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I.
When Sam left for Stanford, it was like he took one of those pristine hunting knives the Winchesters kept handy and peeled an entire layer of Dean’s core away-carrying it with him to California. A few months after, John told him to leave Sam alone, initiating a look-but-don’t-touch sort of rule, and decided they could look out for Sammy from afar but wouldn’t have anything to do with him or his life anymore. It was like having an open bottle of Jim Beam in front of him-it filled his nostrils and made his mouth water with the idea of a taste, but under no circumstances could he drink it. Dean felt raw and sore and desperately needed a shot.
II.
Two years, Sam’s been away at college. Dean remembers what it’s like to be so entangled with Sam that it is as if their cells had fused together, forming one whole organism. To be apart is a pain that wrenches Dean’s heart and makes him clutch himself, heaving with the loss of his wholeness.
III.
As worried as Dean was about their father, when he had Sam pinned underneath him in the dark of that apartment-chests heaving, adrenaline pounding, Sam frayed and on edge-Dean had never felt such a delicious thrill in his entire life. It was like finding that vital piece to the puzzle that you’ve been looking (yearning) for. His relief radiated throughout him into his 100watt smirk.
“Whoa, easy, tiger.”
But then she was there and even if Dean did feel proud because, damn, Sammy, I knew you had it in you to bag a hot one, there was that dark swirl creeping from the back of his mind to burn behind his eyes and pool in his mouth behind his charming smirk. He’s not yours anymore, Dean. You failed him. He found something better-something you could never give him.
Dean felt vicious and wounded. A gash in his side that was never going to heal and he hated himself for not being good enough.
IV.
Can’tlosehimCan’tlosehimCan’tlosehim
Dean had sworn to himself that no matter what, he was not killing Sam. It had just never been an option. Dean may be a masochist subconsciously, but without Sam he was less than nothing.
He couldn’t do anything but cradle Sam, feeling the blood drip down his hands. Apparently, the job he had proved inadequate to handle had been handled for him.
The sense of loss was instantaneous and consuming. Empty didn’t even begin to describe it. His insides had been ripped out and run through a meat grinder. There was nothing left of him but useless mush.
Right before the decision to make a deal with the crossroads demon occurred to him, as Dean peered down at Sam’s lifeless body, an absurd thought came to him: The only thing in the world that knows how I feel right now is a Love Bird somewhere that’s starving itself to death because it misses its mate.
Dean hates birds. They’re noisy. They chirp incessantly at ungodly hours and flitter around picking at grass and crumbs all day long. Sam reminds Dean of a bird.
V.
Torment has never felt like such a literal concept. Every inch of Dean’s flesh is being pulled, torn and burned. There’s no way to even describe the feeling. Not even to Dante*, and that guy saw the horrors of Hell. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the pain of it all or the smell. Dean’s never been one to beg, but there is nothing else but the absolute desperation.
He screams. There’s only one person that could ever help. He screams. There’s only one person that he trusts. He screams. There’s only one person he needs. He screams. There’s only one person that matters. He screams.
“Sam!”