Archive of Our Own

You’re In the Car with a Beautiful Boy

Based on a collection of poems by Richard Siken

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.

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You’re in a car with a beautiful boy.

The rain splashes heavily against the windshield of the ’67 Impala as Dad drives through the storm-swept back roads of North Dakota. The asphalt glitters like black diamonds beneath the car’s bright lights as its tires slide across the gathering pools of water.

Dean huddles in the backseat with little brother, Sammy. Sammy is sound asleep; his dark mop-head slumping contently up against Dean’s right shoulder. The boys have a heavy woolen blanket tucked around them, in a hopeless attempt to keep out the biting, windy night air. Dad is not stopping at a motel tonight; they have to make Bismarck by morning. There is a monster out there in those endless Pine-tree woods somewhere…they aren’t exactly sure what it is yet…but they know that it’s been hurting people…hurting families. Dean subconsciously wraps his arm a little tighter around Sammy. Dean would be lying if he says he isn’t scared, but he can’t let it show, not even for a moment. Sammy needs Dean to stay brave. And so Dean will be brave, just like Mom would’ve wanted, just like Sammy needs.

Sammy stirs slightly beneath Dean’s arm but remains fast asleep. There is the faint sound of a familiar rock song crackling over the radio as the signal comes in and out from the interference of the thunderstorm. Dean leans his cheek up against Sammy’s soft wispy, curls. He can see Dad’s face in the rearview mirror…worry lines crinkling his forehead, his lips pursed together in concentration, his features dark with purpose. He is thinking about the case, Dean imagines. He often looks like that when he thinks about a case…or whenever Mom’s memory pierces unwelcomingly into his always troubled reminiscing. Dean pulls Sammy in a little closer…it is cold in the car, the leather is chilled and the metallic parts feel like ice. Sammy is the only thing keeping him warm right now, warmer than the ratty woolen blanket that is filled with tattered holes.

If this car is their home, than Sammy is his warmth. Dean feels his eyes grow heavy; his nose is tickled by the fluffy brown curls that wisp around his face. The thunder roars overhead and Dean squeezes his eyes tightly shut. He will be brave for Sammy. He has to be brave for Sammy. He squeezes Sammy as tightly as he can without waking his little brother up. They will make it through this storm together, just like they always do.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.

Sam is beautiful. But it’s not a physical beauty, although anyone with eyes could objectively tell that the Winchester boys have grown up to be tall and handsome. No, Sam is beautiful because he is pure and innocent and good and all of the things that Dean had to leave far behind in a childhood stained with blood and riddled with bullets.

But somehow, almost impossibly, through it all Sam has remained so…so damn good. And it helps keep Dean good. It helps keep Dean sane, whenever he gets too close to the edge, teetering on the precipice of hopelessness. Some nights Dean will stare into the darkness, bottle of whisky clutched in his hand, and wonders what keeps him going, when all he sees in front of him is the darkness of the woods…and all the monsters that lurk in those woods. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam by his side, all dimpled-smile and bright eyes—full of all that empathetic eagerness to share feelings and other touchy-feely crap that Dean so secretly, desperately needs.

And they are side by side once more; two-years of separation having completely melted away, the trauma and horror of little brother’s heartache having cemented their impenetrable bond that much more. And Dean is sick to his stomach for Sam having lost Jess. But there is another part of him, another part that is unrelated to Sam’s loss but still feels guilty as hell nonetheless, that is glad Sam is riding shotgun again, the high-pitch of his laughter or the whine-laced tone of his moodiness breaking through Dean’s two-year mental fog and breathing life back into his lungs once more.

The Impala travels down the winding cliff-side roads of Palo Alto, a thin metallic sheet of railing the only thing keeping them from careening off into the sparkling blue waters below. The car smells of roadside fries and greasy burgers…with Sammy having gotten the salad of course, whatta dork…and so Sam has the window rolled down and the salt-tinged ocean air stings at their lips. Sam is love and goodness and he is back. He is back and Dean knows it isn’t perfect yet…but it’s a start. It’s a start…and Dean is never going to let the kid out of his sight again.

And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired.

They are digging through mountains of dirt, muscles straining, sweat slipping down their sun-kissed faces. Another case, another body. Pour the salt…the stench of gasoline burning their nostrils…more salt, quick!…and then the match is lit and…and then it’s done. It’s done, but the damage has already been dealt, the scars etched permanently. Dean almost lost him…again. And every time hurts like a bitch, every time it fills Dean with the same sickening dread…as if a sharp, icy blade is twisting into his gut and cutting him open and bleeding him out.

Outwardly, Dean merely says, “You okay, little brother?” But inwardly he is choking on words he can never speak, gulping down fears that can never filter onto his face, swallowing the darkness until he trembles. He almost lost him…again. But that will never happen…it can’t happen…because there is no Dean without Sam. They walk towards the Impala in silence, but Dean knows he needs to be more careful. Because there is no Dean without Sam. And usually the end of a hunt is exhilarating, but tonight it merely feels like a deadened warning that has burrowed into his skin. He needs to be more careful…because if Sam—if anything happens to—if anything should happen to Sammy—

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy…

Sam glances over at Dean quietly, something profound and heartfelt sparkling in those bright hazel eyes.  A smile—tinged with the billowing warmth and deep affection that always swims just beneath his quiet exterior—tugs at the corner of his mouth…dimples deeply indenting his cheeks.  Sam thanks Dean for having his back, for always being there to save him. And these words make Dean feel better…they make him feel like they are both invincible. Big brother always capable of saving the day. Dean shouldn’t worry, Sam’s smile says it all. Big brother will always save little brother. That’s what they do, that’s what they’ve always done. And this time won’t be any different…and Dean is thankful that Sam has reminded him of that fact.

Dean mutters a sarcastic reply, digging at the fact that Sam can be sucha damn sap sometimes. And with that, Sam’s high-pitched laughter breaks through the dark tension…his eyes shining his affection…a stormy greyish blue with rings of vibrant gold…and Dean knows that everything is going to be okay.

…and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.

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Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying.

Sam is lying motionless on the tattered old cot, his body cold as ice; his once pinks lips and cheeks are now a hellish grey color.

Sam is dead and so is Dean. Because didn’t he always know this would happen someday… somewhere deep down in the dark pit of fears that tormented his mind ever since Mom died. First Mom, then Dad…everyone Dean loved always ripped from his grasp. And damn it if he didn’t promise himself that he was always going to protect Sammy—if big brother wasn’t always going to save little brother, no matter what.

All of the color slowly bleeds out of the room. It’s just Sam and various shades of grey and black now—and Dean knows that this is the room that he is going to die in too. Because he’s going to die at the foot of Sam’s bed…huddled over his cold, dead body and wishing to hell he could transfer his own life force into his little brother. He’d do anything to fix this…anything…but it’s already too late. He let Sam out of his sight…for only five minutes, less than that maybe…and now Sam was gone forever. Dean found him again, but it was already too late…Sam was bleeding in his arms, head slumped forward, the light in his eyes growing darker and darker with each passing moment as Dean begged for him not to leave Dean all alone.

Sam is dead and so is Dean. Because Dean can’t leave Sam alone…never again…and so that means staying here with him forever…until they both lay dead on this tattered cot, in this abandoned house, until they are both swallowed up by the foliage and the trees of these woods.

And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,”

The grief is violent…deafening…and it sticks its hand down Dean’s throat until he can’t breathe…can’t think…can’t do anything but choke on this vicious bile that permeates him. Dean has dealt with loss before…and it had hurt like hell then too, like getting your heart ripped out of your chest…but this time it is different. This time it is as if the fabric of Dean’s soul has been shredded in two…an entire half of him rendered missing. Growing up with Sam hadn’t always been easy…there had been the terror of the monsters and ghosts, certainly, but there had been traumas closer to home too…the tumultuous day-to-day environment of never knowing what mood Dad was going to be in…or how drunk…or if he had survived the hunt in order to come home at all. For these things, there was only one living person who could save Dean and keep him strong, keep him grounded in a whirlwind of chaos and uncertainty…and that was Sammy. To lose Sammy was to lose his means of survival…it was as if Sam was his roadmap and now Dean is careening out of control…Sam was his lifeline and now he is drowning at sea…Sam was his savior and now he is cursed. There is no Dean without Sam. He isn’t strong enough—he doesn’t even want to be anymore. Sam was half of him, and now that they have been ripped apart, Dean is bleeding out…coughing up blood…choking on it…and he has no choice but to either fix this or to lie down at the foot of the bed and die too.

He is already dead.

…but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen.

Dean is pressing his lips into the demon’s…drinking her down, fighting the revulsion...but not for a minute does he doubt the choice he has made. He was dead anyway without Sam…and now this means that Sammy can live. And that’s all that matters…maybe that’s all that has ever mattered.

And now Sam is standing before him…alive, pink-faced, breathing…and Dean can’t stop himself…arms wrapped tightly around his little brother, pulling him into a crushing hug, burying his nose into his shoulder…god, of course this was the right choice. The grief is bubbling out of Dean in the form of molten lava, he feels warm and relieved and made whole once more. He wants to say so many things to Sam…I love you…don’t ever leave me again…I’m sorry I didn’t protect you before…I love you, most of all…but he simply settles on making sure that Sammy is taken care of…big brother always able to make certain little brother is okay.

“You hungry?” Dean asks, and he is flooded with warm relief when Sam nods his head.

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I swear, I end up feeling empty…

Sam is not in control.

He wants to be…god, he has craved control all of his life…but it is a battle he always loses. He has not known stability…endless crummy motel rooms and hundreds of different schools and faces fill his childhood memories. He has not known cleanliness…no amount of organizing and scrubbing can wipe away the dark sludge that oozes through his veins. He has not known order…his world a constant swirl of chaos growing up…his own body infected and used against him from the time he was only six months old.

