Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.
A/N: A little short I wrote when the idea hit. It's a try on my part to capture Dean's voice.
The Blood Is Love
Dean will never admit it, but he's actually glad old Yellow Eyes did what he did.
It's selfish, his reasons for thinking that way. But those four months that passed topside were nothing but a blink of an eye for him in a place where pain was a verb, not a noun.
During the daylight, when he's got dirt under his nails and fresh cuts to tend to, he doesn't have time to dwell on the thought. It's only when the shadows creep into the corners and his only conscious companion is an almost empty bottle that he really thinks.
The list of casualties under Azazel's belt is probably too extensive for him to comprehend. It's only the ones that are personal that really matter anyway. And in truth, that list is too damn long on its own. It's those names that sound off in his head every night, repeating enough times to make him want to claw off his skin for a distraction. Always starting and ending the same. With Mommy and Sammy.
He knows it's wrong. But he can't help how he feels. Demon blood killed his brother once. But it also saved his ass more times then he's willing to count.
When he dreams about Hell and his breaking point, he can't help but be grateful. Whatever is pumping through Sam's veins is enough for the others to want to keep him away. That Crossroad bastard said one thing, but Dean knows the truth. He knows that they still fear him.
If it wasn't for Azazel and his plans, he's sure Sam would have been able to make and die by his attempted deal.
And his worst nightmare, the one that wakes him up in cold sweats and silent screams, is seeing Sam on the racks while his hands tear him down to the bone.
This is the one thing he will always keep to himself. Because to confess some happiness about the single event that made the whole mess that is now their legacy... well, that might just end them both.