Okay. So the therapy thing didn't work. I mean, Sammy knew that and I had to at least humor him for a little bit. Thing is, he knew that too. But nothing that a soft, wet tongue couldn't cure. He may be smarter, hell, smarter than I'll ever be, but he's also a little slut. But more about that another day. I know it's the liquor. I guess it's a family thing. Dad and me I guess. Sam is so freaking level headed sometimes I can't help but think Mom might have been screwing the mailman. Not that mailmen are particularly smart, it's just, he's so different. And good. If Sam had been anything like me we would have died a hell of a long time ago. He keeps me straight. I need him like this God forsaken Earth needs the fucking Sun. My brother is like oxygen. I said to him once 'there ain't no me, if there ain't no you.' It's deeper than blood. It's on another mother fucking different plain all together. He is what keeps me fighting. Man, I know he hates that. 'We need to save people, De.' I know. I don't need telling twice but I would gladly watch the world burn for him and he would fucking hate it. My love for Sam renders me numb over every other human being on this fucking planet. Morally, fucked up. I'd be the worst world leader ever. I will die, either before him, or for him. It ain't God's plan. It's my plan and I'm Goddamn sticking to it. When I dragged him out of Stanford I dragged him into hell. And I'm telling you, hell just ain't a firey pit of torture and blood. It's every fucking day. Dusk til dawn. Midnight to noon. I'll repay him by dying first. I'd fucking kill myself now if it meant that he was free. I see him sometimes. Doing normal person stuff. Eating, drinking, reading, laying spent on my body. All fucked and wrung out and he looks lost. He was all dimples and tan and fresh and fucking beautiful that night at Stanford. I wish I could have put him to sleep for a hundred years and saved him from. Fuck. Saved him from me. See, that's why I drink. Well used to. Who am I kidding? You think it's coffee in those tiny little cups? It is, sometimes. Sometimes it ain't. I hate writing shit down but Sammy said it would help. Help me quit. I'm tired. I ain't even forty and I'm so fucking tired. How much time have I got left to set things right? To give Sam the life he deserves. I knew this would be a bad idea. Next time, maybe I should write about the fucking, but then, even that is tainted bittersweet. Hell, that's my freaking life. D. Winchester
gamechangershow
germansingergirl
amandla
kianamaiart
gracieabrams
2087