All Sam had was Dean…Dean’s love the constant warm glow that warded off the heavy pit that settles within his insides, cleaned away the grime that coats his flesh. Dean’s love was pure and good…and it gave Sam hope that by embracing that love, he could somehow be as good and pure as Dean always was.

But now Dean is gone. Gone because Sam is weak…because he couldn’t save his big brother in the same manner that Dean had always saved him. Gone because Sam cannot control his world…cannot even control himself, this heated rage that he has wrestled with his whole life roaring within his chest and threatening to consume him whole.

Sam is not in control…he never has been. And so he controls whatever small things he can…what kind of food he consumes…how he cares for his body…even how he expresses his emotions. Sam has always been a very inward person, and now he doubles down on that. He is trying so desperately to be cold and unfeeling…because what he feels right now is pain so intense it blinds him…it cuts huge holes into his skin…it squeezes his lungs until they collapse. Dean’s love was the constant warmth that saved him from this black ooze that courses through him…claiming him…warping him…

Sam’s trembling hand is forcing whisky down his throat in an attempt to numb this relentless onslaught, but it never helps…he is burying himself into the warm flesh of a woman he believes he could love, because she is dark and horrible just like him…he is lapping at her smooth, pale skin…drinking down the thick iron-taste of her blood…filling himself up with the poison that he hates…because he hates himself more, and this is the only thing that gives him control, damn it, the only thing that makes him feel grounded—because the man who used to ground him is gone—gone forever because Sam is so weak and pathetic and…and not clean…and no matter how much he scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs he never will be…dark sludge rushing down his throat…but this time he’s choosing to put this poison in his veins—he is claiming the infection—it is not being forced down his gullet—he is drinking it of his own volition and he is in control at last…

Sam is not in control. Dean is gone…and the love is gone…and the warmth is gone…and the goodness is gone…and Sam will never be in control again.

…like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.

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Moonlight making crosses on your body…

And Sam thinks that he might love her now…because she is dark and horrible like him…and because when they move together like this he forgets himself for a few beautiful hours and that’s all he can ask for. She was human once, and so was he, he supposes. And now whatever are they…brutish, grotesque pictures of humanity, but as if someone smeared the painting with something dirty and impure… at least they are screwed to hell together. Dean doesn’t understand…because Dean is so pure…so good…so brave and wonderful…but Ruby understands. Ruby understands because she is filled with the black sludge too…and they pour their poison into each other…tainting each other…ruining each other…and it is perfect.

But then there are times when he does not feel ruined with her. There are times when he kisses her so deeply they can both hardly breathe…or when she wraps her arms and legs tightly around his trembling, slicked form and he is lost to her gravitational pull…or when he pours his anguish and heat and hopes and desires into the corner of her soft neck…and these are the times when he pretends he is fully human…normal…and he knows this could be love.

She loves it when his large hands pull at her long, thick mane…dark like nighttime river water… but Jess used to love that too… golden, bouncy curls like the sunshine…and remembering Jess suddenly fills him with hot, leaden shame. He knows this would frighten her…that he would frighten her…but he is too far gone to fix this. He knows the truth, he is too broken and damaged-goods for sweet, beautiful Jess now. But he and Ruby are perfect…because they are both dark and horrible and he thinks he might love her.

“I need you…” Sam rasps out in the dark shroud of the heated shadows, his voice dark and guttural…his mouth suckling against her throat…and he can feel the pulse of her blood throbbing within her veins. He sings for her blood…because it is his blood too, and together they are fallen angels. “…I need you to stay with me.”

She smiles at him, soft hand comfortingly running through his damp, tangled curls. “I’m not going anywhere, Sammy.”

…and me putting my mouth on every one.

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I'm battling monsters; I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings…

Dean barely recognizes Sam. He is no longer the little brother as Dean remembers him, so full of everything sweet and innocent and hopeful in the world. No, Sam is very sick…he is barely standing upright, his eyes are unfocused, his skin blotchy, and his lips dry and cracked. And Dean is very angry…because if he cannot make Sam listen to him, than Sam is going to get hurt…and Sam getting hurt is unacceptable. Only Dean can keep Sam safe…and he doesn’t understand why Sammy can’t see that…why he is doing this to Dean…why he won’t listen to Dean…when they both know that only Dean can keep everyone safe…

… and you say ‘I'll give you anything’ but you never come through.

And the word monster is tumbling out of Dean’s trembling lips before he can stop it. Not so much because he truly believes it, but because Dean knows that it is the word that will cut the deepest. Dean is scared out of his mind, and that fear makes his blood boil with anger….and that anger causes him to lash out, to hurt, to cut deep and not stop until he draws  blood.

And the word monster draws blood, just as Dean knew it would. But it gives him no pleasure, a hot tear dribbling down his flushed cheek. Sammy is the one he depended on the most. The one he could count on when he couldn’t count on anyone—not even Dad. Loving Sam had been easy—sacrificing for him never even a choice. And Sam had told him over and over again that he would give anything for Dean…and now here they are…Dean’s only request on the table…and Sam has spit in his face.

And so he calls Sam a monster because Dean needs to hurt Sam just as carelessly as Sam has hurt him. Only Dean can keep Sam safe…but only if Sammy lets him in. But instead Sam has slammed the door in his face. And Sam is breaking his heart…just like the time he ran away at Flagstaff...just like when he left for Stanford…because didn’t Sammy always know exactly how to break Dean’s heart?

Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

And Sam knows he has gone too far to ever come back from this…his hands tightly wrapped around Dean’s neck, and he can’t stop…he just keeps squeezing and squeezing…all of the pent-up rage he has carried within his heart exploding from him like vomit in one volatile moment…he loves Dean so much that he hates him…he hates Dean so much, but god, how every screaming fiber in Sam’s being loves him…and that’s why this is so passionate, so violent…he would not be so vicious if he didn’t care…

He is trying to choke the words out of Dean’s mouth…because if Dean calls him a monster than it is true…if Dean believes Sam is a monster than there is not a shred of hope left for him…because Sam is only good and worthy so long as Dean says he is…and if Dean calls Sam a monster than Sam will squeeze his throat until the words are forever extinguished.

I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

Dean gives Sam the same ultimatum that Dad did.  They both know what that ultimatum means. To Dean, it is another weapon with which to strike out with, to cut at Sam as Dean’s own heart bleeds and breaks. To Sam, it is a reminder of how out of place he is, how perpetually wrongly assembled he is…how monstrous, how inherently damaged, how dirty and damned.  To both of them, it means goodbye. They both know they cannot live without the other, but something is poisoned now…something is broken between them.  And Sam knows he broke it…he knows he is the one who shoved the knife into Dean’s heart, and in doing so, tore them both apart. But it is too late to fix it—ever since Dean found out the truth and looked at him with those eyes it has been too late…those green eyes that had once looked at him so affectionately, now filled with fear and disgust. Dean’s belief in Sam’s goodness was the only thing that Sam had left, and now, that too is gone. Sam knows he is a monster, knows it is time for the monster to take a bow and exit stage left, but first the monster must try…must try and do one thing right before he goes, damn it, one thing right to redeem his empty life. He just needs to be strong enough—in control enough—to channel this chaotic, frightening rage inside of himself into something orderly and controlled. He can save the world, he can save Dean. Because despite everything…despite how his hands betrayed his heart tonight…Dean is still the air in his lungs, the beats in his heart, part of the spirit breathed into his soul.

Dean lies on the floor, choking on dried spit, gasping for air, even though his throat feels tight and sore. He is aching all over from his fight with Sam, but the real pain is emanating from his chest. Even now, he still loves Sammy more than anything in the world, even when he wishes he no longer cared. And in this very moment, staring up at the damned white void of the ceiling, throat still aching from Sam’s once-gentle hands, he wishes he hated Sam. Because hating Sam would be so much easier…but even now…even now…Dean cannot bring himself to do it.

He loves Sam. He loves Sam and it hurts so damn much.

Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more.

She is falling back against his chest, dark river-water hair splaying out against him, just as she had looked when he had held her earlier that night. Only this time, her eyes are wide with shock instead of pleasure, her mouth parted in agony instead of sweet euphoria.

She is gone. She is gone forever and he will never have the chance now to make sense of any of it. How much of it was a lie…how much of it was the truth…did she feel anything real, or was it all just another chapter in Sam’s life of broken promises, deceit, and his body being used against him. He does not know…all he knows is that he has ruined everything he has touched. He has ruined his family, his mother and father dead because of the curse he brought down on them all…he ruined sweet, precious Jessica by damning her with his toxic presence, he has ruined his brave and good brother…he has ruined the woman with soft skin and dark, chocolate eyes…he has ruined the very world…he has finally even ruined himself beyond redemption…and he can already taste the hellfire as it scorches his poisonous veins.

He does not know what is real and what is a lie.

He does not know if his brother will ever look at him again with anything other than distrust and heartache brimming in those watery green eyes.

He does not know what he should do now…he has damned the world just as he has damned himself…black sludge in his veins…lifeless body slumped up against his chest…her blood was his blood, he thought they could be fallen angels together. Hushed whispers into their pillows after guilty, beautiful intimacy—he told her he needed her and she had stroked his face and kissed his cheek…how could he have known then that she was his Judas.

He does not know if any of that was real.

He just knows that she is gone forever.                     

And that he thinks he really did love her.

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The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he is trying to kill you…

The angel has a shock of perpetually mussed-up raven hair and eyes that are both as deep and iced as glacial pools. His eyelids are hooded; his lips full and soft-looking like plush, pale satin. And Dean wants to tell himself that he does not stare at those lips, he does not wish to feel their plush satiny silk slide across his own, does not want to nibble on those full lips with his teeth. He does not want to admit these things, not even to himself, because he is too busy gulping down years of shame and fear…even as it bubbles up into his throat whenever the angel is near.
                    …and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in this swimming pool…

The angel gave up everything for Dean…and that is no exaggeration, he gave Dean both his trust and his heart on a platter…though Dean is clearly not deserving of either.

