This is so lovely. I really like the notion of Dean trying to invent the narrative of his life and coming up with only Sam. There's something incredibly powerful about that blank page, just waiting to be filled, just waiting to be written--like a promise, or a threat.

He closes the book, marking his page with a hand tucked against the fold of the spine. The ink rises like a fingerprint against his thin skin at his wrist.

Particularly lovely lines.