Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

oɴ тнe нeαd oғ тнe pιɴ;pαrт oɴe

December '08

Dear Pamela,

You were right. This one hurts.

I feel so guilty about everything that I couldn't even bring myself to say anything at your funeral. Part of me doesn't think I deserved to have words—what could I say that would've been enough? That would've honored you the way you deserved?

You didn't deserve to go out like that. Not in some cheap, rundown motel in a random town, taken by some lowlife demon who wasn't even important enough to remember. That wasn't you.

You didn't deserve to be blinded by an angel either.

You gave your all, sacrificed everything you had, just to help us—to help save the world. And what did you get for it? Nothing. Nothing but pain, betrayal, and a raw deal that was never fair from the start. I don't know how to live with that. I don't know if I'll ever stop feeling like I failed you.

I'll forever be sorry about that.

I know you wouldn't want me to carry this guilt. You'd roll your eyes, laugh it off, and tell me to stop being so melodramatic. But forgiving myself for this? That's going to take time, Pamela. Maybe a long time.

You were like a sister to me—and somehow also like an aunt who kept me in line but never let me take life too seriously. You believed in me even before you knew who I really was or what I was capable of. Even when angels screwed everything up. You believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.

You are one of the best women I've ever known, and no one will ever take your place in my heart.

I'll miss everything about you. I'll miss your raunchy jokes, the way you always had a sharp comeback ready, and that sassy, carefree attitude that no one—not demons, not angels, not even death—could take from you. You lived your life unapologetically, fearlessly, and on your own terms.

And I'm so proud of you for that.

I hope you're in a better place now. Somewhere peaceful, where you can kick back and let the universe cater to you for a change. Somewhere you can laugh without worry.

I'll carry you with me, always.

Love,

Angel Face  

A wet-eyed Nadia downed the rest of her whiskey in a single, fiery gulp, the burn matching the ache in her chest. She set the glass down on the bar top with more force than she intended, the sound echoing in the quiet moment between songs on the jukebox.

"Another one?" the bartender asked, his voice rough but kind.

Sniffling, Nadia shook her head, brushing a dread behind her ear. "No, thanks. I'm good."

The bar smelled of old wood, spilled beer, and a faint trace of incense left over from the memorial earlier. After Pamela's funeral, the repass had naturally been held here—her favorite dive bar. There was no catered food or delicate finger sandwiches, just an open bar and a jukebox full of classic rock and raunchy country songs. It was exactly the kind of send-off Pamela would have wanted.

Nadia scanned the room, taking in the crowd. Pamela's friends and family were a colorful tapestry of misfits and outcasts—punks with purple hair, bikers in leather vests, tattooed artists, and a couple of psychics who looked like they belonged at a carnival. Pamela wasn't the kind of woman who fit into neat boxes, and neither did the people she surrounded herself with.