But the angel thinks Dean is worthy. The angel looks at Dean with deep, crystal blue pools…almost as if he is looking through Dean, rather than at him. And the angel wonders aloud why Dean feels so unworthy, why Dean does not understand why the angel is so willing to shear his wings for the opportunity to kiss the mortal man.

…because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway.

Dean cannot give into these feelings, because he has cultivated his entire mask around a persona that has shielded him against them. He is everything strong and virile, everything expected out of him by the dark, hyper-masculine world of hunting…just like his father wanted…just like the man Sammy could always look up to in emulation.

You’re in eighth grade. You know these things.

It is eighth grade when Dean begins noticing the bouncy curls of the girls, the way their skirts swish around their nice, lean legs, the way their smiles light up their pretty faces.

It is eighth grade when Dean begins noticing the strong arms of the boys, the way their basketball shorts frame their long, lean legs, the way their smiles light up their handsome faces.

It is eighth grade when Dean realizes he likes the company of a shy, quiet boy with messy hair and an awkward grin. It is eighth grade when Dean is burying his face into the pillow at night, terrified that someone at the new school will find out about his secret. There is a gnawing pit inside of him, and it eats at him, spooning him up and replacing him with hot, twisting shame. At school, his stomach is in tight, convulsing knots whenever he hears the other boys taunt fellow classmates with the word f—, desperately not wanting to be that word…not wanting to be seen through the eyes of the world with the same weakness and shame and self-hatred that he feels about himself. It is eighth grade when Dean accidently brushes against the shy, quiet boy’s hand, and he feels his stomach do uncomfortable tumbles. The boy gives him that awkward grin and Dean hurriedly excuses himself, he is walking home from school with tears stinging his eyes and blood seeping from where he bit down on the side of his mouth. He is not that word. He hardly even knows all that the word implies, but he knows it would be a terrible thing to be. He has been carefully constructing a mask for himself since the night his mother died, and he cannot afford a single dent to crack his well-crafted armor. So he tells himself to forget all about the shy, quiet boy and his messy hair and his awkward grin. After a while, he becomes very good at lying to himself. After a bit more time, Dean is able to tell himself that he does not even remember the boy at all.

  You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division…

Sometimes, when he is being painfully honest with himself, he thinks about telling Sam. Sam seems to understand things like that; Sam always somehow makes very horrible things better once spoken aloud. Sam always listens without comment or judgment, simply allowing Dean to just be. But then Dean looks over at Sam…and sees the pure adoration shining in those bright eyes…olive green with a smatter of chocolate, wanting to be just like his big brother…and Dean knows that he never wants anything to dull that shine. And so Dean is able to enjoy the company of women, and he truly does. But when he sees a handsome face or a strong jawline or a nice, fit body, he tells himself he does not feel anything. Ignore that slight palpitation in his heart, the imperceptible quickening in his breath—it goes away with time. That is just his weakness showing, and Dean knows how to bury his weaknesses down so deep, that even he sometimes has trouble accessing them in a way that is honest.

…and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn't do…

And now he is confronted with the angel. The angel who does not see his shame, does not see his weakness. The angel who took a pair of shears to his own wings and cut them up to pieces, stands before Dean with a bleeding heart held out in his hands. The heart is Dean’s should he want it…and god does he want it. But he is scared to let a piece of his mask slip away…because then what is stopping the rest of his deeply-guarded secrets from gushing forth like a dam breaking. But the angel is so good…and Dean is drawn to good things. And the angel is so broken too…and Dean supposes he is drawn to broken things as well. Dean loves to protect and to fix, and so he loves to take a thread and needle and gently sew up the two gaping wounds left behind on the angel’s nice, lean back…a visible reminder of the angel’s fall into Dean’s arms. Dean presses his soft lips to the sutures, and when the angel sighs his content, Dean feels something warm and wanting awaken from deep within. It stirs inside of him until it culminates, and soon he is also presenting his heart for the angel to take…and Dean’s heart is covered in scar tissue, but it still works. Its only sin is that it cares too deeply and loves too fiercely. But that is okay, because his broken angel’s only sin is that he fell in love with a beautiful, damaged boy who will almost certainly cause him heartache someday.

…   because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore.

The lips of the angel are soft and smooth as satiny silk; his taste is sweet, his mouth is crushed against Dean’s like ripe strawberries. There is something almost sacred about their touch, the way the angel…Castiel…slides warm hands down the length of Dean’s scarred and calloused body, like water rushing over rocks in a stream…making the once jagged, rough edges smooth and relaxed. Dean gets lost in the angel’s administrations…the angel’s mouth is on the pulse of Dean’s neck, and Dean is seeing the heaven’s unfold before him. This can only end in heartbreak, this can only end in blood-stained tears and yet…and yet Dean cannot stop himself as he buries his trembling hands into his angel’s mussed-up raven hair, as he squeezes his eyes shut in building tension, as he prays his affection through muffled cries into the salt-tinged taste of his angel’s sturdy shoulder, as his angel and him fall through the stars and collapse back down to Earth, a mad tangle of limbs and lips meshing together in desperate abandon.

This is certainly going to end in heartbreak, because already as the dawn breaks Dean knows that he cannot stay…the world is too broken for their love to survive…and Dean is too broken to accept the angel’s bleeding heart, his earnest kiss. The angel’s black crow-like feathers are scattered in carnage across the bedroom floor. Dean has left and the sutures have ripped open. Dean knows he leaves the angel to bleed crimson petals on the once white sheets.

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The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive…

Dean feels the impact of the clenched fist ricochet through his jaw—he is momentarily stunned senseless. He is slammed against the side of the Impala and beat and beat and beat, again and again and again, but he knows he is exactly where he needs to be.

The world is already lost to the chaotic sibling grudge match between two over-powered brats. But that no longer matters in the slightest. Dean is only a few moments away from death himself—and soon everyone else on the planet will be joining him. But that doesn’t matter anymore either.

Sam is somewhere deep within and trapped. Sam is scared out of his mind. Sam is all alone in there…and Sammy has always hated being alone. He used to climb into Dean’s bed during thunderstorms and cling to his brother’s shirt with small, shaky hands. He used to cry that he was scared and didn’t want to be alone, and of course, Dean could never send him away.

Well, he isn’t going be alone during this storm either…not so long as Dean still has breath in his lungs and a spark of fire in his soul. Sam has always had Dean’s back come hell or high-water…and hell if Dean didn’t always have his. It is how they have survived everything awful and gut-wrenching that has ever happened to them throughout their often blood-stained lives, ever since they were little kids…because they always survived together.

And so even as Lucifer pounds the life out of Dean...wearing Sam in a perverse, twisted version of his little brother…Dean knows that Sam is somewhere within…and Sam is now realizing that Dean is going to stay with him until the end of the line…that big brother isn’t gonna leave him scared and lonely in his final moments…in their final moments.

“…Sammy.” Dean gasps, blood gushing from his mouth. His bones ache and he is trembling and wracked with a numbing pain. But that does not matter right now…Sam matters. Sam has always mattered. He reaches up to grab onto Sam’s arm…they always used to cling to each other whenever the world got too dark and scary. Being brave for Sam always made Dean braver in return. And now was no exception. “…it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here.”

And Sam…the real Sam….will know exactly what that means. It means that Dean always has his back, just like Sam always has Dean’s. It means that Dean is never going to leave Sam alone…every thunderstorm weathered side-by-side. Dean might not be able to fix everything—and he might not always be able to…to protect Sam the way he wishes he could—or control what Sam does or does not do for Sam’s own good, or any of the other fragile concepts that Dean has desperately clung to for his own sanity over the years.

But there is something that Dean can do…so many things always out of his control, spinning just out of reach. But not this. He has power over this.

He can be here for Sam, right by his side and holding onto him, fingers clenched tightly around his wrist…pulse beating with blood that is shared with Dean, demon or not. He can make sure that Sammy does not die scared. He can make sure that Sammy does not die alone.

 …but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they’re only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren’t stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right into through if the skin wasn’t trying to keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.

“I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you.” Dean murmurs, his face swollen and bloodied, his lips trembling from the whispering anguish. Sam feels his arm move with rippling power and precision, feels his fist connect with Dean’s face without his permission…hears the bones crunch beneath him and can do nothing to prevent it. “I’m not gonna leave you.”

And possession is worse than death, because at least in death there is a finality to everything. With possession, there is nothing but a continual spiral into the depths of the mind, a swallowing whole into the darkness, and yet, Sam can still see and feel all of the horrible things his body is doing to his brother. And Sam claws and rages at his mind, scratching and scraping to climb out of the dark hole he is trapped in. He is able to dig his nails and fingers in and claw his way up before hitting his limit and sliding back down into the mud. He is trapped, he is trapped and he is condemned to watch good, brave Dean die at his brutal hands.

Dean is not going to leave him to die alone. There was once a time when Dean would not allow Sam to die at all. But that is childish talk—no one can prevent death, no one can even believe that they are capable of preventing it except maybe frightened children. And Dean and Sam are no longer children—they have grown up—more than ever within these past few weeks.

Dean cannot save Sam from dying.

But Dean will hold onto Sam forever…and they will die together, die in this hallowed field, hands clutching on to each other…hearts pumping the same blood through their veins…because Dean’s blood is his blood too, and together they are broken angels…but not fallen. No, because Dean’s love is so good and so fierce and loyal…that it heals all of Sam’s sins. It purifies Sam of this dark sickness, it imbues him with an inner peace that he has desperately craved but has only found solace in with Dean.

