Characters: Sam, Dean
Warnings/Spoilers: 11 x 17!
Summary: below the cut
Summary: musical deaths
Sam’s rib is the blade, the first one, honed by the path of a bullet. It can be traced, incisor; go heartwise, lungwise, sidewise into the dark, an eternal forest of Sam.
And full of wauls, eyes. Or that’s what Dean dreams first, spit-choked, a-courting—for reapers, for souls.
Hello, Billie says (her eyes, exfinite; cosmos- inverse-empty.)
Sam’s hair is a pool of warmth, Dean remembers; stirs in it, stirs--
coughs up what’s left of death.
Meat suit: God, you stagger to, is what Sam thinks, you stagger back in-body knowing every trade ever made. You were dead, or have been; death is a cabin is the woods, oak and sky; an old friend.
Your brother tells you to fight, calls faint over an old channel.
Pain is the sweetest hollow in a sea of fells.
There’s no reception here; this rib, this body.
You kill because you have to. And you drive.
Road. Dean’s hand on the wheel; Sam adrift, shotgun. Soft rock.
Feverish air. Faint were-spit. Waft of the old-school.
Body of Baby. Body of brother, warm.
The universe hand-to-hand; heck in a handbasket.
Forest, bullet; blade. Two dying breaths sucked one into the other.
Dean puts Sam to bed. Sam puts Dean to bed.
Neither puts anything away.
One is a bullet-hole, the other a memory.