Their story didn't begin happy. Though stories that begin with dead mothers rarely do. Theirs began with a fire and a monster and a night that would stay in terribly perfect clarity forever. It began with the salty taste of tears and the terrible thirst of revenge that is too often born of pain.
Their childhood was never happy. Guns replaced toys and house quickly became synonym with motel room. Home was a word unknown. They were taught to fear the darkness and the monsters that hid beneath their beds. Imaginary friends were born of loneliness and real friends were quickly replaced with miles and miles of roads. Their life was lived in that small space between hello and goodbye.
Their life was never happy. Sadness drew pictures on their skin and loss gently painted shadows beneath their eyes. Friends were few and far between because they knew all too well that two hellos inevitably ended in one tear stained goodbye. Their life was a story largely told through broken shouts and slamming doors, opposite paths and finally soft apologies. It was everyone they ever loved six feet beneath the ground and it was putting on a brave face and still getting up in the morning because maybe some could still be spared the suffocating pain.
Their story was never happy. But if you looked hard enough you could find another story interwoven between the loss and despair and tear stained cheeks. One written of bravery and devotion and the fierce love between two brothers. This story too held its pain but it was made better as the pain was bared between two broken souls. It was a story oh so carefully built of homemade birthday presents and Charlie Brown Christmas trees and the giddiness only found when breaking a rule. It was simply knowing that at the very least there was someone in the world who loved you, stupid mistakes and terrible fights and all. It was little and to some it still seemed sad, but they had learned long ago that happiness could be found in something as simple as open road and roaring engine.
Their story was never happy, so it was no surprise when the end of it found them lying in pools of blood. It was written in the stars that night when their mothers blood painted the ceiling that this is how it would be, and so it was. Ragged breath that whispered death filled the stale air but they were not scared. Lying side by side with each others blood painting their pale skin red they could not fathom a more fitting end. Soft smiles were exchanged and sticky fingers were clasped as last breaths were sighed the only words hanging in the air were
"Love you, Sammy."
"Love you too, Dean."
Their story was never happy but in that moment they finally, finally were.