"You're a killer, Dean Winchester."
Lolling back in the chair Ketch had delivered his sentence, and Dean hadn't denied the Brit's words.
He'd wanted to. With all his heart and soul he'd yearned to.
:
He could've lied, said it wasn't true. Kicked the douche out for daring to insult him, but there was no point.
It takes one to know one, he'd mused, seizing the bottle of sublime scotch Ketch had offered as a get-in card, and pouring himself a hefty slug.
:
A lifetime ago he'd assured a terrified, psychic, little brother that he'd never become like Max Miller, for the simple reason that Sam had a big brother to look out for him.
Now he realized it worked both ways.
:
Yes, Dean was a killer, but he was well aware his instincts were tempered by his baby brother.
Sam had killed too, but he was never okay with taking a life, and Sam's reluctance, added to the love they shared, kept Dean lucid and sane.
:
He shivered at the thought of hunting all these years by himself, with no little brother to rein him in.
What would Dean Winchester have become...?