You And Me
Title: You And Me
Author: paracaerouvoar
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Summary: "You showed me that no matter how screwed up I am, no matter how many times I come back for more, no matter how big a fuck-up I truly am, you don't care."
You and me.
That's the way it's always been.
You and me against the world.
Against heaven, hell, anything in between that dared to try and stand between us.
I'd die for you, and you for me, and we both know it.
We may be each other's Achilles heel, our sole weakness, but I wouldn't have any other way, and I doubt you would either.
Achilles.
That's a pretty good way to describe it actually.
When I'm with you, it makes me feel invincible, like no one could bring me down.
And when I'm not, well, I'm Hercules without Pegasus, Samson without his hair, David without his slingshot.
No.
I'm not calling you a winged horse.
Although...
No.
Almost definitely not.
I'm putting the tequila down now.
Maybe writing this drunk wasn't the best idea.
It's just, seeing you today, at Bobby's, watching that damned picture slowly burn away, a funeral pyre of sorts...
Watching you lose it like that...
It hurts.
More than I ever thought it could.
And I would give anything to never feel like that again.
Because it showed me you weren't indestructible.
It destroyed that last childish part of me.
It made me even more dependent on you though, in a way.
You showed me that there really is no me without you.
In the same way that Starksy and Hutch's names are intertwined throughout TV history, my name and yours, never one without the other are on the lips of anyone in this whole damned apocalyptic circus parade.
Sam and Dean.
Dean and Sam.
Either way, it doesn't matter.
There's no me without you, and no you without me.
You also showed me something else today.
You showed me that no matter how screwed up I am, no matter how many times I come back for more, no matter how big a fuck-up I truly am, you don't care.
You'll take me as I am.
I can see you reading this, your lips curving up as you think the words 'chick flick moment'.
But I don't care.
Because I had to tell you this.
The whole point, the sole reason for me writing this.
You're my brother.
And I love you.
I wouldn't swap you for the world.
I knew that.
I just didn't know if you did.
I guess you do now.
You sneak into his room, watching him sleep for just a few moments. He looks younger in slumber, the lines of war and violence erased by a few hours of gentle dozing. You finger the envelope nervously. Where should you leave it? On the pillow, next to him? On the bedside table? On the pile of clothes on the chair?
Eventually, you slip it under his pillow, next to the knife you know is there. Even here, in safety, old habits die hard.
After looking hard at your brother for a few seconds more, you leave, hand lingering on the door handle, remembering the last word you wrote, your hand shaking with alcohol and emotion. Ink blots smother the paper, your normally spidery handwriting blunted and bold.
That word is emblazoned into your skull as you head down the stairs, thinking it, over and over again, as you leave through the back door, emerging into a yard, full of half built cars. The moon is overhead, full and clear.
And still the word refuses to leave you. As you begin your trek, all you can think is that one simple word as tears track their way down your cheeks.
Just one word.
Meaning a whole dictionary of other words.
One word.
Just one.
Goodbye.
Author: paracaerouvoar
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Summary: "You showed me that no matter how screwed up I am, no matter how many times I come back for more, no matter how big a fuck-up I truly am, you don't care."
You and me.
That's the way it's always been.
You and me against the world.
Against heaven, hell, anything in between that dared to try and stand between us.
I'd die for you, and you for me, and we both know it.
We may be each other's Achilles heel, our sole weakness, but I wouldn't have any other way, and I doubt you would either.
Achilles.
That's a pretty good way to describe it actually.
When I'm with you, it makes me feel invincible, like no one could bring me down.
And when I'm not, well, I'm Hercules without Pegasus, Samson without his hair, David without his slingshot.
No.
I'm not calling you a winged horse.
Although...
No.
Almost definitely not.
I'm putting the tequila down now.
Maybe writing this drunk wasn't the best idea.
It's just, seeing you today, at Bobby's, watching that damned picture slowly burn away, a funeral pyre of sorts...
Watching you lose it like that...
It hurts.
More than I ever thought it could.
And I would give anything to never feel like that again.
Because it showed me you weren't indestructible.
It destroyed that last childish part of me.
It made me even more dependent on you though, in a way.
You showed me that there really is no me without you.
In the same way that Starksy and Hutch's names are intertwined throughout TV history, my name and yours, never one without the other are on the lips of anyone in this whole damned apocalyptic circus parade.
Sam and Dean.
Dean and Sam.
Either way, it doesn't matter.
There's no me without you, and no you without me.
You also showed me something else today.
You showed me that no matter how screwed up I am, no matter how many times I come back for more, no matter how big a fuck-up I truly am, you don't care.
You'll take me as I am.
I can see you reading this, your lips curving up as you think the words 'chick flick moment'.
But I don't care.
Because I had to tell you this.
The whole point, the sole reason for me writing this.
You're my brother.
And I love you.
I wouldn't swap you for the world.
I knew that.
I just didn't know if you did.
I guess you do now.
You sneak into his room, watching him sleep for just a few moments. He looks younger in slumber, the lines of war and violence erased by a few hours of gentle dozing. You finger the envelope nervously. Where should you leave it? On the pillow, next to him? On the bedside table? On the pile of clothes on the chair?
Eventually, you slip it under his pillow, next to the knife you know is there. Even here, in safety, old habits die hard.
After looking hard at your brother for a few seconds more, you leave, hand lingering on the door handle, remembering the last word you wrote, your hand shaking with alcohol and emotion. Ink blots smother the paper, your normally spidery handwriting blunted and bold.
That word is emblazoned into your skull as you head down the stairs, thinking it, over and over again, as you leave through the back door, emerging into a yard, full of half built cars. The moon is overhead, full and clear.
And still the word refuses to leave you. As you begin your trek, all you can think is that one simple word as tears track their way down your cheeks.
Just one word.
Meaning a whole dictionary of other words.
One word.
Just one.
Goodbye.