PASSING THROUGH THE LIGHT AND SEEING NOTHING BUT DARKNESS
Broken heroes are like… refracted light. Shards of many colors that run the spectrum of human fragility. Fear, anger, love, grief, frustration, pride, regret, despair, hope… disappointment.
More colors than what the human eye can possibly see.
Though their own faults shade them from the fact that they are, in fact, heroes in every sense of the word, Sam and Dean Winchester will be the first to agree that they are very much broken. It's the fact that they still keep on trying that makes them heroes in the first place.
There was a time, long ago, when they'd been young and fearless and, ultimately, naïve. A time when they would have denied, and truly have believed with every fiber in their bodies, that there was nothing wrong with them. Bruised, bent out of shape, but never broken.
Broken was for 'civilians' who could afford to whine and be scared of the things that go bump in the night.
Not hunters. And certainly not the Winchesters.
Sure, a monster so vile and frightening that most people don't even know exists outside of fables and fairy tales had killed their mother. And sure, their father kind of flipped his shit after that and had taken his two young sons on a road trip that would last over two decades. But that was just what one might call a… colorful childhood.
Sure, Sam had been roofied with demon blood while still in diapers and later, his girlfriend had been killed right in front of his eyes, just because she was in the way of some big, epic, demonic plan. But then again, some people are born without arms and their lives aren't any easier than Sam's.
And sure, Dean's priorities in life were a bit skewed and his sense of duty a little overwhelming by most people's standards, and he'd had to deal his whole life with a nearly psychotic father and a brother with a fate darker than most, but just as long as there were willingly, frisky women and pie on Earth, life was doable.
In truth, they had been broken their whole lives, but realization of that fact had only dawned on Sam and Dean within the last few years; when they became 'important'.
It was 'important' that Dean, with his skewed priorities and sense of duty, to sell his soul and spend forty years in Hell. Heaven and Hell, it would seem, had agreed for once that it was necessary for that one soul to be tormented beyond the point of no return and ultimately broken.
Hell had needed its first seal broken to assure Lucifer's freedom; Heaven had needed its champion broken and pliable. Soft clay to shape into Michael's form.
It was also 'important' that Sam, with his roofied blood and his tragic lifeline, be left all alone in a world that had never given him a chance, despite his best intentions. Unlike his brother, however, it wasn't the final destination of his journey that broke Sam; it was the journey itself. Trusting the wrong 'people', betraying his family, going so far off the path that even he knew there would be no turning point, braking Sam beyond repair. Throwing himself into Hell willingly was his way to redemption, his glue to piece some of his shards together.
After that, both Winchesters learned a valuable lesson: Fate, like a mile long snake, has a way of squirming free of your best efforts to fight and escape it and always, always ends up around your neck, squeezing the life out of you; and Hell, truly, fixes no one.
Dean got into his car and drove. He was aching to feel regret, to feel shame, doubt, guilt… anything.
He had just killed a Kitsune. The same one that had once saved Sam's life. The same one that Sam had chosen to save in return.
A living being who swore –and believed- that she could be good, that she could do the right thing.
Dean had also killed a woman, a mother, the only living parent a young child had left.
And he felt nothing.
Well, that was less than true. There was that twinge on his recently broken leg that would not let him get comfortable behind the wheel, despite the painkiller he'd taken over an hour ago; and there was that nagging headache, building behind his eyes because he had spent close to a month boxed inside an old house and the sun was just in the right angle to make him squint most of the way back to the motel where he'd left Sam. And relief.
Mostly, Dean felt relieved.
Because Fate was a snake that wiggled free from your best efforts and always came back to squeeze the life out of you… but this was one head of the snake that Dean wouldn't have to worry about anymore.
Broken heroes are like refracted light. Shards of many colors that run the spectrum of human fragility. Dark light, all-consuming and cold instead of bright and warm. A spectrum of all the colors that no one likes to use in pretty paintings. The deep purples and earth browns, the dark greens and painful blues, the pale violets and angry yellows… the colors of a bruised soul.
Dean had waited and hoped and been a fool who had trusted others to do the right thing. He had hoped that, despite all evidence to the contrary, his brother would guide himself by the same principles that had been imprinted in fire in Dean's soul; he had fooled himself into believing that good deeds are rewarded with peace; he had trusted that friendship and love went both ways, even when it was bestowed to the most unlikely of beings... like one particularly nerdy angel.
Good intentions burned in Hell; love was as solid as smoke and Dean Winchester would not be making the same mistakes again.
Thank you to Jackfan2 to looking this over for mistakes. All remaining ones are my fault :)