You asked, and I'm answering
Sometimes I see flames behind my eyes,
sometimes I see them take my house down to the ashes that
my father could sweep under a rug and forget about. Forget
about Kansas roots and southern accents that drip from tongues
like magic. We forget because magic is evil, magic took away my mother
and magic started the flames.
Sometimes I see my brother, bundled in my
arms like my burden and my gift, but he doesn't need to know that,
know that sometimes I want to be something different.
Want to be something bigger than what I am, to see something
other than blood and it runs red over my hands and stains. Sammy doesn't
need to know that some days I see the flames with eyes open, eyes wide,
eyes staring out the windshield of the car that is my only tether to my father. To
a time I knew he wished he could return to, when my mother smiled. When
her skin smelled of strawberries and its one of the only things I can remember
about her.
Sammy doesn't need to know that some days it's too much not to drink
the pain away and amber burns so good I can't stop the second one. And the
third and the fourth and drunk feels good and Sam doesn't get that. Some
days it's better not to feel and I can't always pretend that I'm okay. I've always been
a good liar. Good soldier. Just like Dad wanted, a rough voice pushing
me on until his words are a part of me.
Good warrior, do as you are told. Douse the flames behind your
eyes and focus on the sights of your weapon. Sammy doesn't need to
know that I wanted to leave too. He doesn't need to know that away was
appealing to my eyes and when I watched him go I wished I could follow him,
but someone had to do the job. Someone had to take the weight and the mission
and I wouldn't let it be Sam just like he didn't want to take it.
Sometimes those flames consume, and all there is
is fire and it pulls my soul under and it burns away all traces
of the man I wanted to be when I was young. It burns away the
young and I am a shell, hollow and broken to a world of people who
would rather film me bleeding than give a shit. But Sam can't see that,
because I'm not me, there is no 'Dean' unless it's followed by Sam.
There is no me without the him and all I can do is
mold myself around him and do what he needs me to do, needs me to
be. Sam can't see me broken because it would mean his defenses are down,
he's vulnerable too. And I can't let him break; then all identity is
gone and I am nothing worth saving, no better than what I hunt.
You asked who I was, hunter, man, son, brother. Nothing has
meaning when the flames consume, and all that's left is Protector.
All I can be is the one who stands between him and the bullet, the claw,
the fang, the knife, the spell. And all I am is what Sam needs
and I swallow and try to drown the flames with the grip of the hunt and
you only know you're alive when you can feel your own heartbeat and you're
reminded that you have one.
And the beats will push away the burning and all you can feel is
your blood rushing through your veins and sometimes that's enough to
make you remember the little things… things like the families I can put back together,
and the way Sammy will have a drink with me when it's done. And his hair is
too floppy and his eyes content and sometimes I can see my mother
smile behind my eyes when I look into my brother's.