whatisitlikeinyourfunnylilbrains:

Dean had always been the pure
one. No matter how much he drank, smoked, fucked around, passed out on the
street, was covered in blood and mud from another hunt, there was something
clean about him that seemed to draw people in. They knew behind his dirty finger
nails and greasy hair, old leather jacket and cheap flannel was a pure soul.

Sam had never been pure.
There had been a wicked spark in his eyes ever since he could remember. His
world was different from Dean’s. He saw the shadows lurking in motel room corners
long before he started hunting. He felt the tug whenever they met a witch, a
demon, any evil creature, really. It felt wrong to kill them, like cutting off
a limb, watching the blood splash out, allowing the excruciating pain to course
through him. Sam had always known he was one of them.

Driving through the mid
west, just the two of them in their Impala, no soul around for miles, they
would sometimes let the covers fall. Dean would allow his playboy,
whiskey-fond, hard guy attitude to slip, and Sam would stop pretending to be
the soft, gentle guy who wanted to go to Stanford, get a law degree and be
respectable. Dean would spread his legs like a bitch in heat, and Sam would
fuck him like an animal. Dean would beg and plead and whine in need, and Sam
would take his sweet time to completely break his brother.