Andrea Sanders, legendary hunter, is the kind of legend that only the brave and stupid dare to whisper about at night. After ditching the foster system at sixteen, she follows her father's footsteps into the only life she's ever known: hunting down...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
***
It's funny what you focus on when the world is falling apart around you. For example, here we were with the devil finally having gotten his way, the end of the world upon us, and our hopes dashed to pieces, yet all I could do was write letters.
Dean had taken his bottle of whiskey and said he was going to have one last hot shower. He offered for me to join him, but I'd declined.
I had letters to write.
We hadn't completely filled each other in—the most I'd pieced together was that I'd been with that witch for at least two days— but we said we would finish our stories once we were done with what we needed to do. So Dean headed to the shower and I headed for my stationary.
Steven used to write me letters. The first ones he gave me were long before I could even read, and they were barely even notes. But he had just learned to write and he'd wanted to share his new found talent with me. The older we grew, the more we wrote and the more fun we had in writing them. We hid our letters in back packs and lunch boxes, or under pillows and in sock drawers, just waiting for the other sibling to find them. It was a game that was only for us.
Maybe it was the fear of losing these memories that made me want to write letters now, but all I could think of was how crucial it was to get out everything I'd never said before I lost the chance. So I wrote to Steven, Bobby and Sam. There was one for Cass and Lincoln—even Sheriff Mills. I wrote to Jo and Ellen, and Mom and Dad. And when it came down to it, I wrote to Dean.
My Dean.
Every word lovingly and painstakingly crafted. I poured my heart onto a page and when I finished, I folded them up, labeled them, and tucked them away before walking out of the library to have my discussion with the man I loved most.
He was sitting on the couch, draped in a way that tried to say he didn't care about what was going on. But his fingers gripped the cushions a little too hard, giving away his true feelings. Again, I found my focus elsewhere: captivated by the callused fingers that had held me for months. I was thankful I'd gotten to know those fingers. Sitting down beside him, I took his hand in mine and traced each scar that marred their skin. He told his story, I told mine, and still I watched his hands.
"So we're putting the devil in a fish?" As if realizing we were talking about him, Javier the Yes Fish swam a little faster in his bowl on the kitchen table.
"It sounds better if you don't say it out loud."
"And you're going to sing the devil into giving up Sam for said fish."
"I've decided to name him Javier, but yeah. That's the idea."
Dean pulled his hand out of my grasp in order to run them both down his face in exasperation. "Andy, we've tried this before. Your songs don't work on the devil."
