journal-of-a-man-of-letters:

Sam Winchester’s Journal – Entry #45

Dean is gone. So much for his birthday party.

He left yesterday to track Gadreel and get some payback for Kevin’s death. I didn’t even try to hold him back, he wouldn’t have listened anyway. Nothing can stop my brother when revenge is the only thing on his mind. A bit like Dad, to be honest. The funny thing is that Henry told me during our brief encounter I was the one who reminded him of John the most but the poor guy never had the chance to see Dean in full vigilante mode: like father, like son.

It was actually a blessing my brother wasn’t around today. He wouldn’t have liked the very personal interpretation Castiel took of his advice to take care of me and to patch me up “as good as new”. God knows we tried to respect Dean’s wishes to the letter but in the purest Winchester tradition things didn’t go exactly as planned and what should have been a painless recovery thanks to the power of the divine turned into a complex medical procedure after Castiel realized my meatsuit still contained some residues of Gadreel’s Grace.

On the bright side, these traces of angelic mojo turned out to be a unique opportunity to create a tracking spell and finally hunt down “Heaven’s most wanted”. Unfortunately, the extracting procedure was more difficult and risky than previously expected and Cas wasn’t able to remove the necessary amount to locate Gadreel.

I didn’t want us to fail, I wanted Cas to carry on, to keep the syringe in my neck, to expunge everything until the last drop in order to maximize our chances even if it meant losing my own life in the process. However, and in spite of all my encouragements, Castiel didn’t listen and stopped before I could have another private conversation with Death. I’m fully aware now it was the most sensible choice, my stubbornness would have just led to one more unnecessary and unproductive sacrifice, but when that needle was plunged in my throat, none of that really mattered.

After all these years nothing has changed, it seems: when I lost my soul, Dean said he would be my “Jiminy Cricket”, that he would be there to guide me, to be the conscience I didn’t have. I guess I still need someone on my shoulder, whether it’s an insect or an angel wearing Columbo’s trench coat, to remind me that my life matters and that my presence on this earth is important to some people. Not that I’m not aware of it, of course, but I’m so…detached sometimes. I can’t help thinking that I don’t deserve to be here, that ending it once and for all in a ultimate and epic sacrifice for my brother and the whole of humanity would give at last a real purpose to…all this.

There’s no regret to have anyway: Cas took the right decision when he removed the syringe. He’s become far wiser than I’ll ever be. Just a couple of years ago, he would have jammed that needle in deeper until I died because “the end justifies the means” as he loved to repeat; but unlike Dean and I, Cas changed and learned from his mistakes. I guess that’s called being an adult, growing up.

If “growing up” is a term that can be used to describe an angel that is several thousand years old and who witnessed the creation of mankind.