sunday_reveries: Alice Hoffman quote
2. "I understood wanting to forget. Things that made you remember cut like pieces of glass. A song, a memory, a blade of grass, a white dress, a dream, all of it as painful as the deepest wound."
- Alice Hoffman
Dean tried to rise. Or maybe just curl up on his side.
Then gave up, his mind filled with blood still throbbing loud and the pain in his neck and the sight of his brother's face as Sam had tried to throttle him to death. His brother. No siren's spell, nothing. He'd wanted him dead. Truly and honestly, in full possession of his capacities.
Except that, is he? Is it Sam making those choices, or is it the demon blood inside him? He couldn't ever...
Or maybe he should stop lying to himself. That's what his brother would be from now on, and there was nothing Dean could do to stop it, and he wanted him dead, out of his life.
He blinked as each thunder of his his quickly-beating heart flipped through memories, so many memories, heaps of them with each beat. Sammy at five, burning up with fever. Sammy last year, talking him into trying to fight and stay out of Hell, telling him he'd always tried to be like him (oh wasn't that ironic. Dean had always tried to be like John, Sammy had always tried to be like Dean, except Sammy was like John, why bother with the middle man, except it was Dean who had thrown John's words at Sam again, and why the fuck had he done that except he didn't know what else he could do--)
Sam's eyes bleeding in the middle of all that shattered glass. Sammy telling him he wouldn't let him die, period. Sammy telling him he was going out for a walk; Sammy telling him he wasn't good enough for the job, he couldn't do it; Sammy telling him he didn't want to do this job, Sammy flying up in a temper at their dad; Sammy crying as the flames of the funeral pyre rose in the quiet night; Sammy hurt; Sammy laughing; Sammy strangling him; Sammy taking care of him; Sammy yelling at him; Sammy letting go of him; Sammy...
... walking out that door.
Was it his brother anymore?
And if he is?
I don't know.
I can't do this any longer.
- Alice Hoffman
Dean tried to rise. Or maybe just curl up on his side.
Then gave up, his mind filled with blood still throbbing loud and the pain in his neck and the sight of his brother's face as Sam had tried to throttle him to death. His brother. No siren's spell, nothing. He'd wanted him dead. Truly and honestly, in full possession of his capacities.
Except that, is he? Is it Sam making those choices, or is it the demon blood inside him? He couldn't ever...
Or maybe he should stop lying to himself. That's what his brother would be from now on, and there was nothing Dean could do to stop it, and he wanted him dead, out of his life.
He blinked as each thunder of his his quickly-beating heart flipped through memories, so many memories, heaps of them with each beat. Sammy at five, burning up with fever. Sammy last year, talking him into trying to fight and stay out of Hell, telling him he'd always tried to be like him (oh wasn't that ironic. Dean had always tried to be like John, Sammy had always tried to be like Dean, except Sammy was like John, why bother with the middle man, except it was Dean who had thrown John's words at Sam again, and why the fuck had he done that except he didn't know what else he could do--)
Sam's eyes bleeding in the middle of all that shattered glass. Sammy telling him he wouldn't let him die, period. Sammy telling him he was going out for a walk; Sammy telling him he wasn't good enough for the job, he couldn't do it; Sammy telling him he didn't want to do this job, Sammy flying up in a temper at their dad; Sammy crying as the flames of the funeral pyre rose in the quiet night; Sammy hurt; Sammy laughing; Sammy strangling him; Sammy taking care of him; Sammy yelling at him; Sammy letting go of him; Sammy...
... walking out that door.
Was it his brother anymore?
And if he is?
I don't know.
I can't do this any longer.