Dean's edged with silver. He is all cold cruelty. It is brushed through his hair, bruised his knuckles and wrapped around his arms. Year upon year, his life is a whetstone for destruction. There is no welcoming for a man like this. He has become fear.
Sam still sees safety. It doesn't seem to matter how the centuries have altered Dean's mannerisms into grimaces. That Dean is scary all the time. The way he's hung weapons all over his room walls, as if they have pure intentions. Whenever there's a troubled situation at hand, Dean stepping in means Sam's taken care off. He can breathe again. He'll survive.
He believes in Dean's smile lines. They have never let him down.
-/-
Sam's a tale of tragedy. He is marred by history. His life is a litany of fires. His whispers are all smoke. He wears his misfortunes along his lanky limbs. The lies he's told, clawed around his wrist. Come in, cities call, because they do not know of his burnt soul. He has never been a child of water.
Dean still sees innocence. It is as if all that Sam regrets, is nothing which seemingly bothers Dean. That the world and beyond have crushed Sam with their opinions of his deeds. The way Sam has always wielded weapons as if they grow from him. It never matters and never will. Whenever Sam returns to him, Dean feels his heart jump start. He's alive again.
He believes in Sam's dimples. They have never let him down.
-/-
Dean's car is his home. The Impala is warmth from nightmares of stolen mothers. It is sweet familiarity when all else has been twisted wrong. It has never left him alone. He has learnt from its engine. It has always done whatever he's asked of it. He's polished her till she rivals sunrays. He's pretty sure girls (and Sam) are jealous of this holy attachment he has with his car. Sometimes, when there are no stars, no street lights and Sam's asleep; it's only him and Baby, and then she'll fly.
It will hold him from his existence until his end.
-/-
Sam's car is the Impala. Dean probably doesn't know that Sam found his will. The paper is crumpled and turning cream now. Sam found it when he was only twenty-two. 'This is my will, Sammy' it said 'when I die I'm giving Baby to you because it's the only thing I have.' He's gotten a bloody fingerprint as a signature, because Dean couldn't find a pen. Dean's already died numerous times, so Sam's the secret owner of the '97 Chevy.
Sam likes the Impala, really, he does but his life within her is both haunting and wonderful. He stares at the backseat sometimes. Dean and him are chatting happily, children excited about insignificant things. The image quickly changes. Dean's bleeding, head in Sam's hands, Sam's hyperventilating, Dad drive faster, please Dee don't die, oh no Dean's blood is all over the upholstery he's going to kill me, hey big brother wake up wake up wake up, Dad says Samuel stop it, Sam will not, he hates hunting. Dean!
The Impala's only home when Dean's driving.
-/-
Dean's beautiful. He's always known it and likes to takes advantage of it. Waitresses seem the most partial to it. He gets free waffles and pancakes and topped up coffees and cheek kisses. He's charmed girls from the time he was in kindergarten to the time he'd killed so many. Sometimes women stare at him and it's not their fault, really, it's just the way he's made. It's good for his ego, he thinks gratefully, because if he wasn't this gorgeous, he'd probably have the self esteem of a mouse.
They appreciate his eyes. They've tried to describe them, blonde to brunette, all around the United States, until one redhead settled on 'mesmerizing.'
-/-
Sam's good looking. He has great hair. He's not showing off, seriously, but he's never met anyone, human or not, who has better tresses. And he's tall. He's never sure if women suddenly like him or their just astonished at his height. They do tend to want to look after him though. 'Are you okay honey?' by every other girl ever and what exactly are they implying? It's your eyes, Dean informs him, they're begging for adoration.
They usually get invited in.
-/-
Dean's funny. He sees humour in all kinds of situations. He must've been telling jokes as a toddler. He knew he made his Mamma laugh. Early in his career as a self employed comedian, he realised that people had to live with humour, no matter if they were truckers the size of Nebraska or a teacher who wore every different shade of purple sweater you could imagine. A regular born entertainer, Bobby used to roll his eyes, but Dean knew he was amused. Sometimes, he has to admit, his jokes were conventional and kind of cheap. Sometimes they were sharp and intelligent. He has an arsenal full of wisecracks and he also wears them as armour.
Dean mostly tells jokes to make Sammy smile.
-/-
Sam's serious. He doesn't have time for all this positivity. He needs to fix all these apocalypses. The world is always ending, why can't some certain people see that? He's good at pranks, because that requires planning and patience, so he tends to win most of those. He can be sarcastic, which Dean never appreciates. It's Dean's fault though, if he'd just stop with all those mean remarks about Sam's hair, Sam's feelings and Sam's salty praline cream foam latte.
Sam knows Dean's very-unfunny comments are all for him. It's annoyingly awesome.
-/-
Dean knows his baby brother. All soft curls and giant eyes, a midget with his arms around Dean's neck, 'I luff Dee'. Sam on tip-toe, pulling at Dean's sleeve and singing the letters of his name till it becomes part of Dean's memory and he can hear it anytime he wants. Then Sam's at his shoulder height for the last time and his hand is on Dean's shoulder, squeezing it till it almost but not quite leaves a bruise, I still need you. Dean's head in Sam's lap, there's blood all over, Dean's eyes are rolling back, oh it hurts, but Sam's fingers are on his chest, right over that life slurping wound, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Dean dies for Sammy.
-/-
Sam knows his big brother. Dean's telling him a story about dragons and it's meant to be in a whisper but it's such a loud whisper. Dean, showing him how he ties his shoes, 'it's crisscross like this 'thammy' and he still has the slightest childish lisp. Dean's letting him stitch his ripped skin and Sam's trying not to cry, really he isn't, and Dean lifts his chin up, says 'I trust you.' Dean ruffles his hair at five and twelve and seventeen and twenty-three and thirty-one. I love you.
Sam lives for Dean