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Dean Winchester remembered when he was small, and his mother would kiss his head every night. She would tell him that angels were watching over him, and sometimes she would sing "Hey Jude" to him.
It was the last time he remembered ever feeling safe, and he knew that he could never feel that comfort again. He felt as though the last remnants of this feeling that he associated with warmth, had chipped away as he grew until only dregs lay in his broken memories.
He had done his best to make sure that Sammy didn't have to feel like this, ever, and whenever he could he'd whisper words of affirmation to his brother, words that he had never been told.
He would stroke the child's hair to sleep as long as he was allowed, being told to stop once the brooding teenage mindset kicked in. He never said that he missed it.
Dean thought that he had done well enough, though, felt as though these attempts had helped Sammy mature slower, and live at least some kind of childhood.
Though he sometimes thought that his brother seemed older than him sometimes, that he himself was still that ash-coated four year old with a baby in his aching arms.
He knew in the moments Sammy didn't feel normal that it was his fault, he had failed at protecting him.
Then again, it's not like he was gonna be normal, the upbringing he had. Never having a home, staying in ratty old motel rooms, his father being gone all the time, and you can't forget knowing about monsters.
The kid had learned at a young age how to clean and dress a wound and how to shoot a gun, things that most adults never knew how to do.
He had learned to not ask questions when Dean came back to the motel room far too late, shaking and throwing up. He just cleaned up while his older brother curled up on the floor, mumbling incoherent apologies.
He had learned not to get too close to Dean on these nights, that if he did it would result in a flinch, followed by a half hour of ragged breathing and badly concealed tears.
Dean hated that that had to be Sammy's life. He deserved so much better, he had so much potential. He often just sat and watched Sam talk about something he'd learned in the school they were attending that week, his entire mind in a turmoil of anger over the fact that this innocent boy couldn't have a normal life.
So he worked his ass off, in any way possible, to at least give the kid some semblance of a better life than the one he had. To buy him better food, books, anything.
He eventually found a way to make money, no matter where they went. It didn't matter how much he hated it, it was for Sammy. Nothing else mattered.
At the beginning, he had tried to keep track of the people that paid him, he wasn't sure why. But since he wouldn't write it anywhere, they all got muddled in his head, and he lost count after half a year. It was more important to remember everything possible about monsters, anyway.
There had been times when their father hadn't left them enough money to stay at the motel he had dumped them at, during the years that he didn't trust Dean with one of his credit cards.
These were some of the worst times for Dean. He had to find someone to make a deal with at the motel, and between ensuring that his little brother had a roof over his head and food in his belly, he spent his little free time acting like nothing was wrong. For Sam.
The very few times Sammy had caught on that something might be a little more wrong than simple teenage angst, he said that he was fine. Obviously. It's not like he could say anything, not like he could put such a weight on the puppy-eyed kid's shoulders.
Besides, even if he admitted that he was not, in fact, fine, he would still have to lie. Because he knew that the boy would ask why, and there was not a snowball's chance in hell that he would be telling anyone that secret.
The only person who knew was the man that had told a thirteen year old Dean that he had to learn to do this, because times when money was scarce would come often in this life. He knew that John didn't want Sammy to know, either.
There had been too many nights that he had come back, and Sam had hugged him tight, the pressure around his middle suffocating and heavy.
Too many times had he wanted to break free of the embrace and scrub himself raw in the shitty motel shower. Because he could still feel those hands, in the same place and everywhere else, and his body couldn't tell the difference between his brother loving him and the strangers that blighted his soul.
Yet he also craved the touch, so much so that he simply wouldn't let himself enjoy it sometimes. Because there was a part of him that felt something akin to that old safety when those small arms encircled him, and he knew that it wasn't real, so he couldn't let himself feel it.
Losing it would hurt too much.
Most nights he couldn't speak, reverting to his six year old self and numbing the rest of his mind in a futile effort to not feel. He knew that if he could feel, that his thoughts would exist too quickly, his body would feel wrong, and he wouldn't be able to breathe.