And it is here with Dean…here with Dean and standing next to the only home that either of them have ever known…that Sam finally realizes the truth. He has tried to defeat Lucifer with his anger, with the powerful rage that screams from within his aching chest. He has poured that rage into Lucifer…and together they have fed each other that poison…locking Sam into this out-of-control madness even further. Sam has slain demons through Lucifer’s use of his rage…and Sam has felt the chaotic satisfaction that scares him to death…feeling a sick sense of relief at the thick blood that has dripped down and stained the hands that he has lost all control of. His loss of self is complete—the rage that has been building within him since he was a young and frightened child is now swallowing him so completely that he is practically empty inside—a shell now hollowed out and consumed by something much more powerful.

But now Dean is here. And Dean brings security. Dean brings comfort. Dean brings safety and closeness and shelter from the loud rumbles of the threatening storm.

And most importantly of all, Dean brings love. A love so powerful and consuming that it makes beating back the devil almost easy. Because loving Dean is the easiest thing that Sam has ever done in his life…the most powerful thing he has ever done in his life…the one emotion that brings him control over both the chaos and his own sense of self.

I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out.

He is falling into darkness now…and Lucifer will take control again very shortly. He is falling into an eternity of despair and hopelessness. He is falling into torture so severe that it will never cease, he is falling into the pit of sludge and this time he cannot claw his way back out. He is falling into his worst nightmare…his body will never be his to control again. He is at two very powerful, very angry archangels’ mercy. And they will have no mercy for him. He will be stripped to the bone, his body will be set aflame, he will be whipped and torn and scorched and degraded and his body will never be his to control again.

But Dean is okay.

Dean is safe.

So that means that Sam is okay too.

And Dean’s face is the last thing that Sam will ever see…and that is perfect, that is fitting. Dean’s love will be enough to keep Sam comfort through his promised eternity of suffering and agony—because no matter what they do to him, they cannot take away Dean’s love. Dean’s love is bright and red and it burns throughout everything that makes up Sam…and Lucifer cannot reach him there. Lucifer cannot touch Dean’s love.

Lucifer can break Sam’s body down to nothing, but the love that echoes throughout his veins cannot be touched. That is Dean’s blood…because Dean’s blood is his blood…and it will keep Sam warm and…and human in the freezing, ice-laden depths of the Cage.

Just like when they were little. Just like when they were little and Sam was scared of thunderstorms and he would crawl into Dean’s bed…and Dean would tell him not to be scared, that Dean was always gonna be there to keep him safe.

And Dean is going to keep him safe now too…Lucifer is here, Lucifer is cold as ice and his touch burns with a frozen fury, his anger knows no bounds at Sam’s insolence, but Dean is bright and warm like the sun…and so Sam tries to climb into that part of himself…because Lucifer cannot reach Dean’s love.

I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Sam is back. Against all logic, all reasoning he is back. And although it is everything that Dean has desperately hoped against hope for, there is something wrong. Because Sam is broken, he is damaged…he is not the same. And yes, of course, that is to be expected. Dean knows better than anyone what hell does to a person…it strips them of who they once were, leaving a beaten, whisky-guzzling shell in their place, fears and anguish bottled up inside and waiting to burst out in reckless hopelessness. But this isn’t just hell—no something else is wrong. Because Sam is not just damaged and empty…he is not even the same person. His essence, his spirit…hell does not take those things away. But that is all gone now too…and Dean does not understand what is happening…how his little brother is capable of gazing upon him with those shark-like, deadened eyes. Hell never caused Dean to stop caring about Sammy…it was the exact opposite in fact, he clung to the memory of Sam as if it were his last lifeline in a sea of ravaged and wasted souls.

Dean glances over at Sam, his heart leaping up and settling heavily into his throat. Sam’s eyes…they used to be the window to his soul. Always so expressive, so emotive, so full of empathetic depth. They are so empty now…clouded and dead inside….unfeeling and listless.

And something has to be wrong…something has to be wrong because if something is wrong than it means that Dean can fix it…that this isn’t just the way that Sam is going to be forever now…because Dean has to be able to fix it. Because if this is just Sam—then Dean doesn’t know who he is anymore either.

You wanted to be in love, and he happened to get in the way.

“You two have the most unhealthy, tangled-up, crazy thing I’ve ever seen. And as long as he’s in your life, you’re never gonna be happy.”

She’s right, of course. They are tangled up; neither knowing where Dean’s life ends or Sam’s life begins. They are hopelessly codependent on each other; psychotically wrapped up in each other’s approval and identity, in each other’s happiness, irrationally determined at keeping the other permanently secured at their side, erotically obsessed with damning the world and everyone in it before they dare break apart this tangled-up, crazy thing that they share together.

This is not news to Dean and there is nothing to be done about it at this point. That tangled-up, crazy thing has kept them alive. That tangled-up, crazy thing has kept them sane. And despite what it might appear like to others, tangled-up and crazy is the healthiest thing they have to hold onto in this world. …it balances out all of the blood, guilt, and restless emptiness that sink into Dean’s stomach some nights, staring out into the blackness of the monster-crawling forests, white-knuckles clenched around a bottle of whisky.

And then there is Sam. Sam who drives Dean crazy with his dark, restless moods, his bitchy rants, his obsessive tendencies, his persistent badgering when he thinks Dean needs to talk about something, or do the right thing, or just needs to listen, Deeean. And Dean drives Sam crazy too at times, he’ll admit. But he would rather be miserable with Sam then happy with anyone else. And yes, he supposes that further cements her first point about them being tangled up and crazy…but then again, tell him something he doesn’t know.    

They are driving down back roads and there is a soft, autumn breeze floating in through the rolled down windows. A song by the Police is blaring on the radio, keeping Dean occupied with the noise. And then there is Sam. Sam who grants reprieve through his thoughtful, silent listening. Sam who grants solace through his quiet, hopeful presence. Sam who makes Dean laugh until his sides hurt, who makes him smile until his lips are numb, who makes him get up in the morning and grab the sawed-off shotgun and keep moving forward…because he knows that Sam is always gonna be right there next to him riding shotgun.

Dean glances over at Sammy…his eyes the window to his soul once again. Bleeding emotion, both the good and the bad. Sam has his cheek pressed up against his hand as he leans his head near the open window. He is likely bored with the forty-eight hour car ride, his eyelids drooping, a small speckle of spit collecting on the back of his hand, as he drifts off to sleep…and that makes Dean feel good. Sammy napping during long car rides…that means things are back to normal. Sam’s soul isn’t the only thing to have returned…Dean has now regained his soul as well. Because there is no Dean without Sam, just like there is no Sam without Dean. And yeah, maybe that makes what they have between them tangled-up and crazy.

But watching Sam’s newly-gentle eyes flutter shut, hearing a soft snore rumble through the Impala…Sammy is asleep, Dean lowers the volume on the radio slightly…and Dean knows that he would not have it any other way.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me…

Rumpled sheets and spilt wine across the motel room carpet. The motel smells of old cigarette smoke, but he smells of sweat and sex, the best combination.

His kisses are both salty and sweet, his hands warm and encompassing…those hands that know how to play Dean like a harp. And the heavens once more unfold before them, and Castiel is kissing all across Dean’s defined jawline, hands moving down his shuddering chest, mouth now sinking deeply into his own, hips stuttering, pulses quickening, stilted gasps escaping lips.

Rumbled sheets and spilt wine across the motel room carpet…or is that blood? The motel smells of old cigarette smoke and mildew growing on the bathroom tiles…the pipes are leaking again, water seeping into the bedroom.  

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, lazily grinning at his beautiful angel. The angel’s raven hair is mussed and messy, just the way Dean likes it. Dean reaches over to softly trace his finger over the angel’s satiny pale lips.

The angel nibbles at Dean’s finger lightly before glancing back up with those intense glacial-blue pools. They soften slightly. “I’m counting your freckles.”

Dean scoffs, as if the angel is being ridiculous, but secretly he is very pleased. A gentle warmth percolates in his chest. “And…?”

“And I am at one hundred and twenty-six.” The angel announces, simply, his voice low and like crushed gravel against Dean’s ear. “Now hush, or I’ll have to start all over again…”

Rumbled sheets and smeared blood across the ceiling, the walls, the white linen. The motel room smells of death and black ooze as it congeals within Dean’s lungs, making him choke and cough and sputter. There is black ooze dribbling out of the cracks in the ceiling, seeping through the carpet, swelling up around the bed where they lay.

Castiel is running his hands down Dean’s chest…warm hands that feel like liquid heat…but soon his touch becomes insistent, pushing at Dean hurriedly, as if he is about to be swept away into the lake again. “Dean…Dean!”

Dean jolts upright, the sheets twisted around his legs. Large hands have replaced Castiel’s. They are his brother’s hands, and the insistent voice also belongs to Sam. Dean blinks up at his little brother, confusion still filling his bleary green gaze.

“You were dreaming about him again.” Sam murmurs, softly.

Dean rushes one shaky hand through his hair. Rumpled sheets and spilt wine across the motel room carpet. His angel is gone…his angel has been swept away by the tide and carried out to sea. The motel room is nothing more than a haunting memory, only to be resurrected in reoccurring nightmares.

…and it never made any sense, anything.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

All night I stretched my arms across him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing with all my skin and bone “Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be

like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces.”

The woods are unearthly dark, the grumbling and moaning of wild beasts surrounding him, rattling his bones as he tries to sleep. He grits his teeth together and tightens his grasp around his makeshift hunting knife. He is on constant alert here, his heart thudding in his chest with every leaf crunch, every twig snap.

A strange growling noise rumbles from somewhere in the distance, followed by a low whistling sound that Dean has never even heard before. His grip doubles and he stirs nervously, wondering if there will be any hope of rest tonight.

“You need your sleep.” Castiel murmurs, poking at the fire absentmindedly with a stick. Several sparks jump up into the air, his dark raven hair is illuminated by the flames, the embers glowing in his deep blue gaze. “Don’t worry. I’ll watch over you.”

“Yeah?” Dean demands, lifting his eyebrows in his angel’s direction. “And who’s gonna watch out for you, huh?”

Castiel gives him a gentle hint of an amused smile. “I’ll be sure to wake you, should I need the help, Dean.”

