There is no more Sam
Gadreel, you don’t know where to start but it’s okay, we already know.
'tis the season for badly photoshopped ugly christmas sweaters
I stayed up all night using a text-to-speech program to make my computer say “poop.” Now I’m exhausted and dehydrated from crying from laughing so much and nobody will return my calls. I called every person I knew and left them all messages of my computer saying “poop” and me screaming and laughing until I threw up. Nobody cares if I’m dead or alive.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M OVERREACTING
They say that you can see everything, your whole life, flash before your eyes before you die. There was a lot of light. And it smelled like Dean was trying to cook again.
He didn’t see his life really. Not the part that had happened anyways. No the first thing he thought he saw was a golf course. He saw a sprawling postcard-perfect scene with a neat lawn and lots of white chairs like little picket fences line up like soldiers. But there was a rolled up paper with a ribbon in his hand, and big cumbersome sleeves of a robe dripping off his arms. And he turned to the empty field that was so quiet and so lonely, and he unrolled that paper just enough to see a beautifully embossed “Princet—” on it.
He let the roll snap shut again as he pressed it to his chest. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined them cheering. He imagined them shouting his name like a late night TV ad, screaming like newspaper headlines. And when he opened his eyes he expected to find his Mom and Channing in the front row hugging and crying because this—
This was a dream he had every other night. This image was what kept him awake.
But it wasn’t them there when he looked at the empty field again. It was two towering figures, in the back row. One had an old beat up jacket on and the other a plaid shirt that was fading with how many times it was washed. And the pain evaporated like cuts that got stitched up with dental floss and ibuprofen and all the world stopped hurting.
Dean whooped with pride. Sam was beaming.
And he punched the air with his diploma clenched in his fist. And he felt like everything was full of light. Everything was white hot and everything was buoyant and ringing in high pitched symphony. And it smelled like campfires.
And then everything was black.
He hoped that Dean would at least try to hide the black parts of the burnt burger at dinner that night.