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Sometimes Dean wishes his love for Sam was tangible. Not because he cares for what he can hold more than what he can have; he just wants to protect it, hide it in his pocket out of sight from those who might want to use it against him. He wants physical proof that it exists other than his own recollection so that even if he manages to get old and wrinkly with his brother, even if the blessing of time becomes a curse, he can still hold his memory of Sam safely in his hands and make sure he never forgets the love he had for him. Never forget the chill up his spine of near silent whispers in the dead of night or the taste of whiskey kissed off his lips in the backs of seedy bars, the scratch of motel blankets in the morning made manageable by warm skin against his.
One problem, though: nothing would ever be enough. Nothing is big or special or strong enough to contain it. Not his amulet, or Baby, or every dwarf star in the universe. He can’t hold enough of Sam in his hands.
He sometimes wonders if one day he and Sam will become so close they’ll become the same person – maybe then he’ll never forget Sam and he can protect him the way he wants to, keep him tucked into his heart so no one can ever take him, so nothing can ever make him leave.
Dean can’t hold enough of Sam in his hands; but maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe he can keep a part of him in his heart and carry it around everywhere he goes, never letting go of their love come Hell or high waters.
Their love. Oh, their love.
The love they have is not a normal love, not one that is rational or natural or able to be perceived by anyone other than Sam or Dean, as if this love exists on some Heaverly plane completely separate from all human emotion. It is all-consuming, it's dangerous, it's deadly; it's fucking terrifying.
Maybe it isn't so Heavenly after all.
It isn't Hellish, though, Dean doesn't think. He's been to Hell, and the near-religious love he has for his brother is too pure to compare, a blinding white light against the deepest depths of the dark. The pureness of it enraptures him, cleanses him of his sin with the burning holiness of ten Hail Marys and a crucifix.
Sin.
Just like his little brother, when Dean thinks of sin, he thinks of all the times he let Sammy down - if their love is a religion, for Dean there is only commandment, four words he's had seared into the back of his mind since the age of four: “Take care of Sammy.”
If their love is a religion, and betrayal is the sin, then maybe devotion is repentance. Maybe Sam is his holy water, washing parts of him clean he never thought he could. Sam was always better than him, wasn’t he? He ate salad and went on runs and prayed even when he knew it was worthless. This is the way Dean makes it up to him, by drinking Sammy in, and maybe the red that covers his mouth and stains his teeth is more demon than human, but he doesn’t care; blood is still blood and love is still love, it still saves his damned soul, wraps Dean in strong arms and worships him in return, because Sam needs this too.
If their love is a religion, then Sam’s cardinal sin is only the reverse of Dean’s; letting down his big brother. And, just the same, devotion is his repentance and Dean is his holy water, his Hail Marys, and everything in between. The flesh and blood of Heaven’s most righteous man runs down the throat of Hell’s vessel and something inside him burns as his brother cleanses him from the inside out– his brother who he in return always thought was better than him, stronger than him.
They lie there breathing, silent worship passing between them with every breath. They each absorb the other’s soul, cleansing each other of their sin and sharing the very essence of their beings because being physically close just isn’t enough anymore, no matter how much skin is touching or how tightly they squeeze. This is what they need. Not just love, but pure, unadulterated devotion.