I've had my share of crazy, I think.

I've been high on demons' blood. I've seen the Devil in every person, place, and thing near me. I have been to hell and back, literally.

I take that back. I've had much, much more than my share of crazy.

So why do I like you, of all people?

You're different, though, somehow, in some manner my addled brain can't explain properly. I want to say colorful. My crazy is always dark. Blacks and reds and colors of fear. Mazes and blood, pits and chains, screams and darkness and wrong. That's my crazy.

Your crazy is different. Your crazy is like a firecracker, like a celebration. You don't move, you zing. You are constantly changing colors, blue like an ocean as old as you really are and then yellow like a sudden joyful noise, always with a hint of green for go go go. Candy and laughter, tricks and treats, whoops and brightness and joy. That's your crazy.

How crazy is it that I would fall in love with you?

I think it would be crazier not to love you. I've spent so long in the dark; I'm drawn to you like a moth to an ever-changing, never-ceasing flame. Your brightness is nearly blinding, but to look away would be to look back into the darkness. When you're not there you leave an imprint on my eyes, the ghost of your nonstop green to bring a little bit of light to my red dark. Your crazy hits my crazy, and somehow they balance out just enough to keep me sane. Don't ask me how.

If Dean notices, he doesn't say so. But he doesn't go out of his way to insult you, either.

I don't know why he puts up with me and I really don't know why you do. I am and always will be his crazy little brother, someone he has to watch out for and someone he can't get rid of. I guess that's why, because we're family. Because he's Dean, and he needs people, and even though he deserves better people than me I'm all he's got. But you. I don't know why you stick around. Why do you let your joyful, colorful craziness get dulled by mine?

I never say this, because I know the only reason you still come around is that you haven't noticed.

I loved you a long time before I knew I loved you.

First I noticed how much I liked to look at you. Not because of your body (though I'm not complaining about that) but because of your color. You whizzed around like some sort of self-propelled Catherine wheel and I couldn't help staring. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

Then I realized how your crazy balanced my crazy, how I almost felt sane around you. I fell in love with that feeling, of being anchored, of standing on solid ground (because god knows how my foundation tilts and shakes and tries to throw me off when you're not here).

And another thing and another, the way you call me moose, your bizarre sense of humor, the way that constantly-changing light dances behind your eyes when you look at me. And then one day it just hit me, hit me right over the head.

I wanted to ind you in a bar and use some cheesy pickup line. I may be crazy, I wanted to say, but I'm crazy for you.

I keep it to myself, this extra bit of crazy. Because it's the one part of my craziness that makes me even a little bit happy, and if you go away, it won't. So I keep it quiet, and steal glances at your beautiful firecracker colors, and wonder why you keep coming back.

And then one day, it happens.

Dean is gone somewhere (getting groceries, I think , because apparently I can't buy pie right), and you show up out of nowhere. We exchange pleasantries and then you are on your way, moving moving moving, all around the motel room. Looking at things, touching things, showers of sparks in every color on the electromagnetic spectrum pouring out from you and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and then something inside of me breaks open, like a those glow sticks that kids like to play with, only instead of light, sound comes out of it, and I just say it.

"Gabe?"

"Sasquatch?"

"I love you."

The instant I say it I regret it. Your eyes go wide; you start sparking off colors I've never seen before. You're angry. You're hurt. You want to never talk to me again, why did I say that?

But the next thing I know you are hot and close and only inches away from me, staring. You stretch up onto what must be your tiptoes, and then I can think of nothing because you're kissing me, lips and teeth and incredible colors that seem to bounce off and amplify and mix with each other; it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen, ever felt, ever experienced.

We stay there and kiss for a long time.

After that, every time you get the chance, you are there. You kiss me in front of Dean; you hold my hand in public; you throw colored sparks everywhere you go to show that you don't mind, that you are proud to be around me. I still don't know why you would do that. When I ask, you just say, "I like you, Moose."

It takes a long time, but I start to learn why. Tiny things you whisper into my ear, the way your voice lingers on my name when you say it. How your eyes seek mine, the times when you're too stressed or too hyper or simply too much and you come to me to calm down.

I have known for a long time that I need you to balance my crazy, but I never realized you need me to balance yours.

I have had much, much more than my share of crazy, I think.

But when you grab my hand and don't let go, when you tell Dean to get himself a pie and give us some time alone, when you lay curled against me, your arms wrapped around my chest like you're keeping my heart in place and you whisper "Love ya, Sasquatch," I do the craziest thing of all.

I believe you.