Tag to Malleus Maleficarum. Just some random thoughts. Please review, then off to my blog for my answers.
"They're human, Sam."
"They're murderers."
"Burn, witch, burn."
The words kept circling in Dean's head, nipping and dodging, letting him nearly fall asleep and then pricking him awake. They're murderers.
It had startled and, admittedly, frightened him when he looked into Sam's eyes and understood with certainty that something in his brother had changed. Dean hadn't said what he wanted to, hadn't burst out with it, telling Sam that he wasn't allowed to change, to become a cold-eyed killer. Instead he reverted into stoic-sarcasm mode, grinding out a one-liner and clenching his jaw around the words he was dying to say.
Think of all the things I've killed. Not just things, PEOPLE. Some of them were people once, no matter what they were when I killed them. So what does that make me? Worse yet, what are you becoming?
Dean rolled over, punching his pillow into shape and flopping back down with a huff. He'd done his damndest to drink himself to sleep, but he wasn't a lightweight and a 12-pack wasn't enough to send him to dreamland anymore. So now here he was, morose and sleepless, out of beer and with barely more than a buzz, tossing and turning in a lumpy motel bed while his brother slept soundly across the room.
Sometimes, on nights like these, Dean couldn't help but remember that dream world of the Djinn's, the world he had torn himself free of because he couldn't bear to leave Sam behind. What if he hadn't? What if he had put the knife down and chosen to drift away on that dream, live in happy normalcy until finally he was bled dry and fell into oblivion? Sam wouldn't have died. The gate wouldn't have opened. The deal wouldn't have been made, and his soul wouldn't have been doomed. And Sam wouldn't be changing, changing into something dark and frightening and decidedly dangerous.
Facts were facts. Something was changing in Sam, and Dean didn't like it, not one bit. Ruby seemed to think it was necessary, and Dean supposed it was for the best. If there was no way for him to stop what was coming, it was his job to make sure that Sam was prepared. But damn it, it just felt wrong. It wasn't Sam. He didn't want his brother to be more like him. Didn't want him to feel the guilt, didn't want him to feel the rage at what he had been forced to do. And he sure as hell didn't want him to feel the worst part of it, which was that little tiny glow of satisfaction inside when watching an enemy take its last, shuddering breath.
Why is it our job to save everyone?
The only one Dean really wanted to save was Sam.
He turned over again, annoyed at the hot wetness slicking his eyes. Fucking pity party. He pulled a blanket tighter to his chest, willing himself to empty the feelings from his heart, to remember the mission at hand. There wasn't going to be a happy-ending dream for him, not this time. But he would be damned if he allowed his brother, for whom he had given his soul, to become angry and empty and filled with sorrow and rage. He knew too well how that felt, and he wasn't going to let it happen to Sam.
Not to Sam.