Dean chuckles inwardly, he cannot help it; his angel is so very endearing. He returns Castiel’s words with a knowing grin. “Did I ever tell you how good you look in the dark, Cas?”

Castiel continues to prod at the fire with the stick, but Dean is certain that a faint blush has dusted Castiel’s handsome features upon hearing Dean’s words. The fire snaps and crackles between them, and Dean is suddenly aware of how unbearably cold it is tonight.

“C’mere.” Dean encourages, patting the cool, dewy grass next to him. He is sprawled against the base of a large oak tree, but there is more than enough room for the other man to join him. The tree extends high above their heads, providing them sanctuary from the malevolent beasties of the night.

Castiel does not have to be asked twice. He quietly moves next to Dean, laying his head down upon Dean’s strong chest. Dean wraps his arms tightly around Castiel’s waist and draws him in closely. Castiel is quiet, but Dean knows that his angel feels very content in the moment.

They lay there without speaking, listening to the crackling fire and the strange low whistles and growls that permeate the world around them. It is Castiel who finally breaks the hallowed shroud of silence, “Dean…”

“Hmm?” Dean murmurs, absentmindedly running his fingers up and down his angel’s arms. He presses his head firmly down against the top of Castiel’s, taking enjoyment in the comfort and closeness that has grown so naturally between them.

“You have been very attentive, Dean.” Castiel whispered, his voice escaping him like a low, hushed prayer. “I…I enjoy that.”

Dean does not answer. He knows that his relationship with his angel has deepened somehow, trapped within this godforsaken hellhole. He knows that their profound bound of before has become strong as steel now, forged through a baptism by blood and fire. He is not unhappy about this turn of events. He enjoys this softness, these gentle feelings that have grown so intricately between them. And god help him, he can even picture a life with Cas once they get out of here. Yeah…yeah, that wouldn’t be so bad.

“Dean…?” Castiel presses, glancing up with those big, blue eyes, his body snuggled perfectly under the crook of the hunter’s arm. “Are you still awake…?”

“Mmm.” Dean nods, a small smile quirking at his lips. The monsters are perpetually hunting them, the woods are endless, the darkness is suffocating. And yet, Dean is happy…Dean is content. Something about this place, these feelings…it’s so pure.

Dean presses his lips firmly against Castiel’s temple and he feels his angel relax in his arms. Some nights they make love out here, bathed under the light of a thousand stars. Tonight they are simply content to hold each other, as Dean continues to press soft, feathery kisses against the angel’s soft cheek. Castiel makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, something between a breathy sigh and an appreciative murmur.

It is pure here. There is no morally grey, there is only right and wrong. Dean can kill monsters without question—they are always evil and he is always doing the right thing. And loving Cas—well, that feels very right too.

“Cas…” Dean smiles through his kisses, rushing a gentle hand through the angel’s dark hair, unhurriedly rubbing the soft tendrils between his fingers. “Castiel…”

 Dean is an unapologetic romantic whenever he gets Castiel alone, but here it does not matter. Here everything is beautifully uncomplicated—no world to shame him or second-guess his masculinity, nothing but a hunter and his angel against all the beasts that dare come between them. It is simple, it is without terrifying complexities…it is pure.

Dean finds himself drifting off to sleep. He knows Castiel will watch over him throughout the night. He is lying to himself if he does not admit that he is very happy about that fact. He closes his eyes and takes in a shallow breath. A vicious howl sounds in the distance, but all Dean can feel is his angel’s soft touch, as his hand strokes pleasantly through Dean’s hair.

Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe
his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes…

Sam is ready to die. He is ready to die because it is for the greater good, because his death will save thousands of others, because it is an honor to die for a cause that he believes in…because his life is without meaning, because his blood has been soiled from the time he was six months old, because nothing ever gets better, nothing about himself ever changes no matter how hard he tries…he is forever dirty, he is forever impure, he is forever going to disappoint Dean again and again. He cannot stand to see Dean look at him like that ever again, he cannot stand to be…to be himself any longer. He will do this for Dean…he will do one thing right for Dean. He could not save Dean from hell, he could not save Dean from purgatory…but he will do this. And then he will die. The world is better off if hell is shut, and Dean will be better off without Sam there to break his heart once again.

Sam watches as the blood dribbles down his hand…his demon blood. He approaches Crowley slowly, the weight of his actions not lost on him. His demon blood is being used to cure the demonic beast, his impure darkness used to purify and heal. Good. Good. He is finally doing one thing right. He is finally going to redeem himself in his brother’s eyes, his blood draining from him…killing him slowly…but he is ready to die.

Sam is about to press his blood against Crowley’s lips, forcing him to drink…just as Yellow Eyes once forced Sam to drink his foul poison. Just as he once drank from Ruby’s dark well. Sam blinks back the tears…this time his blood is sanctified…he is glowing, he is glowing, and he will finally die a clean man…his only regret that he could not be everything to Dean that his big brother always was to him.

“Sammy, stop!”

And Dean is here. Dean is here and he is using the voice that he uses when he is trying to convince Sam to see reason…when he is trying to tell Sam what the right thing to do is. Dean means well…Dean always means well…but this time he is wrong. Sam needs to die…Sam doesn’t care if he lives or dies. He will save others…he will finally get away from himself…he will finally do something right for Dean. Sam keeps telling himself that he will change, he will change, he can change—damn it, he can be a better man! Well, it’s been twenty-nine years, Sammy! Why hasn’t he changed yet? Why is he still breaking his brother’s heart, why is he still letting Dean down? Why does he still feel just as sick and impure as he always has, ever since he was a little boy, wondering why he could never go on a quest with Sir Galahad and all the others knights? Why is he still just Sammy…the same person he has always hated, the same person he has always found so unlovable, so unbearable, so flawed and broken. He has tried to change so many times…he has never succeeded. Well, time to end it all now. Time to seek purification in one last quest for the Holy Grail, and then be done with it all. He cannot bear the thought of carrying on…and when Dean tells Sam that he is going to die, he cannot meet those words with anything other than blinding indifference.

“So?” He demands. So? He is so unlovable…he keeps telling himself he can be better…he has tried again and again to better himself…to eat good foods…to take care of his body…to be calm and kind and…and then he goes and hurts Dean, he lets Dean down…again. He can’t do that again…he won’t do that again.

And then all the venom spills from his lips…and once he starts, he cannot stop himself. He is pouring forth all of his self-hatred, his self-recriminations…and even though he sees Dean’s eyes turn hard and glassy, Sam cannot stop. He needs to make Dean understand why he is doing this…because he needs to do this for Dean. Because Dean is everything and Sam cannot break him down to tears again….Sam cannot be so flawed and awful when Dean is so wonderful.

Sam’s lips are trembling, his eyes blinking back tears without success. His words tumble from his mouth like self-inflicted bile oozing forth, but he cannot stop. He hurts…everything hurts…but he cannot stop…he cannot stop until Dean finally interrupts him.

“Hold on, hold on!” Dean demands, and Sam finds his words dying upon his lips. Dean stares at him, eyes filling with desperate pleas. “Do you seriously think that? Because none of it…none of it…is true.”

And Sam wants to believe Dean so badly. He knows that Dean is not just saying what he thinks Sam wants to hear, he knows that Dean is going to be honest with him…and so although Sam hurts, although everything hurts, he listens. He listens because it’s Dean…and Dean’s words are all that matter right now.

“Don’t you dare think that there is anything past or present that I would put in front of you!” Dean exclaims, insistently, his bright green gaze brimming with impassioned tears. “It has never been like that ever. I need you to see that. I’m beggin’ you.”

And the words hit Sam in a way that he was not expecting. They fill him with hope…a hope that only Dean has ever been able to instill within him. Because the two of them might be broken, they might be flawed…but they have each other. They always have each other. And that is enough of a reason to get up in the morning…that is enough of a reason to keep fighting. That is enough of a reason to still believe that someday…someday Sam might be the man he wants to be. If Dean…good, brave Dean…believes that Sam is someone worth loving, someone worth having faith in…then maybe there is still hope.

“How do I stop?” Sam pleads aloud, because this is so much more than stopping the trials. This is running away from home as a child, this is going to Stanford, and always being the disappointment of the family, and drinking demon blood, and damaging his relationship with Dean on a very unforgiveable level. Dean—who always has his back, who always gave him everything…literally everything…and this is how Sam repays him. Sam wanted to be the one person who his brother could always count on—because Sam always counted on Dean.

But Sam is too flawed, too broken, to unclean, to impure, to everything-that-has-always-been-wrong-with-him. But now—if he truly is to believe Dean’s words…and he wants to so badly…then he is to believe that nothing is too broken that it can’t be fixed, nothing is ever so horrible that it can’t be forgiven.  Dean’s love is gentle…Dean’s love is unconditional…and no one has ever loved Sam—no one has ever believed in Sam as much as Dean does. And Sam is so…so damn grateful for that.

And Dean is telling Sam everything that Sam needs to hear, his eyes bleeding with truth and sincerity. Sam is emotional shoulder to cry on, Sam is non-judgmental listener, Sam is big-hearted little brother, Sam is the one who always asks, ‘do you want to talk about it?’ until Dean does—because Sam knows that he might have to ask five times, but eventually Dean will open up and it will start the healing process. Dean needs that. And so Dean tells Sam that he isn’t the burden that Dean has to shoulder, he isn’t the mistake, he isn’t the problem, he isn’t the screw up, the inherently flawed one, the least of everybody…he is the emotional bedrock that has always kept Dean going.  And hell if Dean isn’t going to keep Sam going now…because that’s just what they do.

How do I stop?

And the question goes beyond the trials…how does Sam stop all these horrible feelings of uncleanliness and failure? This overwhelming guilt of every time he hurt Dean…when he was really just trying to escape from himself. He is bleeding out, he is bleeding out…he finally broke and all of the pain is bleeding out…his demon blood, his ultimate curse, is in that blood too. And it is bleeding out from within him, bleeding out and leaving him open and vulnerable to Dean’s faith in him, Dean’s unfailing and all-encompassing love for him.

