~You know me, you know why~

The vows:

I take thee, now and forever, as my companion, my best friend, my lover and my everything. I’ll walk through fire for you, I’ll be your strength, your respite, your comfort. I’ll love you. Forever. 

I take thee, now and forever: body and soul, for better and for worse. You make me a better person, You make me whole. I’ll walk with you, I’ll be your strength, your love, your friend. Forever

…….I don’t even know, guys….

That moment where you see Dean in a little, terrified kid. You hear your brother’s words, and you remember, like in a dream, a freckled kid with worn clothes, big eyes and a smile, for you, as he was the strongest person you had ever known, your hero, your personal God. You see the man Dean has become and how he is different from the cocky, no-nonsense person who broke in into your apartment in Stanford. 

And you remember something else…Dean has always been great with kids. He raised you (loved you), made you the man you have become. 

This makes things so very complicated, on so many levels, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You focus on the kid, on how Dean is helping him, on how he’s shedding a piece of himself to him, to help him. 

He had forgotten what it was like. Keeping what he used to do, what the family business was about from anyone, including Jess, hadn’t been hard. John Winchester had drilled into their brains to lay low, to keep civilians in the dark about what they did, for everyone’s sake.

It was second nature for Sam to come up with lies or omissions about his family, about his childood.

That wasn’t hard. It had never been.

There were other secrets, though…other lies, he had forgotten about…or had become very good at pretending he had.

Once upon a time, like in a twisted and fucked up fairy tale, he had been a gangly teenager, with too long hair, knives in his duffel, anger in his veins and weird  scars on his body.

Once upon a time, on a sunny afternoon, he had fallen in love with his brother. It had been a culmination of events, of moments and subconcious signals. Love had hit him hard, coiling around his heart, making the rage inside himself a throbbing, almost living thing.

Dean…Dean had been his everything back then. Other teens had their first crushes that felt like the end of the world, Sam Winchester had a deep abiding, soul consuming love for his own brother. It had been something that he’d had to keep to himself, well hidden from everyone. It had been having Dean so close to him, because  their lives were claustrophobic, intertwined, lacking boundaries and space…and yet, sometimes, it hadn’t been enough.

It had been craving him, wishing for something forbidden…dreaming of things that could never be.

Sam had loved Dean with an intensity that it had been scary sometimes; he had experienced everything in the spectre of emotions, they had burned, stung, made his heart drum in his chest, his blood boil, his skin feel too hot and cold at the same time. The worst of it had been knowing that there was no way Dean hadn’t understood,  because his big brother had known everything about him, and had ignored it…

The worst of it had been the moments, just seconds sometimes, when he had felt that things could have been different…it had been just lingering touches, cocked eyebrows, half smiles but Sam had known…and he had hated Dean in those  moments, hated their lives, hated everything and everyone.

There had been times where he had wanted to shake his dad by his shoulders and scream, “Here! That’s what your crusade has made us!”

He had wanted to sock Dean, kiss him, take him away from the clusterfuck of life they lead and start over. He hadn’t done neither of those things…he had fought with his dad, every reason and argument an excuse, he had watched Dean fucking his way through the country, sometimes rubbing his face in it…to get the message across.

Because Dean, idiot, righteous Dean…wouldn’t have known subtle if it hit him in the head.

He had ran away in the end, trading screams with his dad, silences with Dean…his eyes stinging on the way to the bus station, but feeling able to breath for the first time in years.

Dean had been still there, though…especially at the beginning. Dean had been behind every corner, at every pool table, in every dream. Dean had been every man Sam had made out with, first and last thought of everyday.

Dean had been a secret, one he had been able to keep, a scar just beneath the surface, a photograph in his wallet, an old t-shirt, a knife and mute phone calls in the middle of the night.

Loving Jessica was so easy. She had breezed into his life, without asking questions, showing him light and smiles, and a world where things were simple, safe. Loving her didn’t burn him to the core, didn’t bring him to his knees, didn’t make him hate her.

