Work Text:
His
by Pirate Turner
Sometimes he wondered if he was the monster. He had killed so many, and though he'd almost always had no choice at the time of the kill, he'd always wondered later if there could have been another way, some other way, any other way that he could stop their killings without actually killing them, but that other way always seemed to elude him . . . or was it simply, perhaps, that he did not search hard enough, that he did not dig deep enough?
Sometimes he wondered if he was evil. He had the blood of hundreds, possibly thousands, on his hands, and there was that prophecy that even his father believed in. The thought that his own father could think him evil pained him to no end, but it also scared him beyond words.
He wondered, at times, if his father might have suspected his deepest secret at any time and, if he had, if that may have caused him to think his potential for evil any greater. There were many, he knew, who would think him sick, twisted, evil because he loved the person he loved in the way he loved him.
He couldn't help it, but then again, he didn't really want to help it. He had, when he'd first realized that his feelings went beyond the brotherly. That was why he had went away to college, though it had torn the heart out of him to leave his beloved. That was why he had proposed to Jessica. He'd never loved her, but he had thought that, with time, he could have made himself love her or, at least, acted the part. Their union had finished ripping the soul out of him, but he had found his heart and soul still alive, only hidden, when he had come for him at long last.
He had claimed to love Jess, but a part of him had been secretly relieved when he'd seen her burning on the ceiling. Surely that made him evil, if nothing else did? How else could he have been glad that she was gone, if even only a fraction? Perhaps his father and almost everybody else was right. Maybe he was evil.
Yet, when these rare moments came, like the one he was being blessed with now, it didn't matter. It didn't matter that he might be evil, because he was something better. He was something he'd longed to be for so many years and had ran from though never far enough because always, always a part of him had longed to be one with him, had longed to tell him the truth, had longed to tell him those three little words that still meant the world to him every time he heard them slip from his beloved brother's mouth. Sam snuggled closer to the man he loved, his front pressing close against Dean's back, his arm tucked securely underneath his, and thanked whatever being was watching over them that, no matter what happened, no matter what he turned out to be, the one thing he would always be was Dean's.
Sam pressed a kiss to the back of Dean's head, and Dean, who Sam thought was sleeping from the occasional snore he faked, smiled. He tugged his arm closer, his fingers entwining with his beloved's. {Go to sleep, Sammy. They ain't getting you; I won't let them. You're mine.}
"I love you, Dean," Sam whispered in the early morning light, and it was all Dean could do not to answer. He tugged his hand closer to his heart and let loose a snore that rattled the nearest window.
The End