Hates
Companion Piece to Likes
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Dean hates the helpless way he says Sam’s name, like a prayer to the god that he lost faith in a long time ago.
He hates the way Sam smiles against his skin when he says it, lips curling against his collar bone, the sharp angle of his hip, his stomach.
He hates the way his pulse speeds up under Sam’s hands. Because how is meant to be the strong one when Sam reduces him to such helplessness?
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Sam hates that fact that there isn’t enough time. A year. Not enough time to bicker with him about his annoying quirks, his stubbornness, his single-mindedness, his disgusting habits. Not enough time to memorize every plain of his body, every scar, every imperfection that makes him almost heartbreakingly perfect to Sam.
Nights when Dean crawls into bed next to Sam, curling his body round his, legs and hands and souls tangling together under sheets and they take their time, slowly searching, fingers touching every inch of skin, those are the nights that he wants to cry, because Dean takes his time and there still isn’t enough, will never be enough.
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Dean hates the way Sam looks at him like he is the answer to every question that he's asked, and every question he hasn’t asked yet, the look he gives him when he thinks no one else is looking, like Dean is the most precious thing in the world. And Dean can’t get his head round that look, it makes him almost uncomfortable in his own skin that Sam can’t see anything but Dean’s goodness, can’t see the broken man that Dean has become.
He hates the reverence with which Sam touches him, hushed voice and barely touching hands and Dean doesn’t deserve this, but he can’t bring himself to care when Sam kisses his neck and murmurs mine into his skin.
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Sam hates Dean’s inane grin when he knows he’s right. The way his eyes sparkle with mischief and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes make him seem almost childish and carefree.
But it’s the special grin that is used only when Sam is wrong that he hates the most. The one that reads admit it Sammy, I’m always right.
He wants to wipe the grin off his face, and he hates the way more often than not he ends up trailing fingers over his mouth, his strong jaw, and covering the grin with his lips.
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Dean hates it when Sam’s not there and he suddenly realizes how terribly quiet it is without him.
Hates it when he forgets and cracks a joke and there is no one there to roll their eyes at him. His chest tightens and he wonders if it is possible to drown in loneliness.
He’s seen enough of Sam walking away from him, and he hates the way his heart breaks all over again when Sam looks hard at him and turns away.
“I am serious.” And to stop himself running after Sam, Dean gets into the car and drives away, pointedly looking at the road less he looked in the rear view mirror and his looses his resolve.
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Sam hates it when Dean is hurt, his big brother, his saviour, his protector wounded from a fight that Sam wasn’t there for, or Sam couldn't help with and Dean’s bleeding. Sam hates that. He hates having to stitch him up, homemade stitches marring Dean’s skin, trailing uneven across shoulders, back, hips, whatever got in the way of what ever evil son of a bitch they were fighting.
And Sam hates the way his hands shake when he stitches his brother up, hates the way his mind thinks maybe next time, maybe Dean wont make it, and he hates the way he presses his hands and lips to unwounded skin in desperation.
And he hates the way he half likes it. Because when Dean’s hurt, Sam gets to play the saviour for once.
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Dean hates the helpless way he says Sam’s name, like a prayer to the god that he lost faith in a long time ago.
He hates the way Sam smiles against his skin when he says it, lips curling against his collar bone, the sharp angle of his hip, his stomach.
He hates the way his pulse speeds up under Sam’s hands. Because how is meant to be the strong one when Sam reduces him to such helplessness?
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Sam hates that fact that there isn’t enough time. A year. Not enough time to bicker with him about his annoying quirks, his stubbornness, his single-mindedness, his disgusting habits. Not enough time to memorize every plain of his body, every scar, every imperfection that makes him almost heartbreakingly perfect to Sam.
Nights when Dean crawls into bed next to Sam, curling his body round his, legs and hands and souls tangling together under sheets and they take their time, slowly searching, fingers touching every inch of skin, those are the nights that he wants to cry, because Dean takes his time and there still isn’t enough, will never be enough.
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Dean hates the way Sam looks at him like he is the answer to every question that he's asked, and every question he hasn’t asked yet, the look he gives him when he thinks no one else is looking, like Dean is the most precious thing in the world. And Dean can’t get his head round that look, it makes him almost uncomfortable in his own skin that Sam can’t see anything but Dean’s goodness, can’t see the broken man that Dean has become.
He hates the reverence with which Sam touches him, hushed voice and barely touching hands and Dean doesn’t deserve this, but he can’t bring himself to care when Sam kisses his neck and murmurs mine into his skin.
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Sam hates Dean’s inane grin when he knows he’s right. The way his eyes sparkle with mischief and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes make him seem almost childish and carefree.
But it’s the special grin that is used only when Sam is wrong that he hates the most. The one that reads admit it Sammy, I’m always right.
He wants to wipe the grin off his face, and he hates the way more often than not he ends up trailing fingers over his mouth, his strong jaw, and covering the grin with his lips.
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Dean hates it when Sam’s not there and he suddenly realizes how terribly quiet it is without him.
Hates it when he forgets and cracks a joke and there is no one there to roll their eyes at him. His chest tightens and he wonders if it is possible to drown in loneliness.
He’s seen enough of Sam walking away from him, and he hates the way his heart breaks all over again when Sam looks hard at him and turns away.
“I am serious.” And to stop himself running after Sam, Dean gets into the car and drives away, pointedly looking at the road less he looked in the rear view mirror and his looses his resolve.
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Sam hates it when Dean is hurt, his big brother, his saviour, his protector wounded from a fight that Sam wasn’t there for, or Sam couldn't help with and Dean’s bleeding. Sam hates that. He hates having to stitch him up, homemade stitches marring Dean’s skin, trailing uneven across shoulders, back, hips, whatever got in the way of what ever evil son of a bitch they were fighting.
And Sam hates the way his hands shake when he stitches his brother up, hates the way his mind thinks maybe next time, maybe Dean wont make it, and he hates the way he presses his hands and lips to unwounded skin in desperation.
And he hates the way he half likes it. Because when Dean’s hurt, Sam gets to play the saviour for once.