Dean stared around, at Sam and Jess, at Carmen, at his mother. He had everything he had ever wanted, and he was about to kill himself.
And the faintest traces of doubt were already settling in his mind.
"No more fear, no more pain. Just love and comfort and safety," his mom had said. Had promised.
For a moment, he was tempted. Love, comfort, safety. Everything he ever wanted. Everything he never had. And standing there, with his mother, his fricking mother, smiling at him, with a beautiful girl who apparently loved him, with Sam looking so happy and complete with Jess by his side, Dean could believe it was possible.
But what the hell did Dean know about those things?
Safety was elusive, appearing and disappearing too fast to even register its presence. Safety was hard to find, harder to keep, and there was never quite enough of it to go around. Your own safety was traded for that of those around you, whilst safety for others was fiercely protected and fought for. Safety was living one day at a time, never asking for anything you wouldn't get, hell, never asking for anything. Safety ended with flames, with a four year old boy too afraid to speak in case the thing that took his mother came back for him or his baby brother, with a nine year old being given a .45 and being told to watch his own back, deal with his own demons.
Safety was a loaded gun, wards scratched into door frames and lines of salt.
Comfort was the blessed relief as bullets or barbs were pulled from flesh. Teasing words traded with serious glances. Simple routines, formed over time and adhered to strictly. Comfort was cleaning each and every weapon in the Impala's trunk. Comfort was being ready for anything and celebrating each and every victory with a clear conscience. A good meal, not something microwaved in a Mini-Mart. Staying up late to watch a ghost movie and offering a running commentary on how they should deal with the problem to a still recovering Sammy.
Comfort was the smell of the Impala, music played loud and the reassuring bulk of a still-alive younger brother riding shotgun.
Love was...
Love was...
"Bitch."
"What are you calling me a bitch for?"
Dean turned from his mother, focused on Sammy. No, on not-Sammy. Fake Sammy.
Love wasn't words. Not even the I love you from his dream-world mother.
Love was hotwiring a car in Indiana just to get to Dean before he was sacrificed to a pagan Scarecrow god.
Love was walking into a prison just because Dean's plan called for it.
And love was bitching about that plan for longer than the plan was followed.
"You're my brother, and I'd die for you."
Love was trust.
Trust was Sammy.
And Sammy wasn't here.
Perfect world? With all those people dead, and a Sam who hated him? Knowing that somewhere, Sammy was alone. He'd have years with this 'family', but Sam would have years alone.
"I'm right here, Dean," Fake-Sammy said softly, one arm wrapping around Jess.
Sam would have a family. And Dean could see it all.
But Dean was selfish. He didn't want to see 'Sam' happy. He didn't want to see 'Sam' live a full life, not if it meant Sam was alone somewhere. He wanted his little brother next to him. The real Sam, the one with far too many scars and who had hurt way too much, because that was real. That was Sam.
"The three of us. That's all we have. That's all I have."
He'd lost his dad, and that hurt just as much as it had almost a year ago. But he still had Sam. Would always have Sam. And he was damned if he was going to give him up.
So, eyes fixed on his little brother, Dean raised the knife. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
And, without the faintest trace of fear, thrust the knife through his chest.
xxx
Thought? Comments?