Reposting: Cracks
1,2, 3.
1, 2.
1, 2, 3, 4.
Don't step on the cracks. I'm coming, Sammy.
Sam's had a hard time being his brother lately. Dean knows he feels like he's not, like he's more demon blood than he is Dean's brother. But that's not true. Anyone can define Dean as Sam's older brother, so the other side of that is still, it's still what it is. He'll never be anything less for Dean than his entire fucking life. Sam's gotta remember that.
Dean can make him see, can carry that weight. He can be the monster instead, cause what kind of a big brother tortures people in Hell and still gets away with kissing his little brother and inching over every part of him? He's damn lucky, that's what he is, that Sam hasn't figured it out yet. That he's an evil son-of-a-bitch whose just riding on the coat tail's of Sam's good. Sam's not perfect, Dean knows, he does. And he's been mad at Sammy lately, real mad, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love the boy. He's just frustrated and helpless and a little soul-wrenched heartbroken.
But if Dean can't keep Sammy's soul pure, then why was he born the older brother? He's gotta do something worth while, something worth something. Once he's got that part accomplished, maybe he can just check out.
This place is voluntary anyway, isn't it? But they wouldn't let him leave, would they? They wanna keep him here, even though by all rights he should be able to leave whenever he wants. But he's really losing it now, he really does need to be in a loony bin, and they need him. The angels. Ah- the patients here. They both need him? Right? It's nice to be needed- which is- Sam needs him. Doesn't he?
Vessel. Even if he did try and leave, after he's got Sam where he's happy and alive and saved, they would bring him back. Again and again and again.
I’ll be there in a minute, Sam. I’m coming. I’m coming to get you. Don’t worry. One step, two steps. One step, two.
Sam was always better at picking locks than him. One step. Almost there, almost there, Sam. Don’t burn yourself. Those are some hard scars to avoid.
He's gonna get there in time. He's gonna make this right. It was a bad idea, coming here, to begin with. Shouldn't o' done that. Shouldn't of come here. How the hell's he supposed to protect Sammy when there are monsters in every fucking corner and Dean can't tell the difference anymore- he's reminded of those last few hours before he was dragged down to the pit where everyone, everyone was a monster with a face like Hell.
But that was only justice, wasn't it?, served to him on a goddamn silver platter. He'd been riding on borrowed time, stealing every bit and moment and bite he could get of Sam in every quiet shadowed corner and every soft scrape of teeth on skin- that little place where skin is stretched taut over his hip bones, jutting out and casting tiny triangular shadows on his stomach, his favorite- and every little last bit, but none of it belonged to him.
He'd thought it did, for a while. Could think of nothing he wanted more in the world than for this to be his without any fucking strings or promises of Hell or borrowed time, but it wasn't.
(But then there's that little part of him deep deep deep in the tiny whispering shadows of his most secret secrets- the one that says maybe he could stick around, maybe after all of this is said and done and Sam and him find a way to keep out of anyone's reach for forever- maybe he wouldn't have to leave Sam like he's supposed to. Maybe Sam wouldn't want him to leave- cause Dean knows, he knows, Sam loves him and maybe that means he needs him too and Dean wouldn't have to leave Sam clean of him and hitch a ride back to the nearest spot reserved for him in the pit or the nearest nameless faceless identity with a dead end job and a mysterious past. But that- that's just for him to think about when he's got his brother spread out before him or when he's been good, real good, and no one will know if he just imagines the sun on his face for a minute, grease on his knuckles, with Sam there and a front porch and maybe they'd get a dog, or two dogs, and they'd sleep in the same bed every night- but he only just imagines that sometimes, precious and delicate as it is.)
It wasn't. Not his. Not his to claim.
It belonged to his father. All of this time, all of these moments where he was alive and he wasn't supposed to be. Because Dean had gone and gotten himself fucked up, he'd slipped up, big time, more than just some fucking spilled milk. He'd been shoved into the light of the living by the roughened hands of his father, and he'd almost not regretted it, because out of everything he ruined, everything he'd lost and dropped the ball on, Sammy had remained constant and pure and Dean couldn't save his mother, and he couldn't save his father, but one out three ain't so bad, is it? But that sure as Hell didn't make any difference, no it didn't.
Dad’s dead, Sam. Did you know? He died, and I’m here now. Now it’s just you and me, Sammy. I won’t let the fire get you.
In the end, he'd been given what was meant to be his from the beginning, sweet and ripe and full of sin. And maybe after all this is over, after Sam's washed his hands of this and Dean's checked out or after Dean's been sent back to the pit because who the Hell knows when they are gonna figure out that he's supposed to be there, still- still-? Maybe after all of that- he can take out that little part of the life he wishes for and hold it in his hands like it's gonna break if he moves and think about it for a while.
And it burns, burns, burns.
Fire, Sam, fire. Run boy. Run.
No matter how many times he looks in the mirror, he doesn't have snake eyes or a snake tongue, but he's damned enough people- the only people in the world that he actually gives a flying fuck about- those ones are the ones he's ruined, so maybe, maybe he's the snake after all- or the apple. Whichever it's supposed to be, right- but besides, he'd never really liked apples, anyway.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!
Don't step on the cracks. Oh, oopsy.
And you broke your daddy's back.
--
Disclaimer: Here it is, folks. I owns nothing!