And if Dean was still the first name on his lips when he opened his eyes, if he still haunted his dreams, like a ghost, one he couldn’t get rid with iron, salt and fire, that was just his problem, no one else’s.

Dean coming back into his life, with a cocky grin to hide his fear, his bigger than life presence, his eyes studying him, assessing the changes in him, his lips, skin, as perfect as he recalled had been like a kick in the gut for Sam.

He had forgotten what it was like to feel breathless, to feel angry…alive, desperate and happy all at the same time. He had forgotten one simple truth: that Dean was alive, vibrant with something that had his heart in a vice, his blood humming, his cock throbbing painfully.

Dean, even if he pretended not to know, even if he would never even acknowledge it, was his. It took him exactly one hour to fall in love with his brother all over again, old and new feelings mixing, a kaleidoscope of heartbreak and exhilaration that made him silent, made him look, drink Dean in, memorize everything, making him remember that one could want something so much, so deeply that it hurt to breathe, that everything else faded, forgotten and ignored.

It took him one hour to realize that he could run, he could put a world between Dean and himself, and it would never be enough.

It was an addiction, it was like oxygen. He had lived without Dean, and once they found their dad, he would go to that interview, propose to Jessica, let her save him again, but Dean, his brother, his everything, would always be there, his secret, his sin, his everything.

Because you’re all I have…and what’s left if you’re not real any more? If I can’t breathe you, hear your steps, your heartbeat, feel your skin under my fingers?

I had to. Had to. 

I had to listen…

You see? Evil has many ways to touch our souls. Mine, wormed its way into my head, again, whispering about you. Offering to help. What was I supposed to do? Even if I knew he wasn’t real, even if I know it now, I had to find you. 

I had to let him in. 

He’s whispering now, reminding me of things…and I try to focus on your breath, on the way your body feels against mine. I try to remember you’re the angular stone that keeps me up, that makes it worth. 

I’m slipping, fading, he’s laughing…and I need to close my eyes, dig my nails in my palms and I still see you. 

I feel fire, sulfur…

I need to know what’s real…I need…

I remember your hands warming mine when I was about six and I lost my mittens

Hooks in my skines, bones grinding together, rancid smell all around me

I remember you trying to bake cookies once, for school, for me and how we ended up eating them while watching some John Carpenter movie

I can feel my skin boiling, burning up to a crisp while he sings. He used to sing all the time in the Cage, you know?

I remember the day I realized I was in love with you. If Zacariah hadn’t fucked our Heaven up, you’d have seen it as well. I remember your smile. I always, always remember your smile, Dean.

I can feel his hands, icy cold on my throat, his laughter puffing against my face

I remember the first time I kissed you. You started, you sighed and gave in and I remember feeling how fast your heart was beating under my fingertips. I remember…

He tells me things, all the things he did to me, he’s promising he’ll make me remember it all, live it all, over and over…until there’s nothing left.

I remember a summer night, we drank too much, we had no money, our credit cards were all maxed out, we spent our last money on beer and we drank it under the stars, and laughed…we couldn’t stop laughing and hanging onto each other. We didn’t say words…did we need them? 

He’s promising me that he’ll wear your face as he rips my heart out, as he fucks me while I bleed, while I choke on my blood. 

I remember losing you, having you back…your arms around me: solid, warm, safe. I remember nights spent watching you sleep, before the deal…wanting to freeze time. I remember being grateful to Gabriel, because at least, even if I watched you die everyday, I had more days with you. 

He laughs, he always does, even while he slices me open…even while he smashes your head and forces me to watch. 

I remember loving you, even when I didn’t know you. I remember needing you…I remember dreaming of you: like a brother, a warrior, a lover. 

He’s winning, I’m slipping away…and you stir in your sleep. But I remember you, Dean. I will always remember.

That moment where you know why he doesn’t believe in angels. You know why he’s so much against this one angel. It’s not because of your mother. It’s not because he doesn’t believe in God. It’s because he doesn’t think he was worth saving. And you want to shake him, hold him…get into his skull that he is: he’s worth everything. He’s a hero. He’s the best man you’ve ever known. 