“Just let it go.” Dean breathes out, relieved that his words have reached his brother. But it is not that simple…it is in Sam—Dean doesn’t know what this feels like. Dean can’t fully understand…he is too good…too good…too good to fully grasp Sam’s failings, and yet, Sam feels that little seed of hope taking root in his soul once again despite himself.

Dean is smiling at him…that adoring grin of his…and wraps a bandage around Sam’s bleeding hand. He is stopping the bleeding…Dean has always known exactly how to stop the bleeding. “Hey, listen, we’ll figure it out, okay? Just like we always do. Come on.”

 Just like they always do. Just like they always will.

“Come on. Let it go, okay? Let it go, brother.” And Dean pulls Sam tightly into his arms, enveloping him into a warm, consuming hug. Sam breaks down…because he knows that it is time to let the pain go. It is time to let the fighting go, the hurt go, the who-did-what-to-who go. There’s never been anything past or present that they would put in front of each other and it's always been like that. Because even when Sam broke Dean…broke them…and Lucifer walked free, they grabbed onto each other first and held on tight.

Sam cries softly into his brother’s shoulder. Sam’s muscular frame is intimidatingly huge at 6’4”, but right now he is little…he is Sammy…and Dean’s arms cover him completely…shield and protect little brother from the world. Sam continues to weep, but inside he can feel himself beginning to heal. He loves Dean so much…and although he supposes he always knew how much Dean loves him…it is nice to be reminded every now and again.

…not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

I’ve been rereading your story. I think it’s about me in a way that might not be flattering, but that’s okay.

Dean doesn’t know how it happened exactly, but somehow their playful banter during the long three-day car ride has taken a very somber turn. Sam has gotten into one of his moods…the ones where no matter how much Dean teases and jokes, Sam just keeps his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. And eventually Dean has to listen, because he knows that many emotions and thoughts sit quietly within his brother, and that when they finally do surface, it is because it is about something very important.

Dean doesn’t know how it happened exactly, but somehow they are talking about possession. And Dean dreads these kinds of conversations, because they always end with empty promises…the kind of promises that Dean knows he can never keep.

But this time it is different. Because this time, Sam is revealing things about his experiences that twist Dean’s stomach into knots and make his knuckles tighten until they burn white around the cold metal of the steering wheel.

You are not in control of your body. There are times when you are roaring a hoarse, soundless scream, when your skin is crawling but you cannot scrub yourself clean, when you watch as your hands drip with innocent blood from the bodies that you are forced to tear to shreds with hands that are no longer your own.

And then there was Lucifer…and Sam only gets so far before his voice trails off into a hoarse whisper. He has a distant look in his eyes as he rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. He is trying not to let it show, but Dean notices that Sam is shaking slightly.

Dean’s jaw tightens…he hates seeing Sam like this, wishes to God he could say something—anything—that can make it all better. But deep down he knows that nothing can fix this and it drives him crazy. “Sammy…”

“I would rather be dead.” Sam whispers, his voice low and trembling. He clears his throat pointedly, trying to steady himself once more. He turns to face Dean, and Dean has never seen Sam look quite like this before…he is bleeding sincerity and insistence. “I would rather be dead then possessed again, Dean.”

We dream and dream of being seen as we really are and then finally someone looks at us and sees us truly and we fail to measure up.

“Sammy…” Dean shakes his head, angrily…realizing the conversation has turned into one of those talks again. Sure, I’ll kill you if you go dark. Yeah, I won’t tear the world apart and flip it upside in order to find you again. None of those were real promises…they were just the things that they said in order to convince themselves that they weren’t completely crazy…that they cared more about doing what seemed right than throwing it all away for each other. Well, Dean is done making fake promises. “Don’t…don’t ask me to do that.”

Sam shakes his head, insistently. “I’m not saying that you would need to be the one to kill me, Dean.” He places his hand on Dean’s shoulder, his voice still shaky and his bright eyes glazed with unfallen tears. “I’m just saying…if it ever came down to that, if I ever needed to make the choice…I would rather be dead.”

Dean hesitates, his own throat tightening at the thought. He gives a heavy swallow, glancing over at his little brother. And the look in Sam’s eyes….it absolutely breaks Dean’s heart. Sucha good kid, and Dean wishes he coulda done more to protect Sammy from the heart wrenching ache that radiates from within those eyes…eyes like the sun setting on a greyish, stormy blue sea. Dean’s gaze softens and he tries to give Sam a small, comforting smile. “I understand, Sammy.”

And he does, damn it, he really does. Dean means what he says, and not just because his words seem to have granted Sam a moment of solace, a hint of a dimpled smile touching his lips.

“But it’s never gonna come to that.” Dean adds, his confidence bolstered by his brother’s trusting gaze…big brother always there to take care of little brother. “Because I would kick the ass of anything that even tried.”

And there’s the laugh that Dean was aiming for...it’s softer now, quieter. It’s not so unrestrained anymore and it’s no longer a pitch too high, because Sam is far too damaged to laugh like that now. And that breaks Dean’s heart too. Dean feels his resolve strengthen, something very real and serious now tightening at his chest. “I mean it, Sammy.” Dean promises, catching his little brother’s gaze once more and this time something very real and serious passes between them. Sam gives a small nod, he believes Dean, of course he does.

Anyway: story received, story included. You looked at me long enough to see something mysterioso under all the gruff and bluster. Thanks. Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.

They are standing on a bridge and it is raining. Sam is hurting, Sam is bleeding, Sam is even more broken than before. The promise is broken too, and when it broke it shattered into sharp little pieces that stuck into everyone in the vicinity…hurtful, heartbreaking shards stuck in Castiel…little pieces nicking Dean…larger ones stuck in Sam, causing skin to break…chunks piercing Kevin’s heart and leaving him cold and pale.

They are standing on a bridge and it is raining. Dean wishes to god that Sam would just chew him out, give him hell…just take a swing or something…because this is so much worse. Sam’s ruined face, etched with heartache and betrayal…it’s so goddamn unbearable.

I’m sorry I took another piece of you…are the words that want to come out, but they always die on Dean’s lips before he can speak them.

Dean can’t survive without Sam…and Sammy knows that, so why did he expect anything else from Dean? But all Dean ever does is hurt Sam, he realizes that now, taking little pieces of Sammy’s heart for himself to hoard and keep safe. But that’s not what he wanted…damn it, he only meant to save Sam! That’s all he ever wanted…he always sucked at making these kind of damn promises, because they were never real …they were just the things that they said in order to convince themselves that they weren’t completely crazy…that they cared more about doing what seemed right than throwing it all away for each other.

It is time to leave. It is time to leave because he is poison and he ruins everything he touches…no, that is not the reason. He and Sammy both know he is being dishonest with himself, but he cannot bear to face the truth in the agony of the moment. It is time to leave because he needs to keep Sam safe…and sometimes that need tears off little pieces of Sam, but that’s not what Dean intended. He just wants his little brother to be okay…and that want was always something good that he found within himself, something pure. That was always the part of Dean that made the most sense. And now that has been torn away too, now that is just as screwed to hell as every other damn messed up and confusing thing in Dean’s life.

Dean casts once last helpless glance at his poor, beautiful Castiel…he hurt his angel during all of this too, another piece snapped off and hoarded away in Dean’s heart. Castiel’s glassy blue gaze begs Dean not to leave, but it is too late. The promise is broken.

Dean meant to keep it. Honestly, he did. The cold bite of rainwater hits against his face as he walks away from the bridge. But any promise that involves existing without Sammy is such an insurmountable promise to keep. He knows he tore another little piece off, he knows that he just made Sam’s smile a little more hidden, his laugh a little quieter and more restrained. Dean feels tears blur his vision as he climbs into the Impala and slams the door shut. He drives away, leaving Castiel and Sam behind on the bridge, the chilled rain droplets splashing against his rearview mirror and blurring them from sight…the promise is broken. He meant to keep it, he really did.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars as the road around us

grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass already laced with frost…

Hurried hands grapple to feel and push for bare skin, hushed chuckles break through heavy pants and meshed mouths; they feel so young and free in moments like these…their quickened breaths and heated passion causing the frosted windows to fog over.

Castiel gazes down at Dean, his deep blue eyes searching the hunter’s face intently. And Dean is so, so beautiful. Yes, he has lovely emerald green eyes that sparkle and shine with heat, and a handsome face with a nice, defined jaw that Castiel loves to press kisses across. But he is also such a good man…a righteous man. Despite all of the damage his soul has been through, it is still so pure and bright. It radiates warmth and goodness…it bathes Castiel in a gentle light.

Dean lifts his hand above his head, eyes wide and innocent. Castiel presses his palm flat against Dean’s and squeezes the other man’s hand tightly in his own. The angel presses Dean’s knuckles firmly against his full lips, before nibbling at the pulse in the hunter’s wrist. Dean’s lips part soundlessly; he is intrigued by the angel’s possessive and dominating nature.

Dean is so beautiful. He tastes young and vibrant, and Castiel is happy to drink him down thoroughly. It is times like this that Castiel is glad that he can no longer fly…it wasn’t until his wings were clipped that he finally learned how to soar.

Sam is helping Jody with some errands, and so Dean and Castiel take the Impala out to a quiet country dirt road and put it in park. Dean insists that he just wants to show Castiel the Sioux Falls countryside, but Castiel knows Dean better than that. It doesn’t matter that it is all an all-to-obvious ruse to seduce the angel, it works every time. Dean can be so ridiculously charming, and Castiel long ago gave up on trying to resist.

…but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of lullabies. 

