Supernatural doesn't belong to me. Neither does the song below. Just some thoughts about Dean and hope. Please review, and as always I answer all reviews at my blog. Enjoy!
He was hard and tough and wiry
Just the sort who won't say die
There was courage in his quick, impatient tread
And he bore the badge of gameness
In his bright and fiery eye
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head
-Banjo Patterson
How many times have I cheated death? I can't count the number of times I've been attacked, mauled, left bleeding and sucking wind, but alive. Always alive. There's gotta be a reason for that, right? The universe isn't done with me yet, for whatever reason. Somehow I'm supposed to go on, to keep fighting, to keep breathing. And I think one of the reasons is Sam.
Sam is the biggest reason I keep breathing. He's my family, the only blood I have left. He's the one I've spent my whole life protecting and watching over. When he was still a little drooling baby I stood next to his crib and I told him, I'm gonna look out for you. And I've done that. I've looked out for him when he got beat up at school. When he and Dad would go at each other like rabid wolverines. Even when he left us for Stanford, I kept an eye on him from far away, making sure he was safe.
Sometimes I do get tired. I get overwhelmed by the carnage, by the sheer unfairness of it all, and the weight of responsibility that smashes my heart down to my toes. When I was a kid, and even not so many years ago, I would be out of bed twenty times a night, sneaking through the dark to check that the door was locked, that the windows were latched, that the salt line was still unbroken.
I've seen so many people, friends and strangers and family, take their last breaths. I've seen the horror and terror in their eyes. So why? Why am I still here, against all fucking odds? Why am I more worthy than they are? And honestly, I don't think I'll ever stop feeling guilty.
I wish sometimes for a normal life, to be a nine-to-fiver and to be able to sit down at the end of the day with a beer at my elbow and a wife at my side. A little house, a yard to work in, a big dog to run with. I do want those things, always have. But for whatever reason, whether God or fate, they're not mine to have.
I used to think the strong didn't have these feelings. Dad made it clear that those sorts of dreams were a distraction, and distractions get people killed. So I pushed my feelings down, down into my belly where they burned. Always a smartass, never honest. But now I know that the strong can have these feelings and still carry on. The strong just don't give up.
But one thing I'm learning since Sam came back is how to hope. He's taught me that hope is a choice, a choice that you have to keep making. Maybe I don't have those things now, but someday I could. Hope for those things keeps me from giving up, and it's a strange feeling to have something to work toward, to strive for.
I'm thankful for every breath I take. Every morning that I open my eyes, stretch beneath clean sheets and squint in the pink light of dawn, I get a tiny, fleeting sense of wonder and gratitude. It doesn't always last very long, sure, and lots of times it gets swallowed up by the horror and visceral fear that sweeps over me with disturbing regularity. But it's still there, deep down, even when I forget about it and let myself sink into self-pity or rage or hopelessness, or even apathy. It's always there inside, waiting for me to remember it.