(A/N I still don't really love it but I'm still experimenting with this kind of writing/wording/form)
When he was eight, he looked up at Dean
And all he could see was a haloed protector, unmarred by imperfections
When he was fourteen, he looked over at Dean
And he could still see his protector, but now the imperfections that he could see only made him more desirable
When he was twenty-one, he couldn't see Dean
And so he could fool his eyes into seeing a halo around Jess
and ignore that part of him that wanted something different from an angel
And when he was twenty-five, and he'd saved the world with his brother as many times as they'd died
Sammy looked across their messy motel bed at Dean, and he didn't think about angels
or temptations,
he just looked
because he finally could look at Dean, his soulmate
And Sam stopped thinking about angels or demons or temptations because Dean wasn't any one of those things, he was everything