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Supernatural fic below!




Title:      The Long-Distance Non-Relationship
Rating: pg-13 (f word used twice)
Disclaimer:  not my characters!
Character:  Dean
Pairing:  Dean/Cassie (sort of)
Word count:  865
Author:  [livejournal.com profile] charlie_bz
Summary:  Dean and Cassie still communicate after Route 666



A/N:  My first Supernatural fic.  Totally not beta’d.
 
Occasionally, he would shoot her an email just so she’d know he was alive.  She, being the writerly type and in possession of very good manners always replied.
 
Dean liked getting those emails.  Liked it much more than he ever cared to admit.  Cassie had a gift for making him feel like he was almost a regular human being.  Her emails were light fare, communicating her well being while being vague about the particulars of where she was, who she was seeing.  Sometimes it seemed she treated him like a journal, sounding off about trivial matters, school problems, work problems…the more trivial the problem, the more he loved reading it.  They exchanged messages every few weeks or so until she sends him a flurry of excited emails:  she’s going to live in Berlin for a year.
 
Berlin.  He couldn’t hardly conceive of a place like that but he liked to imagine her being all continental, drinking fancy beers, and listening to the Scorpions.  He just prayed she didn’t fall under the spell of David Hasselhoff.   Some nights when he threw his body down on a cheap, lumpy mattress in a cheap, dumpy motel too exhausted to sleep, he let his mind wander, envisioning what his life might be like over there.  Sure, killing Nazi ghosts would be a fun but he would never really fit in; he’d seen Oxford Blues and knew big cars like his didn’t belong in Europe. 
 
The next night, he splurges and buys a twelve pack of St. Pauli Girl and some hard stuff he can’t even pronounce. 
 
She travels around the continent like he travels the states. She tells him German curses, talks about the food, how nice the people are.   You would love Munich.  Beer! Sausages!  Buxom barmaids!  You would hate Paris.  It actually makes me laugh to imagine you here.
 
After his deal with the demon, he emails her every month craving her messages detailing ordinary life.  If she wonders why he’s sending more emails she doesn’t ask but, as if sensing his need, her replies become lengthier and more detailed. 
 
She usually doesn’t ask how he is; she gave that up soon after they started exchanging emails. Sometimes she sneaks in an all too casual “What’s up?” which he debates answering but he never does.  What could he possibly say?  I’m in a motel waiting for it to get dark enough so I can torch a corpse.  I sold my soul to the devil and I’m about to spend eternity in hell.
 
Three days before his contract is up, he sits in front of Sam’s laptop.  It’s two in the afternoon and he’s not even sure what state they’re in but he knows where she is. This time, she’s in Italy.  Sunny, warm, vibrant.  He pictures her in a quaint village eating lots of pizza. 
 
He takes a drink straight from the bottle and sincerely hopes she’s being carefree, allowing herself to be romanced by some sophisticated and handsome Italian.   
 
When he’s in Hell, he’s afraid to think about her.  Afraid Alistair or one of his boys would suss out why he clung to thoughts of drinking beer in Munich.  But after years and years marching past, he forgets to remember her.
 
When he’s back among the living, it takes him awhile to even remember he had that email account but when he does remember, he’s shocked that he forgot it in the first place.  He wasn’t surprised to find a slew of messages from her.
 
I would appreciate the courtesy of you replying to me so I know you’re ok.
 
Ok, it’s been three months.  Where are you? 
 
Hello?  I’m starting to get worried.  And mad.
 
Since you’re not responding to me, I can only assume you’re dead.
 
You better be fucking dead!  I swear if you show up alive on my doorstep I will kick your ass!
 
Dean, please, please, please CALL me. I’m really worried.
 
Her last email was simple but direct.  She only bothered with a subject: Fuck You.  No punctuation, no message, nothing. 
 
He hit ‘compose mail’ and stared at the blinking cursor.  What could he say?  Hey, Cassie, sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner but I was in hell. Or, I was dead, but now I’m not.  Or, Cassie, you wouldn’t believe the summer I had.
 
But Sam called with a crisis so he closed the laptop actually a little relieved he didn’t have to figure out a way to explain himself. 
 
Still, being dead, going to hell and coming back made a man lonesome for things he couldn’t possibly express.  Lonesome for things that he didn’t understand and didn’t feel entitled to.  Months filled with ever increasing crises passed by and Dean resisted checking that account until one night when he was alone in another dump. 
 
After three St. Pauli Girls, he mustered the courage.  One message, with no subject. 
 
Of all the things I expected about Africa, hearing AC/DC in a grocery store in Cape Town wasn’t one of them.  It was the first time in months I thought of you and smiled.
 
He closed the laptop. Somewhere, she was living her life.  Best not interrupt that.


 

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