It still happened nonetheless.
And so it was, night after night, Dean Winchester would creep out of a mouldy and cramped motel room to the nearest bar he could find. He would find people that were far older than him, and whisper to them words that he knew would make them want him.
Half of them insisted that they had never felt so strongly for anyone before, that he was beautiful, yet still most of them refused to press even the chastest of kisses to his lips.
He didn't care, never took any of them seriously. He knew that he was too broken, he was contaminated. Nobody would or could ever love him.
Yet, there were some times when he let himself indulge in a childish fantasy. When the strangers chose to kiss him, he could almost allow himself to believe that they cared for him. It felt almost gentle, innocent, until time kicked in and clothes were torn off.
Then he would take his money and shamefully leave, his entire body quivering like a butterfly's wings in harsh winds. Unless he stayed, too exhausted to rationally think that Sammy would be worried when he didn't get back by morning.
This resulted in waking up in a stranger's bed, more often than not in a hotel room, said stranger's arms wrapped around him. He would clench his fists in the covers in ill-disguised panic, his mind falling through a cramped too-big corridor in slow motion far too quickly.
He'd leave as quickly as possible, running to give his heart a better reason to be hammering so hard against his ribs it might be trying to escape. It would be doing him a favour, if it ever succeeded.
His mind would be working itself ragged, trying desperately not to think. But he always would. He would think about how Sam would try and hug him, how he wouldn't be able to say that he didn't want him to. He would think about the stranger's fingers tracing his scars and bruises with idle disinterest, and clamping his eyes shut as if that would end it.
Most of all, he tried not to think about how every time there was a point when he wanted it to stop. That point when he wanted to scream and tear the stranger's body from his. But he couldn't, and even if he could he didn't know how to.
He shoved his feelings down, further every time. He wasn't sure if they could be considered feelings anymore, really. They had been torn apart and squeezed into the little imaginary box furthest from the front of his mind so many times, they now felt more like dull clumps of idiotic thoughts. He built a wall around them, ensuring their permanent seclusion.
And now, now that he was finally, truly loved, he couldn't speak. His head hurt, and his cheeks stung from tears falling on already raw skin. He couldn't breathe, his chest hurt too much. His heart hurt. He wanted to say it back—he needed to say it back. But the words wouldn't form. This wasn't the right time, he wanted it to be better. Not now, please, not today. Take it back.
He needed this to stop, it couldn't happen like this, this needed to be special.
"Don't do this, Cass."
Dean heard a sloshing sound from behind himself and he turned to see a murky ooze from the Empty making its way through the bricks in the bunker's wall as a portal materialised. He knew what was going to happen.
He turned back to his best friend. The man that he loved, and who loved him back. Castiel was still smiling tearfully. The sight shattered Dean's heart all over again.
Everything else happened too fast, he was given a hasty goodbye, thrown to the side, and forced to watch helplessly as what was now inevitable unfolded.
He was left alone, curled up against the wall of the bunker, his head in his hands. He was so alone. He felt broken.
The feelings that he had believed to have rotted away felt as though they were about to burst out of his chest. The wall that he had built splintered away as if it had been plastic, and he was overcome with an onslaught of feeling.
Why didn't he say it back? The person that loved him died thinking that he could never have him. He didn't know what to do. He felt so much, but he was so deadened.
He didn't know how to say it back, how to tell Castiel that he wanted this so bad. Now he couldn't.
He thought that he might die from the feeling of everything but absolute nothingness all at once. He heard his phone ringing, but it was miles away and far too loud all at once. He ignored it.
Everything that happened after that felt pointless, but he couldn't fail. He owed it to Cass.
He felt alive once everything was over. He kept Miracle, and he missed Jack. He missed Castiel.
He remembered that feeling of finally being loved in his last few moments. Closing his eyes and letting the memories and his brother's "It's okay"s lull him into a soothing white light.