I don’t know who will be reading these pieces of paper.
Dean—if, by some sick cosmic joke, I bit the dust before you, and it’s you holding these pages—then this is for you. If we both go out together, if it’s you, Cas, reading this, then this is for you. If all three of us are gone, as I almost hope we will be, and if you’re a friend or a total stranger trying to decipher my crappy handwriting, then this, I suppose, is for you.
What I do know is that regardless of who you are, by now, I’m dead. I’ll have hidden this well enough. Hidden, because as it stands right now, these are things I can’t say. So I’m leaving them behind, for whoever, for whenever I finally go for good.
I feel like I need to explain myself.