There was a time not so long ago that Castiel used to feel hopelessly lonely, sitting on his isolated mountain perch…surrounded by humanity but somehow always so removed from them, loving them but always so distant from them. And then he met the Righteous Man…the man he had spent forty years cutting his way through all of hell for, his warriors falling at his feet all around him, demons laying slashed and smote…and all the while Castiel wielded his blade expertly, not knowing anything more than the fact that he needed to complete the mission at hand.

How could he have known then that saving the Righteous Man would forever change not only his world, but his very sense of self…gripping tight and hands searing through flesh and bone. The Righteous Man gazed up at him, tears falling down his ruddy, ash-streaked cheeks. It was too late, he had fallen, he had tortured…the mission was a loss. But for some unexplainable reason, that didn’t quite matter in the moment. Because the man’s soul…despite having fallen, the man’s soul was absolutely breathtaking…absolutely splendidly radiant. Castiel had never seen such a soul, and it instantly rendered him somewhat breathless as they ascended from the flames together, the man’s arms linked tightly around his waist.

And how naïve Castiel had been at the time, imagining that everything would be perfect once this unearthly interesting and beautiful man felt the same way about him. The truth is, there is nothing perfect about Dean Winchester. He can be infuriating to a fault, he can break your heart in an instant, he can lash out, he can hold grudges to put all others to shame, he can idolize you one moment before tearing you down unceremoniously the next.

Dean grins up at Castiel, hurriedly tugging Castiel’s tie loose and leaving it hopelessly askew. He pulls the tie forward eagerly, eyes hooded with desire, smashing his lips deeply against the angel’s. Castiel feels his heart catch in his throat…yes, Dean can be all of those things…but he is also loyal to a fault, caring and compassionate, a caregiver to all in need, a generous lover, and a hopeless romantic once gotten alone. Dean’s love is blinding, all-encompassing, breathlessly consuming. And Castiel knows that supposedly angels do not feel as deeply as humans…but Dean has taught him how to love…how to truly and deeply both accept and offer up this intense, penetrating love.

It is cold outside, with the snow softly drifting down past their iced, fogged windows, but their combined body heat allows them to remain oblivious to this fact. Castiel is hurriedly unbuttoning Dean’s shirt, turning his head to the side in order to kiss Dean even more thoroughly. He pushes Dean down into the leather seats…smiles to himself when he hears Dean keen his affections. It is just Dean and Castiel now; they have made a commitment to each other. And that makes Castiel very happy…that is very sexy to think about. Dean has given himself over entirely to his angel, their bond is strong and their relationship is comfortable at last.

No, life with Dean is not what Castiel pictured when he first fell from grace for his hunter. It is so much better…because it is something much more real. Sometimes it is Castiel burning toast in an attempt to make Dean breakfast in bed…Dean had laughed at that until he had tears in his eyes, his mirth even greater when he realized that Castiel had asked Sam for help and it still turned out all burnt…sometimes it is falling asleep with a small peck on the cheek, too exhausted to even undress before collapsing into bed…yes, sometimes it is fighting and sometimes it is Castiel being stubborn and sometimes it is Dean being difficult…but mostly it is this…kissing and groping in the back of a classic car, forever young and forever in love.

But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

Castiel lies silently, motionlessly on the ground, his body aching and in shock. He stares at the blade as it stands straight and tall, piercing the binding of the red book…the book stained red with his own blood. He is shaken to his core, but he is not scared for himself. His precious Dean is almost gone, everything that made him good and his soul so pure slowly becoming consumed alive by this terrible curse.  Castiel has never felt this helpless in his life, as he continues to stare at that blade…his breathing coming out hard and shallow, his heart breaking soundlessly in his bruised chest. Dean might as well have stabbed that knife straight through him, it would have felt exactly the same.

I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet.

Sam rushes home as quickly as possible, his car tearing through the puddles left behind from the rain. His heart feels as if it were throbbing up in his throat, he can barely breathe. He sucks in a few shaky gasps of air, his stomach knotting up.

Sam tries to tell himself that Cas is able to keep Dean safe. He is an angel after all; he will make certain that Dean doesn’t get too far away from them. More than an angel, he is the only person that Sam trusts other than himself to protect Dean in moments like these. Cas and Dean are…well, they are without labels, but Sam has known for a while now that labels don’t matter. His older brother and Cas have a sort of unspoken-but-understood agreement that they are in this together for life now. They love each other, whether or not the words are ever spoken openly, and Sam had picked up on that long before Dean had finally opened up and admitted it to him. Any suspicions that Sam had about the nature of his brother’s relationship with the angel were confirmed the moment he saw Dean’s face after he thought he had lost Castiel forever. It was a look he had seen before in the mirror…it had been his face after he had lost Jessica.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam had asked, only to be blown off with a gruff and hasty, “I’m fine.” But Sam was persistent…stubborn, he supposed, and before long Dean was confiding in Sam the true nature of their relationship. Sam had already suspected as much, but he was glad that Dean was finally opening up about this part of his life, and when Cas finally returned, it allowed all three of them to settle down into a comfortable family unit together. Cas and Sam had long felt a kinship based on their shared love for Dean, but now Sam is confident in the fact that he and Cas share a mutual love for each other as well, based on the familial relationship that they have cultivated together over the years.

Sam takes a sharp left turn, his tires squealing angrily against the wet blacktop. This constant stress, this anxiety…it is going to kill him. That is, if Dean doesn’t do him in first…

I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper. I didn’t want to write these pages until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones. I do not have that luxury.

Sam bursts through the bunker door; he hastily takes off his wet jacket and tosses it in a heap on the marble floor. He hears Castiel before he sees him…it is the soft gasps of someone in agony, of someone who has just had their heart ripped out of their chest, who has had their lungs crushed until they suffocate.

And Sam feels his stomach drop, this sick pit that has rested within him for months now rising up to swallow him…he does not want to see what has become of his friend, and yet, he cannot stop as his long legs pound down the steps and round the corner. Sam feels a sick bile rise up in his throat; he makes a soft choking sound at the sight.

The angel lies on the floor, brutalized and bloody. His lip is split open, his nose dribbling fresh blood. His face is swollen and red, his eyes distant and glassed-over.

Sam rushes forward, dropping to his knees. He gently gathers the angel’s head into his large hands. “Cas!” He shouts, palming at Castiel’s cheek, making sure to keep him awake and focused. “What…what on earth…?”

Castiel glances up at Sam, a deadened look settling in those once vibrant blue eyes. Sam swallows heavily, at a loss for what to say. How could Dean have done this…how could he hurt Cas like this—and Sam knows now that his brother is almost beyond saving at this point, almost swallowed whole by the curse of the Mark, and the realization grips around his throat and slowly squeezes until he can’t breathe.

“He…he did this…?” Sam murmurs, fresh tears welling up in his eyes, his voice cracking slightly, his hands trembling around Castiel’s puffy, bruised face. “He did this to you?”

Castiel simply nods, his eyes still distant, his face still tense from the shock.

“Oh god…” Sam hisses, the words coming out strained and rough against his throat. “Oh god, Cas, I’m-I’m so sorry…”

Castiel raises one trembling hand and wraps it around Sam’s wrist. He gives a small shake of his head. He does not blame Sam for this. He does not want Sam to blame himself either, and although Sam appreciates the angel’s gesture, he is not so sure he agrees.

Sam does not know how long he stays huddled over the broken-winged angel, but it certainly feels like hours. Eventually he helps Castiel get to the washroom to clean up. Castiel sits on the edge of the rusted tub, his eyes still lingering near the ground, glazed with harrowing ache. Sam gently presses a warm cloth to Castiel’s forehead, grimacing in empathetic pains. Sam has just lost Charlie; he could not bear to lose Cas too. And he came so close tonight that it scares him to death…and poor Dean too, he is so lost to have fallen this far. This is Dean’s demon blood, this is his time spent lost in the wilderness, and Sam is going to do whatever it takes to bring him back…just like Dean did whatever it took to catch Sam when he was falling.

“Does this hurt…?” Sam asks softly, bending down slightly to assess Castiel’s condition. Castiel shakes his head quickly, and Sam continues dabbing him with the cloth. Castiel glances up at the taller man, and Sam gives him a small nod in return.

Cas used to know Sam as ‘the boy with the demon blood.’ How much things have changed since then. They have both taken their walks down a dark path that was lined with good intentions, they have both learned to understand and appreciate each other through those experiences. Cas was there for Sam after he had been possessed by Gadreel, Cas helped pull Sam out of the tormented reaches of his mind and reminded him that he was loved and his life was worth living, and that helped cement a kindred friendship that had been quietly blossoming through the years. Sam is not the easiest person to get close to, he will readily admit, he is usually introspective and often has impenetrable walls up, lest he reveal to anyone all the parts of himself he dislikes so much. But Cas was patient and understanding…being a bit of an introspective thinker himself…and together they came into a brotherhood of their own.

After cleaning him up, Sam takes Castiel to the couch in the living room. He throws a warm blanket around the angel’s shoulders…it is Sam’s favorite; it is the blanket that Dean always uses to bundle Sam up with whenever he is sick. Sam has brewed fresh chamomile tea for the both of them too…tea will help soothe Cas’s aching bones, will help to soothe Sam’s own tempest of worry and fear.

Castiel softly blows on the tea before taking a sip, the covers still tightly wrapped around his shoulders. He has not spoken yet, and Sam has not asked him to. Sam drinks the tea as well, but inside he is ruined…Dean would never hurt Cas like that unless he was no longer Dean. And the realization makes Sam tremble and his insides turn to cold mush. He has tried to be brave for Cas, but he can no longer help it. He tries his hardest to hold it all in…something hot and wet pressing threateningly against the corners of his eyes, something hot and frightened welling up within his chest. But one more glance at poor, broken Castiel and Sam loses his battle, and soon the tears start to fall unabashedly, his chest heaving, his hands shaking…almost a year of heartbreak and anxiety finally pouring out of him in anguished release. Sam can’t do this without Dean…he doesn’t want to…and now Cas is hurt and Dean has hurt him…and Dean loves Cas so much, how could he do this…and Sam does not know if he can save Dean, he has always failed every time he has tried in the past. But he won’t give up on Dean, he won’t…

And Castiel’s tea is quickly placed on the ground, and he is wrapping his arms around Sam, pulling him into a tight embrace…and Sam crumbles into him, knowing they are both weeping for Dean to come back to them. Sam feels wetness press against the shoulder that Cas is leaning on. He is crying too.

