whiskey to wine

Dean touches your face with reverence, like he’s never tended to someone so bruised and battered before, like you’ll break apart in his hands if he stops. You can’t help but let him, too—for the last few minutes, he’s been sitting on your bed, your face in his hands, thumbs sweeping over the steadily mending gashes and the split in your lip, feeling every divot left by fists and blades. You haven’t looked at Dean once, either; sitting there seems easier than having to look at the despair haunting his eyes, terror left over from a close call and a choice he shouldn't have to make. No one should ever have to be so selfish to sacrifice their own life, especially for someone like you. Someone so strained and on the edge, willing to do the exact same with any given situation.

If only you’d stop throwing yourself onto the pyre.