(hello. here is a small ficlet for your entertainment. it has metaphors about milk. i don't own dean and sam. they own me. enjoy.)
MY CUP RUNNETH OVER
Dean was a treasure once.
A loving cup, etched silver laid in with milky pearls and sparkling emeralds. Filled to the brim with honey and milk, like Mama used to put out for the faeries. And Mama drank deep and Daddy drank deep, and the funny thing was, the more they drank, the more honey and milk there was.
Then came Sammy. Sammy was a ball of gold, the kind princesses played with in the stories Mama read at bedtime, covered in flashing diamonds and glowing rubies. When Dean realized it would take FOREVER before Sammy was big enough to play with, he asked Mama why the stupid princess wanted a ball that didn't even bounce. Mama laughed and didn't give a proper answer, floating out of his room to check on Sammy, but later, long after he was supposed to be asleep, he listened to the faint voices from the television filtering in through the crack in the door, and reasoned that if some prissy princess was prepared to kiss a FROG to get her golden ball back, there had to be something pretty damn special about golden balls. He just had to figure it out.
Mama and Daddy knew what it was, but they weren't talking. Not to him, anyway. Since Sammy came, there seemed to be very little time for Dean. Mama's special angel-chime laugh and Daddy's proud smile was for Sammy now, as if Dean had just been a test run before they got the real thing. Dean had been warned. Billy, the boy next door, was a year older than Dean and had TWO younger sisters, and when Mama started going moon-shaped Billy triumphantly said "They're going to forget you soon!" and Dean hadn't believed him. But now it looked as if Billy might have been right. Dean didn't really blame Mama and Daddy, even if it hurt. A lot. New toys were always more fun than old ones. That's just the way it was. Nothing he could do about it. And so what if the milk inside him was starting to go bad because nobody drank it?
A week later, Dean was standing in the nursery staring at the little pointless ball, and then Sammy smiled at him. His first real smile. And Dean thought, "Oh. That 'splains it," and just like that, he'd figured it out all on his own.
Sammy liked milk. Sammy liked milk A LOT.
Then Mama burned. Dean spilled down the stairs with Sammy held tight, and Mama burned white-hot behind them, hot enough to melt metal. Now, Sammy was a golden ball, and there are two things to know about golden balls. One thing is that gold is soft, easy to dent and mark and scratch, it needs to be handled with care. Another thing is that if you have a golden ball, you will do anything to keep it. Dean, on the other hand, was made of silver, and silver can be hardened, sharpened to a whisper-lethal edge. So Daddy took Dean, and in the heat of that fire he reforged Dean into something useful. A knife and a handful of bullets.
Dean was a treasure once. Now he is a weapon. And there is no use crying over spilled milk.