED IT. Inside was a folded up map of the city, dotted with red stars in different areas around town. He kept the map. He meant to show it around school to ask if anybody else got one too, but over time it was buried beneath his books that he’d forgotten all about it.
Until now.
He hits the Pause button on the cassette player and puts the lid back on the shoebox, pushing it far away from him. He then climbs out of the Impala, and rushes to his room. He puts on the closest pair of jeans and t-shirt he can find, as well as throwing on his dad’s worn leather jacket. He rummages through his bag for the folder, and feels a wave of uncertainty when he finds it.
Castiel’s map.
Dean grabs his keys and runs to the kitchen, where his mother and his younger brother are engaged in a private conversation. Dean has a sneaking suspicion they are talking about Sam finding him sitting in the Impala listening to their late dad’s music. The conversation stops when he clears his throat.
Yeah, they were definitely talking about me.
“I don’t think I’m going to school today,” Dean says. “I don’t feel so good. I need to go get some fresh air.” He kisses his mom’s forehead and turns to Sam, “Do you want to take the car to school?”
“No, Dean. I’ll walk. Take the car.”
“Thanks Sammy.”
Dean’s mom looks at him like she understands, but she doesn’t, not really. Because this isn’t about his dad. This is about a boy who, a week ago, killed himself. Dean was one of the reasons why.
He opens the garage door then gets into his car. Dean starts the engine, but not before pressing play. It was just as difficult as the last time.
Or maybe I will. I’m not actually sure how this whole dead thing works. Who knows, maybe I’m standing right behind you right now.
I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.
But this story needs to begin, and every story must begin at where else? The beginning.
Ready, Miss Masters?