Archive of Our Own ^beta

My brother is my savior. I know that seems a little strange considering I was the one to take him from the fire—from whatever fate the demon had planned for him. But it was in saving him that I found my purpose. I knew what my job was for the rest of my life: to protect him. And that was how he saved me.

When he's asleep, I'll watch. I like to see his chest rise up and down; it assures me he's alive. Sometimes, I worry that if I fall asleep, he'll never wake up. But obviously, I can't stay awake forever. And when I do, I have dreams of him dying. Dying in my arms, always dying because I failed. When I wake I chide myself; I feel like I've shirked my duty. I never let on to this; I know Sam likes to think he's strong, that he doesn't need me, but who is it he goes to when he gets one of those visions? Who does he reach to when he's scared, when Jess has been haunting him? He needs me to be 'Big Brother'. I need to keep my own facade for him.

The thing is, I could tell him this. I could break down one night, and he'd understand. He'd know how hard it is because he does it day in and day out. I see it all the time, though he tries to hide it. How much he aches. He aches for Jess. He burns for that demon and his revenge. Sam would pull in for one of those 'family moments', tell me I should stop going out every night with nameless girls, that I should actually rest, not worry about him so much. Then the next time he needed me, he'd forget all about how much it destroys me to see him hurting, and he'd just break down and mope around, anyway.

Want to know something? Those girls? They don't mean anything. Well, they mean something. I'm really not into objectifying women, as much as Sam likes to think I do. But see, I learned from Dad how to redirect. How to find...substitutes for things. Poor Dad. How does it feel to lose the love of your life so young, so harsh? Dad always had to find his own outlets. I know he hated to be unfaithful, but sometimes his boys—us—we couldn't help him. I didn't understand it then. I thought I did. But now, I do.

Now I know what it's like to want something that is utterly out of reach. Only in my case it's not just out of reach, it's off limits.

See, I'm in love with my brother. And no, not just the run of the mill, you're-family-so-I-love-you kind of love. More like the, I-want-to-fuck-your-brains-out-and-then-cuddle-with-you-all-night-long kind of love. Sentimental, huh?

I swear, I never read a single fairy tale as a child. And it certainly never left its impression on me before I was old enough to know—stories like that? Never come true.

I couldn't tell you when it started. Maybe when he had that huge first growth spurt. He was thirteen and suddenly all leg and arms. Really, he kind of looked like an over-sized monkey. But there was something endearing about his clumsiness. It might have been then because I got to get close to him. And you know how a seventeen-year-old's hormones can go crazy. That's what I told myself at least when I stood behind him, adjusting his handhold on the gun—and I'd get a little hard. That's what I'd tell myself when he'd crawl into my bed at night because of his nightmares and I whisper to him it was ok, brushing my lips against his forehead, his neck.

Or maybe it was when he was sixteen. He'd grown into those arms and legs and while he was still a skinny stick, he was agile and he'd learned to use his height to his advantage when we wrestled. Maybe I fell in love the first day he managed to win a match. Dad was yelling at Sam, telling him, “yes, yes, Sammy!” But that wasn't what made my brother smile. No, I told him, “nice one,” and then his face just broke into a patent Sammy smile, the one he saved for old ladies with cookies, and for pretty girls who winked at him; the smile he hardly used any more since I stopped giving him Lucky Charms for dinner. And the sun was setting and just like some chick flick, it formed a halo around his head and he looked so much like the savior I thought him as. The next moment I flipped him up and over my head, giving him a bruise on his tailbone, and things went on as usual as they could for our messed up family.

When he finally left for school, I was actually glad. Proud to see him make something of himself, yes, but happier still that he'd be able to get away from me and my sick notions of brotherly love. For I knew I was sick by then. It wasn't just teenage hormones when I jacked off thinking about him and was twenty-two.

I never let on I was happy for him to leave, though. Because happy as I was, I was hurt too. Wondered if it was me who drove him away, what I could have done to make him stay. Had he caught on? Figured out I was twisted? Had he sensed it and run away from that? The night he left, despite a demanding exorcism I was supposed to perform with Dad, I skipped town, leaving Dad in the lurch for three days. I went to a spot I knew of in Texas where beer ran cheap and hookers cheaper.

It was then I started 'deflecting'. I'd drown my aggressions out in beer, use sex as a numbing drug with some beautiful brunette, or some Sam look-a-like. And by the time I went back for him, after Dad left me too, I thought I'd gotten it out of my system. I was twenty-six, I was king of the world and I could conquer my own sick lust.

But then again...Jess died, and that night might just have been when I fell in love. With his lips thinned into a line, eyes far away, he spoke his conviction to get that demon. And suddenly, I knew. My baby brother had grown up. School had given him a chance I'd never had. Another variable to factor in. It made him more like Dad, but more Sam, too.

It could have happened at another time, though. All I understand is, I can't have him. It's the one thing he can never know about me. That the person he depends on to protect him, has a secret desire to have him, to hurt him in the worst way possible.

Then the Benders come along. Mother fucking, fucked up family that makes ours seem normal, makes my own thoughts seem tame. Because no matter how much I want Sam, I'd never act on it. Never do that, never kill any hopes of normal for him.

But when he stopped on the road, and said my name with such need, I couldn't help but proffer my arms for him. And God knows, I wanted to hold him. Wanted to know he was alive—that I was alive. That's why, for one second, I let myself fall into that kiss. Imagine that perhaps, God couldn't smite me for one moment of lost control. That maybe I could be close to heaven for once, before crashing back to earth.

And that kiss. Let me tell you, Sam's an amazing kisser. He's sweet and persuasive and just the right amount of wet and heat. The way his lips fit on mine—harmony. It was the kiss of an angel, the kiss of my savior. But the thing about saviors is, sadly, they can fall when tempted. They too, can break.

I couldn't live with myself if I tainted him. A sinner like me can't have such perfection. No, Sam's love was taken from him and all I can do is make sure that bastard demon is never able to hurt another perfect boy or girl like he did my Sam, is never able to take away their life. And that's what I can give Sam.

So I pull away, breathing in and out, lick my lips, chasing the taste of him that I know will quickly fade in the warm night air. I'll admit I was a little confused as to what happened. After all, he did make the move. But I figure, it must have been my feelings projected onto him. He needed comfort, I did too, and one thing led to another. I whisper it's ok, we're alive, and “let's hit the road,” quickly turning around, walking away before he can see the treason in my eyes, see the tear that slides down my cheek.

Since then, there's been no mention of the kiss. There never will be. I can see the way he looks at me, I feel his eyes judging me, sometimes. And I know it's all because of that kiss I stupidly let myself give in to. I took advantage and now it's damaged him; us. Maybe beyond repair.

But it doesn't stop me from looking. I still watch him sleep and listen to his breath assuring me he's alive and safe for the moment. And if I let my hand linger a longer than it should, if I hold him a little too tight when he's hurt, no one can blame me. I'm just looking out for my little bro. And if, when people mistake us for lovers, I secretly smile to myself and don't really mind—well, no one has to know.

Definitely not Sam.

And if I never stop loving him, well, that's ok, too.