Dear Sam,
This isn't right, these feelings I have for you; they aren't right at all. They are fucked up. There are laws against this sort of thing, but I can't help imagining you, my little brother, and your tall, muscled body pressed against mine, the feel of your lips and calloused hands encircling me.
It sounds girly, I know, and normally I try to avoid chick flick moments, try to laugh it off… But I can't anymore. Instead I drink away the ache that reminds me of what a sick freak I am, having thoughts like that about my baby brother.
I know you think that I'm just worrying about the trials, but in reality I'm trying to drown the monster in me. But this darkness seems to be getting stronger and my mind makes up the craziest things.
Like how it would feel to have you completely, to take care of you in every way possible. Would you kiss me in the morning before you got up to go jogging? Or maybe hold my hand as we drove down the endless road? I guess it's better this way, you not knowing; This way, you haven't left because you're disgusted with me, as you should be, so I have you… Kind of.
But honestly Sammy? It's not enough. I want to hold you in my arms, kiss away your tears, run my fingers through your oh-so soft hair. I dream of the noises you'd make, the look in your eyes as I took you, the sound of your heartbeat when I lay my head on your chest after.
But I can't. And never will.
So here's one last thing before I burn this letter you can never see.
I love you Sam. I love you with every fiber of my being, and forgive me, please forgive me when you wake up to find me gone.
Take care of Baby,
Dean