Dean has no clue, no clue at how fucked up Sam is.
He’s so fed up of Sam and that frickin journal, taking after their old man.
Dean catches Sam sometimes, cross legged on the motel floor, pen in one hand, scribbling away at the frail pages of the book.
Dean knows Sam isn’t writing, but drawing and he knows he shouldn’t look but he can’t help himself.
Sam will catch Dean looking at him, in the hall way of school, when he’s just out the shower, when he’s scribbling down every little thing that pops into his head. He’s screaming inside, wanting Dean to just rush him off his feet, to take him away from this thing they call ‘living’.
Dean finally gets a clue when Sams fast asleep, hand resting lightly on his book, slowly, Dean slides it from his hand, his tongue pressed between the space in his teeth.
The drawings are…beautifully heartbreaking. They’re a call for help.
His drawings are screaming at Dean.
“Gonna make it better, little brother” Dean whispers as lets the notebook slide down next to him. He brings his hand up to rest against his baby brothers hair.
“Gonna make it better”