1, 2.
1, 2, 3, 4.
Don't step on the cracks. I'm coming, Sammy.
Sam's had a hard time being his brother lately. Dean knows he feels like he's not, like he's more demon blood than he is Dean's brother. But that's not true. Anyone can define Dean as Sam's older brother, so the other side of that is still, it's still what it is. He'll never be anything less for Dean than his entire fucking life. Sam's gotta remember that.
Dean can make him see, can carry that weight. He can be the monster instead, cause what kind of a big brother tortures people in Hell and still gets away with kissing his little brother and inching over every part of him? He's damn lucky, that's what he is, that Sam hasn't figured it out yet. That he's an evil son-of-a-bitch whose just riding on the coat tail's of Sam's good. Sam's not perfect, Dean knows, he does. And he's been mad at Sammy lately, real mad, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love the boy. He's just frustrated and helpless and a little soul-wrenched heartbroken.
But if Dean can't keep Sammy's soul pure, then why was he born the older brother? He's gotta do something worth while, something worth something. Once he's got that part accomplished, maybe he can just check out.
This place is voluntary anyway, isn't it? But they wouldn't let him leave, would they? They wanna keep him here, even though by all rights he should be able to leave whenever he wants. But he's really losing it now, he really does need to be in a loony bin, and they need him. The angels. Ah- the patients here. They both need him? Right? It's nice to be needed- which is- Sam needs him. Doesn't he?
Vessel. Even if he did try and leave, after he's got Sam where he's happy and alive and saved, they would bring him back. Again and again and again.
I’ll be there in a minute, Sam. I’m coming. I’m coming to get you. Don’t worry. One step, two steps. One step, two.
Sam was always better at picking locks than him. One step. Almost there, almost there, Sam. Don’t burn yourself. Those are some hard scars to avoid.
He's gonna get there in time. He's gonna make this right. It was a bad idea, coming here, to begin with. Shouldn't o' done that. Shouldn't of come here. How the hell's he supposed to protect Sammy when there are monsters in every fucking corner and Dean can't tell the difference anymore- he's reminded of those last few hours before he was dragged down to the pit where everyone, everyone was a monster with a face like Hell.
But that was only justice, wasn't it?, served to him on a goddamn silver platter. He'd been riding on borrowed time, stealing every bit and moment and bite he could get of Sam in every quiet shadowed corner and every soft scrape of teeth on skin- that little place where skin is stretched taut over his hip bones, jutting out and casting tiny triangular shadows on his stomach, his favorite- and every little last bit, but none of it belonged to him.
He'd thought it did, for a while. Could think of nothing he wanted more in the world than for this to be his without any fucking strings or promises of Hell or borrowed time, but it wasn't.
(But then there's that little part of him deep deep deep in the tiny whispering shadows of his most secret secrets- the one that says maybe he could stick around, maybe after all of this is said and done and Sam and him find a way to keep out of anyone's reach for forever- maybe he wouldn't have to leave Sam like he's supposed to. Maybe Sam wouldn't want him to leave- cause Dean knows, he knows, Sam loves him and maybe that means he needs him too and Dean wouldn't have to leave Sam clean of him and hitch a ride back to the nearest spot reserved for him in the pit or the nearest nameless faceless identity with a dead end job and a mysterious past. But that- that's just for him to think about when he's got his brother spread out before him or when he's been good, real good, and no one will know if he just imagines the sun on his face for a minute, grease on his knuckles, with Sam there and a front porch and maybe they'd get a dog, or two dogs, and they'd sleep in the same bed every night- but he only just imagines that sometimes, precious and delicate as it is.)
It wasn't. Not his. Not his to claim.
It belonged to his father. All of this time, all of these moments where he was alive and he wasn't supposed to be. Because Dean had gone and gotten himself fucked up, he'd slipped up, big time, more than just some fucking spilled milk. He'd been shoved into the light of the living by the roughened hands of his father, and he'd almost not regretted it, because out of everything he ruined, everything he'd lost and dropped the ball on, Sammy had remained constant and pure and Dean couldn't save his mother, and he couldn't save his father, but one out three ain't so bad, is it? But that sure as Hell didn't make any difference, no it didn't.
Dad’s dead, Sam. Did you know? He died, and I’m here now. Now it’s just you and me, Sammy. I won’t let the fire get you.
In the end, he'd been given what was meant to be his from the beginning, sweet and ripe and full of sin. And maybe after all this is over, after Sam's washed his hands of this and Dean's checked out or after Dean's been sent back to the pit because who the Hell knows when they are gonna figure out that he's supposed to be there, still- still-? Maybe after all of that- he can take out that little part of the life he wishes for and hold it in his hands like it's gonna break if he moves and think about it for a while.
And it burns, burns, burns.
Fire, Sam, fire. Run boy. Run.
No matter how many times he looks in the mirror, he doesn't have snake eyes or a snake tongue, but he's damned enough people- the only people in the world that he actually gives a flying fuck about- those ones are the ones he's ruined, so maybe, maybe he's the snake after all- or the apple. Whichever it's supposed to be, right- but besides, he'd never really liked apples, anyway.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!
Don't step on the cracks. Oh, oopsy.
And you broke your daddy's back.
--
Disclaimer: Here it is, folks. I owns nothing!