\why me: The Winchester Style

That moment where you’re both broken, so much that you cannot understand each other. That moment where guilt is misplaced but despite it all, you still try to help each other. You still watch his back. You’re still there, for him.

\Guilt: The Winchester Style

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
-Emily Brontë

There are things Dean is not proud of; things he has done to get back, things that were logical and inevitable at the time but are tasting sour now, as he breathes an air that is not heavy with blood and sulfur and pain. 

He knows pain, hell…he could probably write tomes about it: he knows the noise each bone, muscle, tendon, strip of flesh does when torn, bent, burnt, ripped away. 

He knows the taste of blood, he can still taste its saltiness, its thick taste in the back of his throat, sometimes. 

He was Alistair’s pupil, he was a good student, destined to a bright future as a demon, once upon a time, how many lifetimes before he can’t say…and it’s been easy, incredibly so, to slip back into the frayed and bloodied clothes of Alistair’s precious pupil down there. 

There are things he wishes he hadn’t done, necks he has snapped, souls he has used as baits, eyes pleading mercy, screams drowned in blood…

One year before, he had been a different man: one without a purpose, without aim, confidence…tired to bone, tired of fighting, of hurting, of losing, tired of being afraid all the damn time. 

Purgatory changed everything, it  has changed him…

Purgatory was a never ending battlefield, with simple rules: kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. 

And he survived it, he crawled his way back, paving his way with blood, sweat, tears and compromises. There are things he wishes he hadn’t seen, faces of monsters he had known, faces contorted in pain and betrayal, rage and bloodlust. 

He remembers spotting Lenore, once, trying her best to survive among other, stronger, monsters. He remembers using her as bait to get out of a part of the forest, he remembers how she understood, how she almost accepted it, until creatures that moved like liquid darkness, with red eyes and giant fangs attacked her. 

He remembers the children, souls of children taken by monsters, turned into monsters and how hard it had been…how it had been the hardest part for him, the stuff of nightmares, but it hadn’t stopped him…

He doesn’t remember if he has ever slept in Purgatory, he doesn’t remember anything but the blood, the pitch black darkness of the cave where he squatted in, the feeling of the soil almost breathing its hatred toward him: alive, his heart beating, his soul burning, there…where no living soul, no living flesh was supposed to be. 

He remembers closing his eyes, though…he remembers half formed images beyond his closed lids, he remembers the words he uttered to give himself strength, not to surrender, not to let it go.

Sam…Sammy…

He remembers how he uttered his brother’s name, with his eyes closed: like a talisman, a prayer, flashes of dimples, hazel eyes, floppy hair and a scarred hand to ground him, to give him purpose and strength…to remind him he was human when he had started to doubt it. 

Sam…Sammy…real, alive, in his arms: flesh and blood, pure and his. 

He might spend a lifetimes adding new nightmares to the ones he has, nightmares of a forest where it’s freezing cold and the earth is wet with blood, and the sky is grey. 

He might have nightmares about the things he has seen, the things he wishes he hadn’t done…but none of that matters, not really, because he came back, for Sam. 

And maybe he’s tarnished, maybe he’s not worthy…but he is Sam’s. He’s always been. 

Just take a look at me now…

I remember because I ran away, faster and faster, with my heart burning in my chest, the night warm around me, and that litany running over and over in my head: no, why, can’t…mine, mine, mine. 

I remember looking at you, once, after a storm, and feeling like the biggest chick on Earth because your eyes were too green, your shirt was sticking to your chest and you were smiling like you owned the world. 

You owned me and I felt breathless.

I remember seething with jealousy, with rage, whenever I caught a glimpse of you with someone else, whenever I could smell someone else on you. 

I remember counting your heartbeats, your blood on my hands, my heart in my throat as another hunt threatened to take you away from me.