I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

You play along, because you want to die for love, you always have.

So this is the only way to save the world.

So this is the only way to stop the evil that he has become…the evil he has always been, he can no longer lie to himself behind false bravado and the cheap declaration that he does what he does to save people, to do some good in the world.

He has to kill his brother. He has to kill Sammy.

He tries to tell himself that this is the right thing to do…because Sammy is no saint either. God knows Dean has dragged him through the muck enough; his soul is just as stained with Winchester do-gooder blood now too.

This is for the best…the insane tangled-up craziness that they share making any other option impossible. There is no hope for little brother now, Dean shoulda left well enough alone when Sam was at Stanford...shoulda let him close the gates of hell and die for something freakin’ worthwhile, if there is sucha thing anymore…but Dean likes to break little pieces off to hold onto for himself. Well, mission accomplished, he has handed out a death sentence to Sammy and now he must carry out the execution.

But Sam is still hanging onto childish beliefs and ideals…still sees Dean as a good man, as his hero, as the man he always tried to study and emulate growing up. Dean is none of those things…he is a murderer, he is a sick, twisted son of a bitch, he is barely even human anymore. Well, time to end it all. And the insane tangled-up craziness that they share means that Sam has to die too. And sure, that’s Dean’s fault as well…but it is too late to fix that now. It is too late to fix anything. The scythe lies heavily in his blood-stained hands, knuckles gripped tight around the wood, and he knows it is too late to save little brother from Dean’s dark influence anymore. The only thing left is to end this madness, to salvage whatever scraps they still can.

And Sam forces a small, sad smile through his tears…he is trying to stay brave for Dean, just as Dean has always tried to be brave for him. Dean feels his heart grow heavy and weak in his chest, Sam’s shy smile always made of everything that can break a heart…damn it, this is the right thing to do…the only thing left to do. Dean has no other choice!

“Close your eyes.” Dean whispers, adverting his gaze. Something gentle and familiar is starting to tug at him...those big puppy dog eyes. They used to get Sammy whatever he wanted, but he never used them intentionally. He was just a sweet little kid, just this sweet, innocent little kid who always held Dean’s heart in the palm of his hand.

Dean glances back up at his little brother, a soft ache that he has known since childhood percolating in his tightening chest. Sammy is still looking at him with those soft eyes that bleed adoration and love. Swirling blue storm clouds, with the sun peeking out just beyond the horizon. Sam is on his knees, as if in hushed prayer, his head thrown back to gaze up at his big brother, a large, crocodile tear running down his flushed cheek and across his elongated neck.

Dean remembers when he and Sammy used to watch those old monster movies together, the Saturday morning specials that they ate up along with a bowl of sugary cereal. It was just cheesy Claymation, but Sammy used to get so scared. He used to peek through chubby little hands; his body snuggled up close to Dean on the ratty motel room couch.

“Sammy, close your eyes.” Dean would tell him at all of the truly frightening parts, such as when the monster was about to devour the damsel in distress. Sam would always listen instantly, eagerly covering his eyes and keeping them diligently closed until Dean told him that it was safe to look again.

“Sammy, close your eyes.” Dean whispers, because he knows that he cannot go through with what he needs to do if he is looking into those eyes…the eyes that haunt his soul, the eyes that feed him life, the eyes that both break his heart and then heal it again entirely. Big brother will look out for him; it is all going to be alright. He just needs Sammy to close his eyes; the monster is too terrible to gaze upon, and Dean will tell him when it is safe to look again.

But Sammy is not closing his eyes; instead he is slowly pulling something out of his jacket pocket…and Dean recognizes what Sam has in his hands instantly. He feels as if he has been punched in the gut, as if someone came in and knocked all the air out of his lungs. Sam has pulled out Dean’s old faded pictures…the pictures of Dean and baby Sammy and—and Mom. They are weather-worn and crinkled around the edges…but they are still imbued with the same soft, peaceful glow that they have always granted Dean. Dean stares down at the pictures, a rush of emotions gurgling into his chest and dragging him out into a sea of memories.

Dean is sitting on his bed next to Mom. She is stroking his hair; she is reading him a story. It is comfort and it is safety and it is love. Dean has his ear pressed up against Mom’s full tummy…his heart skips a beat when he feels a small stirring.

“I felt my little brother!” Dean exclaims, raising his head and glancing up at Mom with a bright, eager smile. Her golden hair falls around her like a halo; she looks just like one of those angels that she is always telling Dean about.

“Yeah?” Mom smiles, placing her hand against his small, chubby cheek. “You’re gonna help me take care of the new baby, huh? You’re gonna be a good big brother?”

Dean nods his head, he is very serious in making this promise. He places his hand up against Mom’s tummy…he is greeted with another tiny kick. Dean feels something new and exciting stirring within him…he already loves this new little brother. He will be a good big brother, he will always help take care of his little brother, and Dean is happy that this resolve seems to please Mom very much as well.

He made Mom a promise…and he made little brother a promise too.

And later, when he is sitting out by the Impala, clutching Sammy close in his arms…his house burnt to the ground, the air smelling of ash and sparks…his mother gone forever…he promises Mom that he will take good care of Sammy because he knows that she no longer can.

He made Mom a promise…and he made little brother a promise too.

Dean glances back down at Sammy…and he realizes now that he is wrong. He is so very wrong, and the Mark might be screaming its murderous rage throughout his bloodstream, but he cannot even hear it anymore over the sound of the steady thump…thump…thump of his heartbeat…it is Sammy’s heartbeat, entwined with his own, and calling him back out of the shadowy monster-laden forests he has gotten lost within.

“Forgive me.” He murmurs, tears stinging his soft green gaze. Sammy gives him another gentle smile…he forgives Dean, of course he does. But Sammy misunderstands, Dean is not asking forgiveness for the reason Sam thinks…he is asking forgiveness because he is ready to let the walls come tumbling down around them, because nothing is more important than family. Because he made a promise to Mom that he would be a good big brother, because he made a promise to Sam back in that church that nothing will ever come before him, and Dean is going to keep his promise this time, no matter the consequences. And the Mark is strong, but Sam’s love is undeniably a hundred times stronger, burning and consuming, and it gives Dean the calm and strength he needs to break free from its strangling grasp.

Yes, the walls may come tumbling down, but at least they will come tumbling down with Sammy by his side. Just as it always should be.

He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him…

Summer breeze drifting through the open windows, they are on the road again. The brothers are taking Castiel to his first Music Festival in Palo Alto. Castiel is sitting patiently in the backseat, his hands folded on his lap. He gazes out the window with thoughtful glacial-blue pools, certainly remembering a time when he could transverse all of time and space in the blink of an eye. His wings are too damaged, too shorn and tattered for such travels now, but that is not why he rides in the car with them. He looks content to be riding in the Impala with his boys, and Dean smiles inwardly as he watches his angel in the rearview mirror.

“Dude, Bad Company is going to be there.” Sam exclaims excitedly, scrolling through the list of performers on his phone.

“Is that a good thing?” Castiel wonders from the backseat.

“Um…yes.” Sam enthuses, casting a small grin over his shoulder.

Dean chuckles to himself. He glances over at Sammy, a grin still quirking at his lips. He’s glad that Sammy never gave up on him. Sam has grown into such a strong person, and he is more than capable of holding it down for the both of them now. Dean is proud of the man that Sam has become…and he is glad that they have this time to heal together, this time to reconnect.

A soft salt-tinged breeze stings at their lips, the Impala gliding down the winding cliff-side roads of Palo Alto, a thin metallic sheet of railing the only thing keeping them from careening off into the sparkling blue waters below. Dean is getting hungry, and he is thinking about finding some roadside diner, pick up a cheeseburger and a slice of cherry pie.

Sam seems to be in a very good mood, he has a small smile on his face…dimples indenting his cheeks ever so slightly, and his fingers are tapping alongside his knee. Dean knows that his brother’s happiness stems from the fact that Dean has come back to him…that half of his soul has been returned, and he is finally made whole again.

And Dean desperately wants to convey to Sam just how appreciative he is for all that Sam has done for him over the course of the past year, but words have never come easily to Dean. He chews at the inside of his cheek, stumbling over what to say and how exactly to say it.

Dean clears his throat pointedly, “Hey…uh, Sammy…”

“Yeah?” Sam asks, glancing over at him with those eyes…those eyes that always bleed warmth and adoration just beneath his quiet exterior.

Dean hesitates…why are these things always so hard to talk about? He gives a hard swallow, determined to press on for Sam’s sake, “About…about everything—well, everything’s that’s happened …”

…and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist…

And Sam reaches over and places his large hand on Dean’s shoulder. He smiles at Dean…and that smile is a little more broken, a little more weathered, a little more ten-years-worth-of-life damaged. But it is still the sweetest smile in the world in Dean’s eyes.

“I understand, Dean.” Sam nods, because he always does understand. Of course he does, he’s Sammy…the air in Dean’s lungs, the beat in his heart, the brother who will always have his back, who will travel to the ends of the earth for him, who will always be by his side riding shotgun, his best friend from birth and his soul mate from beyond death.

Dean feels a warm smile tug at the corner of his lips, and he gives Sam a small nod of his head in return, his own green eyes exuding the same warmth and adoration founds in little brother’s gaze. “You hungry?”

Sam simply grins and nods his head once more, and Dean pulls off to find that roadside diner. Big brother is going to take care of little brother until the end, because little brother always takes care of big brother too.

... and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.

Fin.