implied weecest

A Collection of Love

SPN Writing Challenge | @marrieddorks vs. @sis-tafics
prompt: “Jar of Hearts” by Christina Perri
pairings: Weecest/Wincest
word count: 461
tags: serial killer!Dean, poetry, blood, dark!chesters, murder, obsessed!Dean

Sammy was a serial killer, that much Dean knew.
The sad part was that he didn’t mean to be one.
No, it was always an accident.  
They moved from town-to-town, ya’know,
And in every town there was a girl or boy who fell in love with Sam.
Dean didn’t blame them –
How could he when he’d been in love with Sam since forever?
– But he saw them; he saw them all.  

Sammy may be the serial killer, but Dean was crazy.
He wasn’t the smartest guy in the room, but he was always watching.  
He watched as Maria, the class president of the freshman class,
Flipped her hair, fingers curled in the long strands, while she talked to Sam.
He watched as Patrick, Sam’s partner on the academic quiz team,
Shoved playfully at Sam’s shoulder, bottom lip pulled in and eyes wanting.
What he didn’t watch was the news the last days they were in a town.
It was pointless to read the headlines; they’d be leaving soon.

Pikeville Class President Murdered
            - Pikeville mourns after brutal murder of student.
Soon-To-Be Graduate Killed At Home
            - Lorain County officials on a search for the killer.

Sammy was a serial killer, metaphorically anyway.
Dean made all the kills, but he did it for Sam.
That makes Sam just as bad as him, right?
Because if Sam wasn’t so damn lovable, Dean wouldn’t have to kill.
Because if Sam wasn’t perfect in every way, Dean wouldn’t have to kill.
Because if Sam wasn’t Dean’s everything, Dean wouldn’t have to kill.
But Sam was all those things: lovable, perfect, everything
And Dean had to keep him and he had to keep him close.

Okay, so maybe Sammy wasn’t a serial killer,
But he was a serial killer’s love, his muse.
Dean thought of him each time he stalked late at night.
Dean thought of him each time he muffled their screams.
Dean thought of him each time he plunged a knife deep in someone’s heart.
And when Dean stabbed them, he always went for the heart.
And he didn’t do so to speed their death;
No, he did it so he could carve Sam out.  

Sammy had this way of getting under people’s skin.
And after that, he’d get into their heads and, ultimately, their hearts.
Dean had to get him out, ya’see.
They didn’t deserve to have Sam be part of them.
(No one did, not even Dean, and that’s why the murders were so out of control.)
Dean did what he had to and if that meant taking a knife to their chests
And cutting Sam out, letting him wash over Dean’s hands in the form of blood
Then so be it.

Dean was only collecting what belonged to Sam and, in turn, himself.

summary: au where sam and dean grew up in a normal household, and as soon as dean was eighteen he joined the marines. it’s sam’s fifteenth birthday, and john and mary have the perfect surprise for him. 

Sam wakes up to the murmur of voices down the hall.  He rubs a hand over his face, disoriented, because even though he’s barely awake he knows he’s not supposed to be.  There’s no light peeking through the blinds, and he’s too sleepy to even open his eyes.  Once he cracks them the barest bit, he does the same thing he does every time—turns his head to look at his brother’s empty bed, made up with sheets not slept in for over a year now, the pillow clean and white, without Dean’s drool or stray hairs.  Sam swallows, and fuck, it shouldn’t still hurt like something’s missing inside him, but it does.  So bad. 

Sam lets his eyes slip closed again.  Two months, two months.  Two months and sixteen days, and Dean will be home. 

“Should I wake him up?”

Sam startles out of his doze when John’s voice stops outside the bedroom door.  The hall light flickers on, and Sam screws his eyes shut against it.  He moans when his eyes burn and turns over, squinting at the digital clock on his bedside table.  It’s fucking two in the morning, and seriously? His parents couldn’t wait to tell him happy birthday until the sun was actually up? It’s not like fifteen is that special of an age, anyway. 

“He’ll be mad if we don’t,” Mary says.  She pushes open Sam’s bedroom door the rest of the way.  It squeaks, and Sam resists the urge to burrow under his blankets. “Sweetheart?  Sam, wake up.  We have a surprise for you.”  Her voice is bright; Sam can tell she’s smiling.    She sits on the end of Sam’s bed and rubs his back.  He almost falls back to sleep. 

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