I remember sleepless nights, bruised knuckles and silly games, growing up on the road, feeling a freak…except with you. 

I remember other nights, spent missing you, hating you, panting your name against wet tiles as I let my imagination run free…and I had you…and I was yours.

I remember your smile when you came back…or I went back to you. 

I remember you, holding me, on the side of the road, wordlessly taking in my grief, the night Jess died.

I remember us.

Just take a look at me, now…

You’re smiling, breathing in the night, and as always you’re the hero, the renegade, the jerk…

As always, you’re my everything. 

The night Sam went away, left them, to pursue his apple pie life, was probably one of the worst nights of Dean’s life; it happened so quickly: one moment they were a family, as fucked up as it was, and a moment later there was just the echo of the door slamming, his dad staring to a wall and a Samless life. 

The night Sam had left them, him, he had almost followed him outside that rat hole they had been staying in, the warm breeze of an almost Summer night bringing the smell of wood and Earth, while inside their house life had been sucked away with some curt words and a door slammed. 

He had actually taken some steps toward the door, his heart in his throat, his blood calling, screaming, to run after Sam…because…because Sam was his brother, best friend, because Sammy was his dammit!

Because…there were things, things he needed, wanted…things he had never wanted to dwell on, things that he had thought he had been able to fight, drink and fuck out of his system for the last months and that had made it almost impossible to breath all of sudden, when Sam had slammed that door, with a last glance at him, and an unreadable expression in his eyes. 

For a long time, after, Dean thought about what would have happened if he had followed Sam outside, that night. For a long time, as days turned into weeks and then months and that hole inside himself, that feeling of emptiness just didn’t go away, he had allowed himself to linger in what ifs and blurry dreams. 

He was not a dreamer, though; he had swallowed the emptiness down, had stopped counting the days and had decided that it had been for the best; because the things he would have said or done, the things he wanted…were so fucked up, even for the kind of life he lead that he had gotten used to that ache, the feeling of something missing…until he had felt Sam’s skin against his, and his presence had filled all the empty spaces in him he had been good at ignoring. 

It had almost been like he had never really left, the anger and the bitterness had kind of faded away as they were getting near Jericho; it had almost been a surreal experience: the Sammy he had known, hell…that he had raised, versus the man he had become. 

And the feeling wasn’t leaving him, he couldn’t help watching Sammy as he found a way to earn those chicks’ trust: smooth, effortless. Sam might want a happy, safe, normal life, with his little girl friend and his Ivy League education, but the truth was he was born to be a hunter. 

How could he feel angry, proud and dangerously close to open the lid to buried feelings and images, all at the same time?

He wasn’t used to feel so much, all at the same time, any more; not since Sam had left. The last few months before Sam graduated had been a roller coaster of freak outs, hot scorching dreams, guilt and feelings too strong for him to handle, to openly acknowledge. 

Sam could be one moment the pain in the ass little brother, with a giant stick up his ass - was he really still bitching about credit cards? Really? -, he could still be bratty …but he was also seeing the man he had become…and for the life of him, Dean couldn’t keep his eyes off of him, he couldn’t help letting his body invade Sam’s space, soaking up in his presence, in the contact between their bodies. 

He knew it was borrowed time; he knew Sam had built another life for him, one where there wasn’t room for him

I can’t do this alone…

Yes you can…

Well, I don’t want to…

But he liked to pretend for a moment, he wanted to pretend that that was their life: on the road, hunting things and trying to save people. Just Sammy and he, the two of them against the world.

And if Sam’s smile, if  the heat of his body and that girly shampoo he was using were doing weird things to his insides, if it felt like he was once again on the fucking rollercoaster, like when he was 22 and Sam suddenly was more than just his Sammy, his little brother, he was everything, so much that it was like he wouldn’t be able to breathe without him and it scared the crap out of him, well…that was his problem and his alone.

For a moment, though, he let himself believe and hope. For a moment, Dean, for the first time in almost four years could breathe, really breathe.

For a moment, he felt whole.