We had built a dream world around ourselves, had made it out to be something magical and wonderful. We had fooled ourselves into thinking that everything would be alright, that we were safe within each other's arms. And for a moment, just for a moment, it had felt real, and pure. And then reality had come crashing in, barging through the door and ransacking the room. It had torn into us with vicious words and sharp teeth; lashing out at us with balled fists and a brightly burning anger.
Please excuse me, and allow me to start over from the beginning. We had been nothing more than children then, enamored with the idea of love and forever. We had thought that, having grown up together, we'd be together forever, no matter what our relationship with each other was. I remember how in the dark hours of the morning, we would sneak out of our homes and meet up in the field behind his uncle's house. His uncle knew of course, but he never told a soul; he just let us have our moments.
In that field, when there was no one around but us, we could do anything, and be anything we wanted, but more often than not, we did nothing more than sit there and talk to each other. On some nights we would talk about his father – a raging alcoholic – and his little brother – a child prodigy, and occasionally, our talks would be interrupted by stolen kisses and whispered words of affection. And on other nights, we talked about my family, and how insignificant I felt compared to everything that my numerous brothers and sisters had accomplished. Of course, sometimes we didn't speak at all and instead just laid there, staring up at the stars in silence and occasionally stealing quick kisses in the dark.
As we grew, so did our relationship and our affection for each other. I remember being asked many times in the halls at school about our relationship, and simply replying that we felt no need to put a label on it. All that mattered to us was that we liked each other, and felt safe in each other's arms. What did gender and names and labels matter to us, when we had each other, and would always have each other? Unfortunately, not everyone thought the same way we did. While my father certainly didn't care – he had too many other kids to worry about to be concerned with what I did in my spare time, and his uncle didn't care, his father was a whole different story.
As I have said before, I remember his father as a raging alcoholic, and I remember days when we would meet up at school and there would be dark, poorly hidden fingerprints on his arms and around his neck. He told me once that his father hadn't always been like this, but that after his mother died, he'd broken. I guess he couldn't handle the grief and pain of losing her and instead retreated into drinking. I never said anything about the marks; it was an unspoken rule between us that we wouldn't talk about anything painful if we could help it.
One night we were out in the field, laying there in a comfortable silence, occasionally broken by heated kisses and mumbled words of affection, when he turned to me and told me we should run away. We were both eighteen, so we were legally adults and had already graduated, so we could take off whenever we wanted. I squinted at him, wondering if he was serious. Looking back now, I wish I had told him no. As it was, I agreed to his crazy plan and we parted ways, both of us going to say our goodbyes to our loved ones and pack for the trip out of town.
When he came to pick me up, I noticed that he was wearing his little brother's necklace and there were tears in his eyes. I didn't say anything to him as I loaded my stuff into the car, only placing a comforting hand on his shoulder when I slid into the seat next to him. He swallowed and nodded as he started the car, smiling at me with hope in his eyes as we headed out. I smiled back, but I felt sick to my stomach; I should have told him that we had to stop this, that I felt something bad was going to happen, but I was wrapped up in the moment.
Forgive me, these memories are hard to recall without choking up. We may have only been children, but I would be lying if I said that our time together hadn't meant the world to me.
We drove for about six hours before we stopped for the night at some dingy hotel. No words were exchanged as we paid for a room and tiredly drug ourselves to it, throwing our stuff in a corner before collapsing on to a bed once we reached it. Though we were tired, we trudged up enough energy to wrap our arms around each other and murmur words of affection between lazy goodnight kisses. We dozed off to the sound of the highway outside and our neighbor's loud television program, so sure that safe in each other's arms in that hotel room. Oh how wrong we were.
We woke to a loud banging and the door flying open, foul, vicious words being thrown at us from the doorway. Groggy from sleep, I jerked awake when he was pulled off the bed by a foot and a scream erupted from his throat. Eyes wide, tears streaming down my face, and voice hoarse from yelling and screaming at his attacker, I watched, frozen on the bed, as he was thrown against a wall. He struggled, but didn't fight back, taking the blows and harsh words with an angry glare and occasional snide remarks of his own.
I was ready to force myself to reach for the phone and call the cops when everything went silent. Then there were tears streaming down the man's face; angry sobs being torn from a large body and whispered pleas to come back home, garbled promises to be a better father and pay more attention to him and his brother. I watched the man crumple to the floor, grabbing the victim of his anger in an uncharacteristic show of affection and hug him tight, apologizing profusely and promising to be a better person. I squirmed where I sat on the bed, feeling uncomfortable and like I was intruding on a private moment, but neither one paid attention to me. And in that moment, I made a choice, a decision I swore I would both regret and be glad that I made.
Quietly gathering my things, I headed for the door, looking over my shoulder once to smile sadly at my almost lover before I walked out. Once outside I boarded a Greyhound bus, not caring where I was going. As long as he was safe, and I was not around to make his life harder, anywhere was good with me. And as the bus drove away from the hotel bus stop, I stared out the window, watching silently as they packed up to go home, him sporting new bruises and cuts and now a broken heart. Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I turned and stared at the seat in front of me, refusing to cry and resolving that this was the best thing for both of us. And maybe, just maybe, someday when we're both older and he's broken away from his father's shadow, we can start again where we left off.
"Sir, what was his name?"
I smiled fondly at my dinner partner as I slowly stood up, my eyes misting with unshed tears and old memories swirling around in my mind. "Dean," I murmured just barely loud enough for them to hear before I draped my jacket over an arm and walked out. I had never wanted to talk about it before, but it had felt good to get it all off my chest, and I was glad that I had finally told someone about him, my light at the end of every dark tunnel, Dean Winchester.