“Dean,” Sam said, and there were too many things in his name, hurt and comfort all tangled up, the way he and Sam were tangled up. All those years ago with Mr. Wilson, he’d just been passing time waiting for Sam to finish. Maybe there’d been a daydream or two, but Dean had always known that dreaming made it harder to get out of bed. Awake, there was Sam, sweaty and hungry and excited to tell Dean all about his day, and Dad, and training, and killing bad things.
That kid Mr. Wilson had tried to help out, he was just someone else Dean had been pretending to be.
Sometimes Dean Winchester makes me want to curl around him and cry. (He's a bit like Lex Luthor that way.)
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“Dean,” Sam said, and there were too many things in his name, hurt and comfort all tangled up, the way he and Sam were tangled up. All those years ago with Mr. Wilson, he’d just been passing time waiting for Sam to finish. Maybe there’d been a daydream or two, but Dean had always known that dreaming made it harder to get out of bed. Awake, there was Sam, sweaty and hungry and excited to tell Dean all about his day, and Dad, and training, and killing bad things.
That kid Mr. Wilson had tried to help out, he was just someone else Dean had been pretending to be.
Sometimes Dean Winchester makes me want to curl around him and cry. (He's a bit like Lex Luthor that way.)