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He’s a misunderstood creature, eyes hazel bright. He is your most important treasure. Hands scarred from slaughter, blooded and deranged, yet you trust them completely; to take a life to save another, he would crawl through hell for you. And you, who wears anger like it’s your birthday suit, whose skin is tight around the mark and who became what you feared for your brother; a monster, a darkness in your eyes.
You lie, you worthless dog, so tell him; tell him that feelings deranges you, and to be seen feeling would leave you flayed (bloodied, puss and inflamed skin). Tell him it’s not worth it for you, tell him that. Lie. You are a vessel. And the vessel is a lie, a shapeshifter and a beast. The vessel is this and that and we shouldn’t Sammy it’s not right it’s not us. At least make your lies trustworthy.
Be his big brother, the one he deserves. You’re scared, and he’s sacred.
Starved of love. The hunger terrifies you; the way it consumes you. But you are the shape he made, the one he carved into your heavy dirty soul. You can romanticize him all you like, carry his burdens on your back, fight for him to continue breathing. But you should know, that the devil wrapped in silk is still the devil. He’s not as innocent as you think. Because he’s your plague and vaccine, your poison and antidote. He’s the tremble in your fingers you get when you’ve stayed away from alcohol for a while. The soothing remedy of an aspirin after a self-loathing night out. The finger shaped bruises on your hips, whispering more more more when you had your guard down, when you couldn’t take the rubber band feeling in your heart and let it snap.
You let it, how could you? How could you do this; this unthinkable, horrible act of the forbidden. How could you love him so much you’d move the world for him, save it and end it, end it to save it, save him, save him to save yourself. How could you be this selfish?
For him. For him for him. It will always be for him. And what’s so bad about that? What’s so bad about loving someone so greatly it hurts you, kills you slow slow slow. Is that agony worth it, when every day is another day closer to your downfall, when you will be ashes after a hunter’s funeral and you will relive all of this again. Your moments with him.
Isn’t he worth the way your breath punches out of you when he looks at you in a certain light? How he gives you vertigo, how you lose your tongue (and he’s quick to provide you his).
You tell him you never pray but why does the stars hold your pleas for forgiveness if you don’t? You should know by now that your modern Gods means nothing in this tangled jungle of yours, your prayers won’t be answered.
The universe made you the way you are, and it doesn’t care if you’re guilty or not. To it, you are struggling for nothing, all to just fall back into a habit (the best habit you’ll ever have) of drinking his justice and pretty words. Words you fall asleep to, words you secretly cry to, words you come to.
Put down the Colt, your self-pity is unbecoming. You are not a monster for loving your little brother’s naked breath on your freckled skin. To have him, to take him and be taken, to love him, it’s what you are supposed to do; what you are meant to be.
But to hate him, scare him, leave him in the middle of the night after a punch out your nose bloody and head dizzy from anger, force tears out of his eyes, is not what the universe was created for. Billions upon billions of stars and they’re all rooting for you, for him. They were all created to shine for you. For him. For him for him. It’s all for him, haven’t you learned? So put the Colt down, Dean, you’re not a monster. Go back to your brother, love him, care for him, protect him. And let him, too. Let him. Let him heal you, save you. Your darling little brother is waiting. For you.